The heat - my God, the heat!

"Welcome to Khartoum," the stewardess said as our plane touched down last night in the dark of Sudan's international airport. "The local time is 8:45 p.m. The temperature is 41 degrees."

That's 41 degrees Celsius - as in, 106 degrees Fahrenheit. At nearly 9 p.m.

It's summertime in Sudan, which is like Palm Springs without the golf courses. Or the celebrities. Or the vaguely hip nightlife (although there is a new coffee shop, Ozone, that has apparently become THE late-night spot for young, upwardly mobile Khartoumians.)

I stepped out of my hotel this morning and into the street, and felt as if I walked into a hairdryer set to high. You feel like your hair might catch fire. And everything in Khartoum is painted beige, which reflects the Saharan sun quite well, so my eyes have been on permanent squint - that is, when I've been outdoors, which I've been trying to avoid as much as possible. Fortunately, a journalist's trip to Sudan usually begins with making the rounds of various government offices and nongovernmental agencies, most of which are pleasantly air-conditioned.

Everyone told me this was a bad time to go to Sudan, even the lovely press attache at the Sudanese embassy in Nairobi. "This is not smart," she said. But I had waited four months for the visa, and I wasn't going to let them change their mind, so I left as soon as possible. Expecting the heat, I packed appropriately - buckets of sunblock, light clothing, water purification tablets, the works.

I got a glimpse of myself in a mirror today and realized I've become what I always wanted to avoid - I look like Joe Correspondent. Foreign correspondents, especially those working in underdeveloped areas, have a certain uniform, much of which we tend to acquire at EMS or other outdoorsy stores. The clothing is mostly beige and mostly synthetic, and tends to have strategically placed flaps that you can button or unbutton (or zip or unzip, or velco or un-velcro) for ventilation. Our watches are plastic - nothing you'd wear to a nice restaurant, or even to work, unless you were a professional cyclist. Some of us rock the vest with all the pockets or the wide-brimmed hat (modeled here by Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni, who often manages to make the hat look even more incongruous by pairing it with a dark suit).

I'm not sure why we collect all this disaster gear - I'm not convinced it is actually any cooler or lighter than the soft cotton t-shirt or well-worn pair of jeans. Plus, it makes us look like we're tourists on safari, not people come to do a job. And when making a trip like this one, which is likely to include extended periods in the remote desert AND an interview in an ambassador's office, it makes packing lightly a bigger challenge.

I don't think I look all that bad. But I am wearing khakis with running shoes, which Bhargavi and others would probably have a fit over. And I'm wearing a shirt whose best feature is that it has two chest pockets - the better for holding cell phones, money, business cards, press credentials, driving directions, handkerchiefs, the occasional granola bar. Not a look I'm proud of. But I can't help it. How do the Sudanese men, in their flowing white outfits covering every inch of themselves, manage to look so comfortable in the scorching heat? And they don't even seem to sweat - they just dab at their forehead every so often, as if showing a slight bit of impatience - achieving the ideal of "sweating elegantly" that Yasmine, for one, told me before I left for Africa that I ought to strive for. Still working on it.