I spent my youth immersed in the demanding world of geology—surveying, mapping, prospecting, and exploring for minerals across the continent-wide Sudan. In those early years of my career, I often heard teasing remarks suggesting that geology, with all its hardships in the wilderness, was not a profession for respectable people! Some even went as far as to say, “Geology is a job for slaves.”
Yet despite these perceptions—and despite having grown up in comfort as a Khartoum boy, unfamiliar with hardship at home—I chose to persevere. I embraced a profession defined by adventure, endurance, and long stretches of remote fieldwork in the middle of nowhere. I pursued geology with dedication and passion, captivated by the beauty hidden within its challenges. Across the diverse landscapes of Sudan, I found satisfaction in the very hard work others dismissed.
Looking back now, nostalgia draws me to those decades spent in the field—years filled with both hardship and joy. I traversed seasonal streams, hilly deserts, tropical forests, and rich savannas across the Sudan. Life in the deserts, especially during winter, was particularly memorable. The cold air would bite at our faces and seep into our limbs during early mornings and long nights, yet there was a quiet beauty in that stark environment.
Even the sparse vegetation held its own fascination. I came to know the trees, shrubs, and grasses that clung to life along hilltops and seasonal watercourses—Salvadora persica, camel’s hay, lavender, Solenostemma argel, drought-resistant grasses, and resilient acacia (talh) trees. There were also the Arad, Doum palm, desert date, sidr (nabk), and Capparis decidua, all thriving against the odds in arid lands.
Traveling across plains and dry valleys in four-wheel-drive vehicles, accompanied by the gentle breeze carrying the scent of wild herbs, was a unique pleasure. It was a hard life, but a deeply rewarding one. I drank water from wells and seasonal pools alongside camels, cattle, goats, and sheep. I witnessed wildlife in its raw form—vultures circling overhead, ostriches racing across the plains, and gazelles of many kinds: Dorcas, Addax, Cuvier’s, and others. There were also wild rabbits and birds such as cranes, bustards, and sandgrouse.
In the tropical forests of South Sudan, the environment shifted dramatically. There, I encountered elephants, predator tracks, and even the skeletal remains of baboons taken by leopards. Our fild work often required security protection—a joint force from military intelligence, national security, and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement—shielding us from the lingering dangers of conflict, including remnants of the Ugandan Lord’s Resistance Army, abandoned military trenches, and unexploded ordnance.
I remain deeply indebted to my late uncle, engineer and contractor Abdullah Shaddad, who raised me and taught me to shoot with a light Morris rifle. His guidance proved invaluable in the field. One of the most defining moments of my life occurred in the Blue Nile region. During a trip to inspect artisanal gold mining in Khur Yabus, I was delayed by hunting along the route and camped overnight in the wilderness. That same night, rebels attacked the nearby Abngero village, killing all the civil employees there. Unaware of the tragedy, I resumed my journey the next morning, only to learn of the massacre later. I immediately retreated—first to Ora village, then to Damazin, and eventually northward through Roseires and Al-Daim near the Ethiopian border.
By what I can only describe as divine mercy, I was spared.
In those dense forests, I carried a German Walther pistol for protection, along with hunting rifles—a British double-barrel shotgun, a light Morris rifle, and a modified .30-06 long-range rifle gifted to me by General Duma of the Sudanese Customs Forces. This was in recognition of my work preparing a detailed 1:500,000 navigational map of northern and eastern Sudan to combat smuggling.
I was also accompanied by my loyal Saluki dog, Evas, trained for hunting and gifted to me by a Saudi prince for whom I once worked as a hunting guide in the Red Sea Hills. Among my treasured equipment were magnifying binoculars and a sleeping bag salvaged from a Russian Techno-Export project in the 1970s.
In those years, I delighted in observing falcons and fish-hunting birds, and in hunting gazelles and savanna game such as impalas, kudu, guinea fowl, and wild ducks. Evenings were often spent with fellow geologists gathered around a blazing campfire, sharing stories under a vast, star-filled sky before retiring to simple tents or sleeping out in the open.
That life—marked by hardship, constant movement, and discovery—remains among the finest chapters of my existence. It was, in many ways, far richer than the comfort of office life in cities like Khartoum, Port Sudan, Damazin, or even Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
Fieldwork also brought us closer to the diverse communities of Sudan. We lived among nomadic tribes, learning their customs, languages, and ways of life. Many lived simply, tending their herds, their bodies adapted to the environment with minimal clothing or traditional methods of protection against insects.
Those were truly remarkable days. Through all the challenges, I believe that Allah, the Generous and Merciful, watched over us—protecting us as we carried out our work as geologists: adventurers, civil servants, and, in many ways, the salt of the earth.
While traditional forms of slavery may have ended, a different kind persists—the demanding, relentless nature of remote geological work. It calls those willing to leave behind comfort and urban life to labor in distant mountains, deserts, and forests.
Even in the face of danger—from armed groups, unexploded mines, and the unpredictability of nature—we endured. And in that endurance, we found purpose, meaning, and a life worth remembering.
Ibrahim Shaddad is the current director general of the African Minerals and Geosciences Centre (AMGC). He is of an Ethio-Sudanese origin and is a Sudanese diplomat with background in geology and mining.
Contributed by Ibrahim Shaddad
