The music of silence on the banks of the Nile.

We are not particularly enthusiastic about being in Khartoum, and the city doesn’t seem to offer many attractions.

In Sudan along the Nile. Dust and sand, bumpy roads, and then a bothersome wind that makes the air almost unbreathable and prevents us from keeping our eyes open. Fortunately, there’s the Nile, or rather its two branches, the Blue Nile and the White Nile, which converge here. Tomorrow we depart for the north to discover the Nubian villages.

Ma’assalàma. Goodbye, Khartoum.

Once in a jeep, we follow the great river toward Egypt for days. We stop almost at every village to photograph the characteristic adobe houses whitewashed with lime and then repainted each year after Ramadan. The colors range from blue to red, yellow, and green, with touches of originality such as lilac, brown, and black—colors that are trending this year. The combinations are varied and often pleasant. The designs are simple and sometimes quite skillful.

The Nubians of Sudan are always very hospitable along the banks of the Nile.

The invitation to have tea is a given, but many also offer food and hospitality. They ask for nothing in return. It’s one of the few situations where the offer is spontaneous and genuine. No strings attached. The most entertaining are the children. They stand in front of the camera hoping to be photographed, but not to ask for a tip—just for the joy of it. Everyone, young and old, greets you cheerfully, making you feel like a blessing pope in every village.

They are a beautiful people.

Tall, elegantly poised, wrapped in white or dark jallabiya, with the classic headwrap either as a turban or the typical Islamic skullcap. Here, opportunities to see a foreigner are rare, and everyone vies for attention. They are amused and curious. They love to socialize, especially those who live isolated in the fields, even more so in solitude. Their homes are open, showcasing beautiful painted portals set into the white walls. Inside are courtyards where much of daily life takes place, with wells and sometimes a few plants.

Just beyond the banks of the Nile, where these hardworking farmers cultivate vast expanses of fava beans, the horizon where the water does not reach is a continuous stretch of sand, pebbles, and stones.

In Sudan along the Nile, it only takes half an hour of off-roading to find emptiness on the horizon.

And in the evening, under a blanket of stars like a planetarium, when the sounds of dinner have faded and the chatter has quieted, a deafening buzz suddenly assails you. It’s the silence. With all its force and intensity. I don’t remember ever hearing anything like it in Sudan along the Nile. It’s not a silence of nothingness; on the contrary, the blood pulses in my veins, you can feel its flow, the sound it makes as it rubs against the walls of the vessels. I don’t recall ever hearing blood pulse. It’s the music of silence. A virtual void filled with a thousand sensations. Like the universe above me. Apparently empty but actually crowded with infinite stars, moons, galaxies, and who knows how many beings.

It’s strange to experience silence here.

Just a few steps from the Nubian villages, populated by throngs of joyful children, friendly and hospitable fathers, and mothers and sisters who are among the most open in the Islamic world. Perhaps silence unites as void brings closer. I close my notebook, turn off my flashlight, and crawl into my sleeping bag. Through the thin fabric of the igloo, I see the almost full moon. Tomorrow I will visit more homes, receive endless invitations for mint tea, to eat, or even just to come in and chat.