D’AFRIQUE

Seven weeks back in Melbourne after almost six years away the pull of the Africans in Footscray remains the same. Viet noodle salad with spring rolls and Fausi's ful the fuel virtually everyday lunchtimes here. The food is one thing, the vibe amongst these "foreigners" something added on top. Delight, reassurance, comfort and ease. An exploration on the weekend of Smith Street Collingwood/Fitzroy and its 35 - 40 bars and restaurants in the 400m strip had one reeling a little.

Some people at D'Afrique have expressed an interest to read the old piece about the cafe published in early 2010 by Wet Ink here in Australia (Adelaide). Here it is. (Nearly 5000 words.)

            D’AFRIQUE                                                

                                    

                        by

                                               

                    Pavle Radonic

The glow of young Yousef the plumber’s smile beaming like a sun; remarkably, uncannily radiating. Firm clasp of hand in the slow, deliberate pump, followed by the touch to the heart that is accompanied by an audible bellows-sigh. Aaha! Throughout the smile undimmed, though the last turn of chin did suggest a look of appraisal. (Impossible to mask the slight awkwardness, the imbalance in reception.)

            Early - mid thirties, handsome boyishness retained. From Sudan (something like faint apology in owning the nation). A month later when overalls and boots were replaced by robe and sandals, the transformation in the new figure was equally startling.

                                                                   *

Next door a Vietnamese Liquor out-let undercuts the Pub further down. Centrelink dominates the section of the strip directly across the road, its queues sometimes stretching out to the footpath where the gum tree becomes a support. When the street guys dash in briefly they drop their cigarettes beside the doorway and retrieve them coming out. Formerly run by the local football club president, the Court House has been revived by the introduction of Pokies and packs in the punters in the second half of the week. At the corner Halal butcher an elderly woman from the other side of town buys provisions for the meals she takes out Fridays to a young Bangladeshi at the Detention Centre. After shopping Pat—preferable to Patricia; originally from the Hawkesbury—stops for a coffee.

            Upstairs the prayer-room includes a coin-operated pool-table. Someone explained that in the diaspora prayer mats come equipped with a compass for the direction of Mecca. Around three or half past some movement can be detected toward the stairs. Occasionally the push-slot and fall of balls can be heard; never the prayers. Once the white ball came off the table all the way down onto the tiled floor of the café.

            Within an hundred fifty metre radius there are now at least half a dozen East African cafes and restaurants trading, mostly to their own people. Hairdressers, provision stores and remittance offices add a second, larger circle. Addis Ababa beyond the traffic lights gives added meaning to the old Amharic New Flower. The majority of stores are Ethiopian concerns, with a number of Somali off the street. Though the Sudanese here probably out-number the others from the Horn, these people are customers rather than traders. Ten years established and blossoming since the take-over by the Eritrean brothers, Café d’Afrique was the first on the main thoroughfare.

Old dishevelled wrecks take their stubbies across the road to the concourse in front of the entrance to the Hub, which holds the hidden half of the stores. A couple of public benches where the boozers had earlier congregated have been removed by Council after petitioning by the shop-keepers. The Utility box to one side of the entry-way, almost directly opposite the café, often gathers half a dozen men in their sixties, some of whom manage to keep up decent appearances. The improvised shelf holds their bottles and occasionally a pair of elbows when a weary head is rested. One or two invalids on motorised scooters are indulged by the able-bodied, having their liquor fetched and change scrupulously presented. Above the heads of the men the recently erected sign in red lettering prohibits the public consumption of alcohol. In a woeful parody of subterfuge, when the police are sighted the men attempt to stash their liquor inside the box, the doors of which have been jemmied. A brief, unchanging game of cat and mouse ensues, culminating in the policeman emptying the bottles one by one in the gutter. Once or twice the young Viet store-keeper has thrown a customer out through his door. Junkies of various ages hang and pick up along the strip, many using the booze as a second or third resort.

            When the irony of the Liquor store next door is raised with Osman No. 3 (the youngest of the trio, in his late thirties), he trumps that with the Halal Butcher and its neighbouring Sex shop down the road.

            — All fresh, very fresh. Broadly stretching his wry smile.

Fine and delicate traceries along jaw and chin. Tufts and sparse sprouts in idiosyncratic lines and locations. Beards and goatees let out in front, pointed and elongated—the biblical world is near at hand here. A venerable white-haired old grandfather with walking stick and skullcap, grossly out of place on these bitumen byways, trains faint wisps down from his side-burns onto and under his jaw. Despite thick and coarse head hair, southwards on this continent the hirsute are a minority. Experimenting with a goatee that is almost entirely under the chin, Faisal’s scratching indicates twisting and curled single strands largely hidden from sight. Conventional Arab goatees abound (many here have crossed the Red Sea to work on the Peninsular or perform the Hajj.) Moustaches less common and usually of the pencil-thin Levant variety.

            For the Taliban’s insistence against shaving of beards, Faisal offers tentatively the Koran’s statement of the male needing to appear as a male.

The Street kids and older junkies’ fraternal bonding uncannily echoes the black form, from the examples on video and TV, if not directly the street itself. In this proximity their ceremonies of greeting and parting suggest at least an adaptation among the urban tribes. A few young African boys, some of whose respectable and upright fathers sit at d’Afrique, have fallen into the drug net. Their free liquid movements in enfolding their fellow outcasts, elaborate and graceful, reveal their ancestry as clearly as their colour.

After more than thirty years of fighting the current peace between Eritrea and Ethiopia is considered provisional at d’Afrique. The Ethiopian military intervention in Southern Somalia has everyone talking (the U.S. role taken for granted); a pretext would be easy to find for a move against Eritrea in the right circumstances. Three against sixty million the population proportions. The strategic large port of Masawa a major loss to Ethiopia, seriously disrupting trade (any fair-minded arrangement on an open Port finds general agreement in the debates). Walking sticks and eye-patches are common; some of the men here joined the struggle in early teens. Taking a cigarette outdoors the figure of the seasoned fighter is clearly struck—the pack produced as if it were an artefact; the studied withdrawal of the cigarette and then its deliberate, careful handling prior to lifting it to the mouth. Older veterans chew tobacco imported from back home mixed with tar and water, able to be retained in the mouth all day. Out on the back veranda a number of hookahs serve other customers (hashish strictly against house rules).

Originating in East Africa (a province of Ethiopia is named Kava), in the traditional form coffee arrives in a long-necked clay djebana with ginger, cinnamon and cloves added. An insipid non-alcoholic beer is imported from the Middle East. Apart from the native kerkade (rose-hip), brewed in a large pot that Faisal keeps under the front counter, the most commonly served teas come in Lipton bags. Exhausted boozers regularly take a seat at the outdoor tables; occasionally an unwelcome gathering is legitimated by a junkie’s purchase of coffee. Almost entirely male, a large proportion elderly, most of the customers sit on a single drink at d’Afrique. Slow days Fausi, the principal owner, laments the two dollar coffees and soft drinks, the one-fifty teas consumed over hours of occupation. Good days forty Fuls are served—the national Eritrean dish of beans and egg in oil and spices, eaten with injera bread without cutlery. Eight dollars for Ful and the other mains provides a modest living. The economic situation of the community dictated the low prices, says Faisal, Fausi’s older brother. The other African cafes charged standard rates; almost all of them, Ethiopian Orthodox Christian largely, served alcohol.

           

If not outright family members, a fair proportion of customers are members of Fausi and Faisal’s tribe. The Jebartil had crossed the Red Sea from the Arabian peninsular, from modern day Yemen, six or seven generations ago. (In a jest about Osama, one of the Ethiopian wags gave the warning regarding Yemeni ancestry.) The heads of families retain a book of genealogy, where the lineage can be traced more than a thousand years. Initially the tribes-people had settled in Ethiopia proper, before having to flee to the high country at the time of the forced conversions to Christianity. Carting contraband food and clothing during the war Faisal had crossed the sea a number of times. Some of the men have sailed across, six hours at minimum.

            Relations with the frequent Ethiopian customers are easily maintained. Somalis, Sudanese and the Jerbatil’s own neighbouring Christian Orthodox hill tribes create a patchwork at the tables. For good measure a shy Lebanese albino regular throws a spanner into the colour gradation. Orthodox and a daughter of a well-known singer father, whose picture hung in a montage on the wall, Segen—Ostrich literally—worked behind the counter a few months. Often the Southern Sudanese bear tribal markings on their foreheads, six or more full-length parallel ridges, sometimes difficult to discern on black skin. Appropriately the Ethiopians have more coffee in their colour. Though Arabic is the lingua franca, many have a good bit of the other languages and playful mimicry results.

           

                                                                  *

The parable of the outwardly observant believer contrasted with the virtuous infidel finally cleared the decks with Faisal, removing any last shadow of doubt, any hesitation or reserve. With it a confirmation came, a seal and reassurance. Faisal knew his Koran. Many so-called believers didn’t, he held, taking the example of polygamy as a case in point. If the reference was not directly from the Old Testament (a Holy Book for the Muslims as well of course), it was a close parallel.

            In the text the good man without God, the infidel, gives alms to the poor, treats all his neighbours as kin, shows kindness to his dog and never beats it; despite all of which he is not a believer. The other prays five times a day, attends the mosque and proclaims his faith, without good works and all the opposite features of the infidel. In Paradise, Faisal reports, a place is reserved for one only.

            Were he not a businessman, Faisal would make a good Imam or shiek. (Any at the mosque can lead prayers, he reminds, Islam being without an ecclesiastical order.) The contrasts and points of similarity with the younger brother Fausi are amusing. Never in his life had Faisal let coffee or coca cola, much less alcohol, pass his lips. Tobacco? Allah forfend! In the evenings at home with his wife and mother Faisal might occasionally take a cup of tea brewed from a used tea-bag. Fausi on the other hand puffs out front with the best of them, drinks his djebana sickeningly sweet like his customers and gives due notice to the African Queens on the footpath (the latter sure to provoke the elder’s censure should Fausi be caught out). Knocking back a stiff drink secretly too, one might surmise (wrongly in this case. Confessions have come from one or two other quarters….).

On polygamy much needs to be said, according to Faisal, without any sense of answering or trying to counter a well-known prejudice. It is abuse that is the chief problem; men deploy the right of polygamy to serve their lustfulness, he unexpectedly suggests. In the Holy Book the matter is unfolded with great care. (Faisal continues his study of the Koran. In the schools it had been the chief text.)

            Firstly there is in all parts of the world a majority of women over men. (On the fingers of his hand Faisal pairs the genders on either side of his large extended family for illustration.) Added to this natural biological imbalance, warfare increased the disproportion further still. Thus sizeable groups of unattached and shiftless women become a problem for themselves as much as the community; including them in marriage bonds alleviates a misfortune and promotes a general good. (Islam is compassion above all.) Before this can be undertaken, however, much is required. A man already married must have the means to provide for the second wife, as well as any forthcoming children. This provision must be the equal of that extended the first wife; there must be no differentiation between the different wives and children. The wives need equal attention; need to be satisfied sexually of course in equal measure. One of the first requirements too—Faisal returns to the matter after having made the point at the outset—one of the first requirements is the free and unfettered permission of the first wife. The life and example of the Prophet is always instructive. As a second wife Mohammed took a poor, isolated and friendless woman struggling to maintain herself. Took her for wife for this very reason of rescue. A subsequent wife of the Prophet was a Jewess; at the time Mohammed had begun an extensive trade with the Jews, the marriage showing his full-hearted commitment.

            Approaching fifty and childless (jinxed by his wife’s occupation as a mid-wife, the wry joke against himself), Faisal refuses to countenance the thought. Like many of the wives of the Jebartil, his good wife is a first cousin (concerns over consanguinity dismissed out of hand; endogamous marriage has been long practiced by the tribe). For Faisal dishonour and cruelty would be involved in taking a second.

                                                                      *

The old, integral Somali lands take in the middle core separating North (Red Sea) Somalia from South (Indian Ocean) Somalia; currently occupied by Ethiopia; they include the jutting spit of Djibouti and the Northern crown of Kenya too. Carefully drawing the map on a piece of paper and explaining the butchery is Yousef No. 2, a  neat, delicate man wearing the traditional cap, like his brothers faultlessly groomed, an intellectual’s visage given by the glasses. Certainly unlike any picture of a diesel mechanic. The French took Djibouti; Italians the southern Indian Ocean coast; and on each other side the masters of the colonial game, the English. Repercussions were still evident today.

            — We of the same language, same religion and same colour live in five separate homelands, laments Mr. Yousef.

(The lines on the maps either side of the Red Sea, the statelets over the Arabian peninsular, are traced by all at Afrique for the underlying foreign strategy. For the men at these tables the study of history proceeds without the necessity of books.)

            Twenty five years Yousef No. 2 spent in Saudi, working on the large American transports—trucks, caterpillars, bull-dozers. Ten years less than Mr. Osman No. 2, his good Eritrean friend, fellow refugee and emigrant worker. Getting out the product employed large numbers from the Horn, which provided an abundant, cheap labour supply.

            Mr. Osam No. 2 hails from the Eritrean port of Masawa (his compatriots running d’Afrique were peasants, Mr. O joked; his own superior class fished the seas.) In California they knew of Osman No. 2 for his expertise maintaining and repairing the stone-crushing machines, welding and iron and steel fabricating, ranging from machinery and transports to the illegal stills the American foreman ordered. The Saudi ruling caste of course didn’t themselves resort to make-shift stills; the very best quality whiskey they got from overseas, secretly imported. A truck-driver friend of Mr. O’s who lost his load on one occasion told of the immediate clean-up by the Security people, followed not by a tongue-lashing, but warning of loss of tongue if there was any talk.

            Living in Saudi made the performance of the Hajj easy for Mr. Osman, enabling him to undertake it on three occasions with his father. Both Yousef No. 2 and Mr. Osman No. 2 attended the Friday executions, which took place every month. The toneless relation was left to the less garrulous Yousef. It was delivered in a creaking English that failed to bear the weight of its burden. Repetition had perhaps played a part in the flatness of delivery; the translation into the foreign tongue no doubt an additional factor. Somewhere half-way through the account a momentary loss of equilibrium was restored with Mr. Yousef’s forefinger finding the tip of his nose.

            The bound man brought to the public square. A proclamation read. To correct his posture when the moment arrived the unmasked executioner prodded the kneeling figure …. Yousef can’t recall sword in English. An appeal to his friend for help proves fruitless. Finally a display of a surprisingly short measure of implement achieves the result. One single, expert blow was all that was required, at which the doctor emerged to check the pulse. (Lack of vocabulary again leading to a raising of cuff on wrist for illustration.) Meantime the executioner, abstracted and unheeding, wiping his blade carefully on his own clothing. (Slow, deliberate passes over Yousef’s own shirt in mimicry.)

            Mr. Osman’s movement in his chair through the course, the shifting in seat, turn of head and switch of eyes—without adding any single word of his own—conveyed part of the story too.

            — The State sometimes the biggest terrorist, Mr. O. finally offers with a crooked smile while adjusting his baseball cap.

            Thirty and more years ago in England the last man hung was a Somali, Yousef remembered after his relation of the Saudi execution. In the late 90’s the real perpetrator of the crime for which his countryman was hung came forward to confess. In Saudi the substitutions of innocent for wealthy guilty parties able to bribe police was widely known. Saudi corruption knew no bounds, the friends concur. The presence of beggars in wealthy Riyadh more than enough condemnation of these rulers.

                                               

                                                                        *

Clipped goatee, viridian Ben Sherman knit, neatly pressed slacks, polished shoes…. (For these Africans the doors at home remain unopened until a strict last minute going-over makes doubly sure.) The Afro-Egyptian TV Romeo walks the tiles here at d’Afrique. Minus the soft plastic in his face revealing a sweet mummy’s boy, Khalid would make a good assassin or gangster too. (Hhkalid properly, rather than the muted Anglicised pronunciation.)

            From the few remaining back home the family is spread across Sudan, Egypt, Germany, Norway, Canada and Australia. A number of years Khalid spent in the refugee camps in Egypt, like many of his compatriots. In all ten years a stateless refugee, before the papers were finalised for Australia. A maternal first cousin of the owners, Khalid adds colour and panache to the bland neatness of the elders. A lady-killer if ever there was one—a perfect description for Khalid.

            The warning when it was given was gratefully, if apprehensively, received. A second time Khalid wanted to hear precisely what his elder cousin had observed of his behaviour….

An open invitation has been extended by Faisal to his home-town of Keren, where accommodation would be provided at the family home. Faisal’s depth of generosity is conveyed straightforwardly, almost off-handedly. Acting as guide to the place of his birth would give Faisal pleasure. Something of the living arrangements, however, need to be clarified in advance. Possibly Faisal has experienced some kind of misunderstanding in the past; a Russian Army Officer had been a close personal friend in the time of the Soviet presence. What needs to be established from the outset is the order of the household at Keren. The guest would sleep, eat and take his ease in a designated area of the house. Food and drink would be prepared in another quarter and served by Faisal himself. Joining the guest at the feast would be father and brother, together with any tribesman or neighbour visiting. In their quarter the women would remain and take their meals separately. In short the entire stay would pass without meeting a single woman of the house, aged and minors included. They would remain on the other side of the family compound and care would be taken that their paths  would never cross.

            ….Cousin Khalid past his mid thirties now—significantly over-shooting the age of marriage. Had Allah granted, by this time he might have fathered seven or eight children. Behind the coffee-machine Khalid’s goatee is hidden; head bent, chin at an angle, dark eyes fetching over the rim of metal. Expertly, lazily the handles and levers are manipulated. At his station there Khalid often turns dreamy, drifting away long distances over the sands. A distinct upheaval often occurs when a new order is given, when abruptly Khalid is drawn back to the moment. Otherwise Khalid can swoon in a more identifiable direction, much more concentrated, passing into a trance of an altogether different kind. It is not so much the African queens passing by out on the street that achieve the effect; Khalid is taken more strongly and more completely by the smartly dressed bottom-heavy Euro office gals who clatter by on their heels. Finding one of these in  his visual field Khalid rises properly from his introspection, entirely alert suddenly and straightened in his stance. Under the sway of that vision  Khalid’s burning twin black coals gleam in their tracking line, burn like an African sun. Dark nut-brown perhaps the true colour, set in limpid white. Not ideal in fact for a spot of furtive spying. Because what is so striking about Khalid’s keen admiration is the caution in the action, the restraint and circumspection. Khalid wants to take his delight privately without being noticed. If only the method was a little more artful and canny; if the coffee machine was at a different angle or the kitchen and tables arranged otherwise. At the machine Khalid’s posture is almost unaltered, true enough; his hands continue to work the levers and the noise of the machine provides some cover; the rising steam something else in Khalid’s favour. After all Khalid is hardly gawking like a hound, straining at the bit.

            Were that Faisal was not so rapier, so scimitar sharp. Less quick, alert, astute, incisive, strict in judgement. Ten years older than his cousin, Faisal’s opinion no trifling matter, not by any means.

            Mimicry is clearly beyond Faisal, the attempt abandoned before really begun. A description of his observation on the other hand misses nothing, catches the straying cousin beyond a shadow of doubt.

            — Can commit the sin not just with the thing. Can commit with the mind. The hand. Yes….

            Re-crossing legs with the censure. Faisal flushed and twisting after his report, slightly unsteady. (Some uncertainty over his listener likely.) A comic-book, spoofy kind of perving and lustfulness—adolescent almost—to witness with eyes other than Faisal’s.

…. Khalid big eyed and wide-mouthed, exaggerating his surprise, nodding and requesting a second telling, grateful at the warning. (No need to reproduce Faisal’s words to frighten him properly.)

                                                             *

Arms raised and hands extended:

            — CLAP CLAP. Abdou Razzak! CLAP CLAP. Abdou Razzak. Abdou Razzak….

            An emergency alert on first hearing. Some disturbance about to erupt from outdoors. The wail of sirens, trumpets perhaps about to sound.

            The reaction lagging however. No-one coming out of the kitchen at a frantic pace.….

            — …Abdou Razzak!!...

            Customers utterly imperturbable, as one might expect. After what they have been through, the barrage would have to get a lot worse to make this lot jump. Fausi hasn’t budged from the stove. Visible through the serving slot, he is fixed on his pot, mumbling something under his breath. Without further ado he has turned his back. Finally Faisal rounds the corridor in his usual quick-step, grinning and giving back some pointed, if not indecent remark.

            All the kin and Keren townsmen here know the brothers by their mother’s nickname; not the formal name given by the father. Many of them in youth had sat together barefoot in a circle at their classes. On his returns to Eritrea Faisal has more than an hundred families to visit. Fridays back home before the mosque the whole morning is passed in visiting. Faisal is Abdou Amin, or more usually simply Abdou;  Fausi Abdou Razzak.

            The jousting and fun that unfolds now too rapid for translation. Tones, gestures and expressions having to suffice.

            Like Mr. Mohammed the Somali, the other Africans—the Ethiopians, Sudanese and Arabs—mimic the maternal boyhood nicknames. One last clap on the final approach. Pouting and gesticulating the hurry-up. Faisal tickled and laughing despite himself now at the coffee machine, where further exchange ensues.

            Coke-bottle glasses, white shirt untucking at bulging waist, brown loafers: Mr. Mohammed’s straight face keeping the joke hidden longer still. Faisal’s smiles and the rattle he returns the only give-away for the banter, which keeps up quick-fire, rasping and sawing either side. When the coffee arrives—espresso rather than djebanna for Mr. M. (Man of the World after all)—the pour of sugar equates to something like eight teaspoons.

            — Business waiting. No time stopping Abdou! Back in Mogadishu... (Oh! the consideration and trouble taken back home for customers of rank and standing. How the waiters would hop it. No expectation of understanding at this distance. Shaking of head…. Not just anywhere in the capital either in Mr. Mahommed’s case. Most emigrants when they tell you they’re from the capital in fact hail from a goat track three days hike. Not Mr. Mohammed. When he says Mogadishu, he means the bullseye centre; like from Hard Rock Café to Parliament House.—A second look and sweep of the arm to be sure the measure has been conveyed. From the moment he opened his eyes, every day Mr. Mohammed looked from his father’s house at the Parliament building.)

            Bleach in the business-shirt for the mark of the man (frizzy balding hair and glasses a countervailing suggestion of the mad scientist of a generation past). A well-seasoned traveller of the world sits here. Shops—another wave of the hand to reinforce the plural; one in the next street. Been all over Mr. M. Sees more in a week than the average man in a life-time. Best place in the world is China. Everything there, everything in order. Selling well in his place around the corner.

            On the telephone Mr. Mohammed barks and cajoles in effortless alternation (underlings and wife respectively). Like the other Africans, when relaying serial digits, whether financial sums or telephone numbers, English interrupts the native language. (Black men bearing tribal markings with no more than three dozen words in English have learnt their numerals.)

            Nine children at home means Mr. Mohammed needs to make every business-post a winner. Fourteen his bride at marriage. A Russian girl-friend meanwhile in need of immigration spouse. To balance all the many sides takes one with special nous. (Russia is nothing compared to China. Of no account.)

            The service always shamefully lacking—a mogul from Mogadishu finding it hard to hack. Somalis are born businessmen. Others merely ape the art. These guys here!… (Bottom lip turned out revealing the paleness within.)

—   Tell him Osman what you know.            

            Mr. Osman has never met a Number Two. Let the world know, his friend Mr. M. the businessman ranks not less than Chief Number One. Blowing of cheeks and stretching fingers for indication of the everything in question. Could but words convey.

            — These guys here. Should be respect. Hey Abdou?.... We gave you your country!

….Occasionally the historico-politico here can twist and lash like anywhere else. (During the war of independence the Somalis provided weaponry to their neighbours against the common enemy.) Firm, sturdy, humourless young veteran-types over-hearing liable to take playfulness amiss. Anticipated quickly by Mr. Mohammed. Immediately, well before the turning on the heel.

            …. — I only speak of…. (Possibly turning to Tigrinya rather than Arabic.)….We understand each other…. (Tongues of every sort quickly to the fore.)  

           The former fighter come up to the table in a slight limp straightens his backbone and from his side draws a finger.

            — I say one thing to you only….  (English, for the benefit of all.) WE know who WE ARE!

Mr. Mahommed knows too. Businessmen know everything, born businessmen certainly. (As littoral people, the Somalis have been open to all comers over the generations.)

[NOTE. ATTENTION the Feds: No need to waste resources at Afrique. The Eritreans have attained their goal.]

Messers. O. and M. re-settle and kick back to play to the rhythm of a brisk Paper, Rock and Scissors. Left—Right. Left—Left. Right—Left.

Bananas—Monkeys.

Swivelling in their seats, elbows flapping. Ah, caught you out./ Got in first./ Did not./ Now come on… Smiling appeals. Claim and counter claim. Chimpanzee calls from one, at which both of them bubble over, cackling, banging the table, jumping out of their skins.

— You guys!

—   No, we are without jungles.

Bananas again.

Right-left. Right-right….

Finally both of them come to round on the Sudanese. There are no doubts about the simian traits and features there. Deepest Africa. (No light of religion either.) You just have to look at them.