The Road to Ubar

by Nicholas Clapp

  "No known antidote," Guru continued. "Hits you and you're dead in twenty minutes."

  "Then it's nice," said Kay, "that he's in your jar just now."

  "Yes, it is," concurred Guru, patting the sweat from his forehead. "Deadliest snake in the world."

  Curiously, there was a lesson to be learned from Kay's carpet viper. Several classical authors had reported that the incense groves of southern Arabia were "guarded by flying serpents." The natural historian Diodorus of Sicily wrote that "in the most fragrant forests is a multitude of snakes, the color of which is dark red, their length a span, and their bites altogether incurable; they bite by leaping upon their victim." The historian StTabo added that they "sprang as high as the thigh, and their bite is incurable."3 Despite such warnings by Diodorus and Strabo, the presence of any snakes in this land had long been disputed; it had been suggested that the "flying serpents" were in reality infestations of locusts. Or that they were apparitions concocted by ancient locals to warn outsiders to keep their distance. No, we learned, the "flying serpents" were really flying serpents. The mountains of Dhofar were full of them; on another occasion we saw one coil and strike. Though the creature didn't become airborne, it was fully capable of Strabo's "high as the thigh."

  Classical Greek and Roman civilizations were well aware of Dhofar's coastal mountains, snakes and all, for they blocked the way to Arabia's fabled incense groves. These mountains were, in fact, almost certainly "Sephar, the eastern mountain range" that in Genesis 10:30 was taken to mark the edge of the known world. Throughout history, this escarpment had guarded a land stubbornly and persistently unknown, the heartland, we hoped, of our People of'Ad.

  While investigating the well of the Oracle of 'Ad, we had visitors, tribesmen who drifted down from the mountains. Their bearing was elegant; their hair, done up in fine braids and tinted blue, had the fragrance of frankincense. Members of the Shahra tribe, they spoke, in addition to Arabic, their own peculiar chirping, singsong language, called by early explorers "the language of birds."4 They confirmed that, indeed, the well was still known as a well of the People of 'Ad ... and one of their number, speaking in crisp, Cambridge-accented English, matter-of-factly told us, "You know, we are the People of 'Ad." His name was Ali Achmed Mahash al-Shahri, and where he would take us provided a major breakthough.

  Like generations of Shahra before him, Ali Achmed was born and raised in the Dhofar Mountains. But as a young man he left his homeland to join the Trucial Oman Scouts, a military force that patrolled what was once a British protectorate in eastern Arabia. Commissioned as an officer, he was sent for further training to England. There he was surprised by the regard people had for traces and fragments of the distant past and by the great museums of London, Oxford, and Cambridge, built to house these artifacts. Ali Achmed realized that his people, the Shahra, had their own legacy: ancient writings hidden in the mountains of his childhood.

  After mustering out of the Trucial Oman Scouts, Ali Achmed returned home. He sought out and hand-copied these pictographs, then acquired a Nikon 35-millimeter camera, taught himself how to use it, and went on to describe, document, and map dozens of sites.

  Now he asked, could he show them to us?

  With Ali Achmed as our guide, we drove up and over the steep sea-facing side of the Dhofar Mountains, emerging on a rolling, pastoral tableland. We passed Shahra herdsmen pasturing their small, short-horned cattle, the only cattle in all Arabia. Threading our way through a maze of tracks, we came to the mouth of a rugged and thankfully shady canyon. Even in December, the temperature was close to 100 degrees. On foot, we hiked on until we saw above us, on the canyon's south wall, a wide, shallow cave.

  "You seek evidence of the People of 'Ad?" Ali Achmed asked. "Please, have a look."

  After climbing up to the cave, we could see that its back wall was covered with hundreds of pictographs drawn in red and black pigment. Long ago, Ali Achmed explained, caravans had paused here and left their mark. He pointed out where someone had recorded the scene of a wolf attacking an ibex. Farther up on the cave's wall were three figures that looked like—but were not—the biblical Three Kings. Ali Achmed thought they were more likely three bandits, part of a group marauding an incense caravan.

  Pictograph of wolf attacking ibex

  Pictograph of attack on a caravan

  What excited Ali was that in the cave were not only pictographs but written inscriptions. Here was evidence that his ancestors not only traded in incense but were literate and civilized. (By definition, a civilization is a society with a written language.) Making sense of these meandering lines was problematic—a challenge beyond us.

  Inscription in Dhofar cave

  Many of the letters in these inscriptions related to letters in ESA, the Epigraphic South Arabic alphabet we had encountered on the coast at Sumhuram. But these mountain inscriptions contained eight additional letters, and it was anyone's guess how they were sounded or what they meant. Ali Achmed thought they might correspond to the eight sounds in the Shahra language beyond the twenty-eight sounds of classical Arabic. He pronounced them for us. They sounded something like "sh'a, jh'a, je', k'e, ka', th', k'a, le'"—curious, almost birdlike sounds, springing from the back of the throat. Sounds of Arabia long ago. Ali Achmed said, "Nobody can pronounce them but the people of our mountains."

  At the far end of the cave, Ali pointed out a pictographic map that charted routes leading on to where, in antiquity, "silver" frankincense—the finest variety—grew wild and was harvested, as it still is. Ali Achmed showed us where.

  A few days later we watched a band of little children dancing along behind two tribesmen—one wiry, one corpulent—as they crossed an arid valley and approached a scattering of scraggly trees with reddish bark. Bent and twisted, many of the trees were only waist high. Yet their resin, or sap, was once as valuable as gold. They were frankincense trees, found where the mountains of Dhofar gave way to the great interior desert of Arabia.5

  The wiry man's craggy face was framed by a handsome white beard and a black turban. He wore a saronglike garment with a traditional silver dagger at his waist, complemented by a recent-issue assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Approaching a frankincense tree, he noisily exhaled, then chanted: "Ab st't d'h'la fe lh'ya!" (Exhale!) "A1 as'r m'sly 1'yo tr'le'ha!" (Exhale!)...His age-old song of harvest had a driving, intense rhythm, punctuated by strange, percussive exhalations.

  Moving in time to his song, the wiry tribesman slashed bits of bark from the tree. A few yards away his partner—a pashalike fellow topped by a large red turban—mirrored his movements. The little children ran from one man to the other as, giggling and laughing, they played tag in groves of antiquity.

  The Roman historian Pliny the Elder (23–79 A.D.) relates that these frankincense groves were inaccessible and that the southern Arabians—our People of 'Ad—did not encourage visitors. In addition to tales of flying serpents (quite true), the 'Ad appear to have propagated stories of deadly vapors arising from the punctured trees (not so true). Not surprisingly, Pliny tells us that "no Latin writer so far as I know has described the appearance of this tree." Nevertheless, he learned that "the district ... is rendered inaccessible by rocks on every side, while it is bounded on the right by the sea, from which it is shut out by cliffs of tremendous height. The forests extend twenty schoeni [about five miles] in length and half that distance in breadth ... In this district some fifty hills take their rise, and the trees, which spring up spontaneously, run downward along the declivities to the plains."

  That was as we found it: the finest trees, those that produced silver frankincense, were confined to a surprisingly small area and were wild. They stubbornly resisted cultivation. Pliny further informs us:

  Cross-section of Dhofar Mountains

  It is the people who originated the trade, and no other people among the Arabians, that behold the incense-tree; and, indeed, not current extent of monsoon all of them, for it is said that there are not more than three thousand families whi
ch have a right to claim that privilege, by virtue of hereditary succession; and that for this reason those persons are called sacred, and are not allowed, while pruning the trees or gathering the harvest, to receive any pollution, either by intercourse with women, or coming in contact with the dead; in this way the price of the commodity is increased owing to the scruples of religion. 6

  This holy harvest of frankincense, some scholars feel, was a convenient fiction, an invention of southern Arabians intent on hoodwinking credulous customers. Yet we were inclined to believe Pliny's account. There was something very serious, almost formalized, in the way our two tribesmen moved from tree to tree to the rhythm of a measured chant.

  The chant ended with a loud exhalation. The tribesmen and the children drifted off across their land, a moonscape dotted by small groves of frankincense. The shouts and distant laughter of the children dissolved into a desert breeze, which now bore the piny, slightly raw scent of freshly cut frankincense. Each slash in a tree's bark produced a dozen or so thick white globules of resin. Slowly these globules would lose their milky opacity and gain a silvery translucence as the frankincense hardened and crystallized. Fifteen days hence, the men would return to scrape it into special shallow baskets. Though a portion of the harvest would be kept for their own use, most of it would be traded to the coast. It would be used to sweeten the air of households throughout Arabia, to scent men's beards before dining, to fumigate robes and dresses. Little kids would chew it as gum. It would be a prized ingredient in exotic perfumes, including the French-Omani scent Amouage, promoted as the most expensive fragrance in the world.

  That we might see more of the living history of the highlands of Dhofar, Ali Achmed invited us to visit a remote Shahra settlement. Driving by night, we arrived at dawn at a compound of four thatched huts clustered around a brushwood corral. Three of the huts sheltered cattle; the fourth was home to an extended family. Though the hut was windowless, two doors let in sufficient light to illuminate the single large room. Its walls and domed ceiling were woven of twisted, blackened tree trunks and branches, the best wood to be had in an arid land. Two young girls were rolling up sleeping mats. A baby was squalling in the corner. Two older men and a woman crouched by an open fire, making their preparations for the day, a day measured by the burning of frankincense.

  Though the woman wore a long, hooded black dress, she was unveiled. A gold ring pierced her nose, her eyes shone with self-assurance. She was the settlement's matriarch. With brass tongs she picked embers from the fire and placed them in a brightly painted clay incense burner shaped like a horned altar. Then she added crystals of frankincense, which glowed brightly and immediately gave rise to a fragrant, smoky plume. All the while she chattered with the two men in the Shahra's strange "language of birds."

  "Incense is most pleasing to God," she said, adding more crystals.

  "But enough, woman, enough!" interjected one of the men, his eyes smarting from the smoke.

  "Too bad for you," she said, laughing, and led the way outside. The men downed handfuls of pine nuts, the last of their breakfast, and followed.

  With clouds of incense billowing skyward, the little group circled the compound's corral. And in the light of day we saw that the men were wearing elegant purple robes looped over their right shoulders, a rarely seen traditional dress. They paused to offer prayers and incense at the entrances to the three domed huts in which their cattle had spent the night. The incense wasn't to offset the smell of the cattle (though it helped); rather, it was offered to protect the animals—from djinns.

  The mountains of Dhofar, the Shahra believed, were rife with djinns, invisible spirits born of smokeless fire. By day they dwelt at waterholes and in dark gullies. Though some djinns were friendly, most were not. Given to inflicting misery and misfortune, they could take the form of whirlwinds and raging sandstorms. Or they could shape-change into reptiles, various beasts, or even humans. Their true identity was discernible only by their feet, which were like the hoofs of asses. In great numbers, djinns were abroad at night, especially on Wednesdays and Fridays. Flying out across the land, they uttered screams so loud and penetrating that anyone unwisely out and about would lose his wits. It was a time to bar doors and windows and leave the darkness to its owners.

  Now, in the early morning, frankincense dispelled any lingering djinns, and the cattle could be led off to pasture with a reasonable assurance of safety. The herdsmen would nevertheless be wary of strangers going their way. In broad daylight, djinns could manifest themselves as fellow travelers, leading men and animals astray, often to their deaths.

  The cattle disappeared over a hill, their passage marked by a lingering cloud of dust that hung motionless. "A good sign," Ali Achmed noted, looking off across the land. "No djinns."

  The Shahra remaining at the settlement turned to their daily tasks. The dwellings of men and beasts were swept out. A little girl worked at a loom; her mother churned milk in a leather bag. A dog lazed in the sun, one eye open, lest it be kicked by a nearby goat.

  Despite everyone's diligence, it appeared the djinns had worked some mischief. A little boy hadn't been able to shake off a bad cold, and something needed to be done. The settlement's matriarch added fresh frankincense to a burner and led the child to the center of the corral. Round and round she circled him, enveloping him in incense. She chanted, "Look at this your sacrifice: frankincense and fire. From the eye of the evil spirit; of mankind, from afar; of kindred, nearby, and from afar. Be redeemed from the evil spirit. Look at this your sacrifice: frankincense and fire."7

  She passed the burner to an older man, who continued the ritual, circling and chanting. Frankincense and fire were a potent combination. The incense brought the blessing of Allah, and fire—even a small spark—was believed even more effective than the name of Allah in curing possession. Fire dispelled djinns, creatures born of fire.

  As the day wore on, tribespeople came and went. A woman came by in search of a lost chicken. Assault rifles jauntily cradled in the crooks of their arms, three young men stopped by for coffee; they had been down to the coast and shared news of the outside world.

  With Ali Achmed translating, we asked about the People of 'Ad. Yes, they all agreed, the 'Ad were their long-ago ancestors. The Shahra knew about Ubar and referred to the city's inhabitants as "Irema." We were startled by this, for Irem (or Iram), we believed, was the Koran's name for Ubar. Here was a living link between the two principal names for our city!8 The Irema, the Shahra told us, were a rich if wicked people who ate off golden plates. That is, until "their city turned over."

  A young man with the mustache of a brigand chuckled and told us that to the Shahra the phrase "Take him to the Irema" means "Get rid of him."

  The oldest of the group regaled us with the tale of how the golden treasure of Ubar, spirited away from the doomed city, was to be found in a desert cave, guarded by a snake.

  "Was the snake a djinn?" I asked.

  "How could that be?" he shot back. "Do snakes have feet?"

  I realized my mistake. To be a djinn you have to have hoofs, so a snake can't be a djinn. We agreed that snakes can still be pretty nasty.

  The storyteller continued, "One way to keep the snake away [from the treasure] was to have a holy man read to it." This, he said, led two thieves to find themselves a holy man and have him read to the snake while they helped themselves to Ubar's riches.

  The old man's voice fell to a whisper: "You see, they were going to cut the holy man out. But he, being both holy and wise, suspected this. He stopped reading. The snake ate one thief; the other ran away. Nobody's gone there since."

  The thought crossed my mind: if we couldn't find Ubar, maybe we could find the cave. Read to the snake.

  Late in the afternoon, the family's cattle reappeared, and with whistles and trilling shouts, were herded back into their huts. In the clan's living quarters, incense was again burned, and a majlis, a communal gathering, began. In their ancient language, the Shahra sang a rousing song o
f revenge, then shifted to a melancholy melodic recital of lost love and found wisdom. They sang a capella and antiphonally, with evenly divided groups of men answering each other. They drew their voices across the words like bows across strings, as if to echo a psaltery of the past. In this isolated settlement, speech and song—and a way of life—had been preserved since the ancient days of the incense trade.

  At the end of a long and rewarding day, we took leave of the Shahra and headed back to Salalah. We kept an eye out for djinn, but, it being Thursday, we were unmolested. (It's Wednesdays and Fridays that you must beware.) As we bumped along the dirt track, we passed other Shahra settlements, illuminated by kitchen fires, occasional gas lanterns, and the passing glare of our headlights. If the Shahra live now as the People of 'Ad once lived, it was understandable why tangible remains of the 'Ad had proved so elusive. Their culture may have been complex and literate, but their surviving artifacts would have been few. The impressively domed dwellings and most of their contents were perishable. About all that would survive for even a century would be fragments of fired pottery, foundation stones, and the stones marking their departure from their life and land.

  Their graves.

  13. The Vale of Remembrance

  THE VERY NEXT DAY, Ali Achmed took us beyond the settlements of the Shahra to a long, meandering valley—the course of the Wadi Dhikur—that dropped from the tableland of the Dhofar Mountains to the desert beyond.

  The Shahra knew the valley of the Wadi Dhikur as the Vale of Remembrance, for this was where they had laid their dead to rest for hundreds, even thousands, of years. An eerie mist shrouded the valley's upper reaches, draining the color from its rock walls. The air was clammy, and not a breath of wind stirred. The place was oppressive. The first graves we encountered were Islamic, oriented to Mecca. Two stone slabs marked a man's burial, and three marked a woman's. Ali motioned to where, higher on the valley's wall, stone blocks sealed a series of caves. We scrambled up and peered into a breach in the stonework. From the darkness within, a congregation of skulls returned our gaze. Patches of their head cloths were still intact. Other bones were scattered about the cave. Since it was not oriented to Mecca, this tomb appeared to be pre-Islamic, earlier than the 600s. We could have reached in and collected sample textiles for carbon dating, but we didn't, for we felt ourselves outsiders to this majlis of the dead. They, not we, belonged in the valley.