‘It’s a sadiis, your camel—a fully grown male. It’s ready for breeding. It wants to be with other camels, that’s why it’s so tricky. Why don’t you try mine instead? This one is younger, a raba’, it would be better for you. Why don’t you try it?’
I looked at his camel; it was young and sleek, like one of the fleet beasts that the Zaghawa raised in their herds. I guessed that my camel was worth more than the raba’, and I felt reluctant to make the exchange without being absolutely sure I was getting a good animal. However, Jiddu was very persuasive. ‘Just try it for a short time,’ he said. ‘And if you don’t like it, never mind.’
I reluctantly agreed to try it, and during that afternoon’s rest, we exchanged saddles. As we set off, I rode the raba’ while Jiddu rode my camel. After a few minutes, I realised that the camel was too weak for my purpose; it had looked swift when Jiddu had ridden it, but I supposed that his saddlebags were empty, whereas I was carrying food and water. Meanwhile, Jiddu was talking quickly to his companions in Zaghawa.
‘This camel’s no good for me!’ I told him. ‘It’s too weak to carry my things!’
Suddenly, Jiddu spun around on the saddle, and waved his rifle at me. ‘The camp of my friend is nearby,’ he said. ‘I’m going off to see him! I’ll see you later!’ And whipping the camel’s flanks, he charged off at speed.
For a few seconds I was too startled to understand what was happening. Then one of Jiddu’s brothers said, ‘We’re not going to Malemal Hosh. We’ve changed our minds. We’re going to our camp first, then we’ll water at the wells. Go in peace!’ The four Awlad Diqqayn wheeled around, pushing before them the loose cows, and rode off fast in the opposite direction from the one Jiddu had taken.
I watched dumbfounded as they became dots on the edge of the landscape, and it was only when I was alone that the full horror of the situation became apparent. Jiddu had stolen my camel in what appeared to be a deliberate and calculating manner. I had allowed myself to be lured into a false sense of security. Knowing that to Arabs travelling companions were inviolable, and after my agreeable experiences with the Bedayatt, I had assumed that these Awlad Diqqayn were also trustworthy. But there was more to the situation than the loss of the camel. I was now beyond the fringes of the Sudan, in a country where people knew no law except the law of the tribes. I was in trackless, waterless desert, and since I had been relying on the local knowledge of the Awlad Diqqayn to guide me, I had no idea of my position. I was lost and friendless. Perhaps I could have found my way back to the camp of the Atawiyya, but there was no guarantee that they would still be in the same place, even if I found it, and anyway, to have gone back would have been to give up all chance of seeing my camel again. The camel I now rode would not take me to El Atrun, neither would it take me back to Gineina. My evasion of the police had rendered me undeserving of their assistance, and I could not return to Muzbat for fear of arrest.
My only chance was to find Malemal Hosh alone. I still had a few cards in my hand. In Muzbat, I had taken a rough compass bearing on the wells from directions given by the Awlad Diqqayn. I could not check this, as the Hosh was not marked on any map I had, but I hoped at least that it would take me in the right direction. I had food and some water, and I knew the names of all the Awlad Diqqayn I had travelled with, for by chance I had noted them in my diary. I knew that the family were from somewhere near the Hosh; I also knew that it was the only well in the area, and that sooner or later Jiddu Mahmoud Biddi would be forced to water there. When he did, I hoped that I should be waiting for him.
However, the immediate problem was to get there. I was alone in the emptiest quarter of the North African desert, searching for a tiny dot on the landscape, using a compass bearing I was unable to check, and riding a camel which was already faltering. It was the most perilous situation I had encountered on my journeys, and I knew that in the next two days my powers of survival would be tested to the full.
I halted just after sunset that evening in a great wadi under a cliff of sand. I thought it better not to blunder around at night, despite the moon, and I had no wish to exhaust the camel further, knowing that the animal was my only lifeline. Without my camel, I could not carry my water, and without my water I could last no more than a day in this, the driest of all North African deserts. I ate ’asida, using the water sparingly, and thanked providence that I had brought two skins of water rather than one, though I remembered how the Awlad Diqqayn had laughed when they had seen them. After eating, I scrambled up the wadi bank, to spy out the landfall. I gazed out over unbroken miles of desert bathed in its casement of moonlight. Here and there the shadows were drawn in around a clump of thorn trees, but nowhere was there any sign of humankind. Sitting there on the edge of nothingness, I felt as if I were the sole survivor of a devastating holocaust. There seemed not the slightest connection between myself and any other living being.
The first thing I saw on waking that morning was a gazelle. It had ventured inquisitively into the wadi, to within a few yards of where I was sleeping rolled up in my blanket. Instinctively, I picked up my pistol and aimed. Then I remembered my predicament and chuckled, as the animal darted out of the wadi. Food was the least of my worries. However, I found the presence of the gazelle comforting in some way. Many Sudanese had told me that this animal could live for months without water, though frankly I did not believe this, and could not help but feel some sense of relationship between myself and this other warm-blooded creature which had made its home in this least comfortable of the world’s environments.
My greatest problem that day was the camel. It seemed subdued and exhausted now it was separated from its companions. It refused resolutely to move at a reasonable rate, whether I rode or walked. The sun came out like a sledgehammer, and the morning’s journey seemed to go on without end as I crossed flats of pale sand and patches of heskaniit grass, which embedded their sharp caltrops in my sirwel. I whipped and cursed, whispered and coaxed, but still the camel refused to budge from his reluctant drag. And meanwhile it seemed as if the desert looked on and laughed at my progress.
Once I saw a giant vulture in a thorn tree. It gazed down at me with a chilling glare, not at all perturbed by my presence. The bird was so large that I wondered what I would do if it tried to attack me, though I knew that vultures are only supposed to attack the dying and the dead. The thought brought to mind the caption of the well-known comic poster, depicting two caricature vultures, which read: ‘Patience be damned, I’m gonna kill something!’
Despite the amusement, the brooding, watchful, fearless presence of the bird reflected in my mind the relentless sands in which I was now travelling. Should I not reach my destination, I might well be leaving whitened bones to be picked clean by such as this. Still, I followed the compass bearing, keeping myself in check by the knowledge, gleaned long ago in the depths of military training, that the compass must be right. There was cold comfort in knowing that if I missed the wells I should be lost in waterless desert without much chance to retrace my steps. I drank little water, not knowing when I should find more, and my throat was constantly parched. I noticed with growing apprehension, however, that my waterskins were getting lighter, as if some phantom drinker were consuming the liquid. I realised that there must be some tiny leaks, but though I sought them feverishly, I could not pinpoint them. The outer surfaces of the skins stayed wet, and the sun evaporated the precious fluid. To prevent this further, I covered them with a blanket. So the day wore on, and I saw no other living person, nor the tracks or spoor of animals. Once I saw before me a hollow where water glistened silver, but as I approached, the liquid vaporised into thin air and I knew I had been duped by a mirage.
The hours passed, and the sun dropped down behind me. Soon after, I made camp by a patch of heskaniit grass. I was still intensely aware of the need to preserve the strength of my camel, so I turned him out to grass, while I cooked myself some ’asida. I tied the qayd tightly, knowing that sho
uld he wander off I would be lost. After eating, I took stock of the situation. Unless my bearing was completely wrong, I must be very near the wells, I knew. I refused to consider the possibility that I had missed them, for although the place was tiny, I was sure that there would be animal tracks leading there. I found in the bottom of my saddlebag the old RAF desert survival pamphlet I always carried but rarely looked at. Thumbing through it in the light of a torch, my eye fell on the section entitled: ‘Natives’.
With a few exceptions the natives are friendly. They know the country, its trails, food, and water sources, and can be the means of your being speedily returned to civilisation. In short, they are your best help, but it all depends on how you approach them.
ALWAYS BE TACTFUL, PATIENT, AND HONEST.
If, at that moment, there had been any natives about, I should have been as tactful, patient, and honest as I had ever been in my life.
For a long time I sat looking out over the moonlit sands. Once I thought I spotted the flicker of a campfire, and I was gripped by a mad impulse to run towards it. But as I looked again, it disappeared like an enticing will-o’-the-wisp, leaving me alone with the awful quiescence of the stars.
On waking the next morning, I found to my horror that most of my water had leaked from the skins, leaving no more than three or four pints. My survival manual showed me that, moving at night, I could cover about thirty miles with this amount, though there were no figures for daytime movement. If I didn’t find the wells today, I thought, I might as well lie down and invite the vultures to a feast. If anything, the camel was even more uncooperative than the previous day, despite the lighter load and the grazing; I was now walking with him, but he hung back, pulling on the headrope and making the work exhausting. The land was undulating dunes, with a little rough grass and a few trees in places. Passing up the steep slopes of the qoz was difficult work, and I noticed that the camel’s legs trembled with weakness. I almost hauled him bodily up a particularly steep incline, panting with exhaustion.
As we broke over the ridge I saw that the dune was crowned with a few hejlij trees, and beneath them about thirty camels huddled away from the sun. No sooner had I taken this in than I heard a savage roar. Suddenly a large white bull camel came charging towards me out of the tight ranks of the herd, blowing an obscene pink bladder from his mouth and leaving behind him a trail of froth. This I knew was a sign of sexual maturity, and I guessed that this animal was the naib or leader of the herd, coming out to defend his territory. As he closed with us, I slashed at him with my whip, but could not drive him away, and I found myself dodging and ducking away from the madly dancing, snake-like head with its gnashing canines. There was no doubt that the camel was in season, and I knew that in this state camels would kill or maim. Finally, the bull bit my camel on the rear leg, and the younger animal let out an ear-piercing screech.
Suddenly a dark figure appeared on the ridge overlooking the area: it was an Arab carrying an automatic rifle, who shouted out a challenge. I waved at him frantically, hoping that he would realise that I was not trying to steal one of his camels. I was relieved, nevertheless, that I had at last found someone with whom I could share the loneliness of this sea of nothing. I began to climb up to the ridge. The Arab was no more than a boy, and behind him, in the shade of another tree, sat two younger boys.
‘Peace be on you,’ I said.
‘And on you be peace,’ he replied. He led me to the tiny camp, telling me that they were Arabs of the Awlad Rashid, a tribe I had heard of but not encountered before. They laughed when I said I was English, saying that from afar they had taken me for an Atawi because of my red face and beard. They told me that the Rashid were watering their herds at Malemal Hosh and that their particular family was waiting its turn at the wells. Those Awlad Rashid boys will never know how grateful I was to find them, or how delicious the camel’s milk which they offered me. They said that the Hosh was only a few minutes’ journey away, and that many tribes were watering there at present, especially the Awlad Diqqayn, the Mahriyya Rizayqat, and the Zayadiyya. I thanked the Rashid with all the patience, tact, and honesty I could muster and gave the eldest boy my lace skullcap, which he had examined with interest.
A short time after leaving them, I came over the ridge of the dune, and saw the wells below me, laid on the cracked brown bed of a wadi. A pall of dust blew across the surface of the valley, obscuring the little clutch of houses which marked the place. I descended the dune painfully and led my camel towards the well compound, outside which many camels were tethered to posts or couched in the dust. I looked for my own bull, but did not spot him, though I saw many with the distinctive brand of the Awlad Diqqayn. I was greeted by some Arabs standing near the gate of the enclosure: they were Zayadiyya tribesmen, one of whom, Rabi’, was responsible for the wells. He showed me to a tiny stone-built house and helped to unsaddle my camel. After I had eaten and drunk, I related to him and another Zayadi, Harara, the story of my stolen camel. They listened silently, shaking their heads, and finally Rabi’ said, ‘What’s the name of the one who stole your camel?’
‘Jiddu Mahmoud Biddi of the Awlad Diqqayn.’
‘I know him well. He’s a rascal that one. He’ll come here sooner or later, in fact his father watered some goats here today. His father’s a good man. We’ll have a word with him.’
I warmed to the attitude of these Zayadiyya, for I had been apprehensive that my story might not fall on sympathetic ears. Later, Rabi’ took a careful look at the camel I had been riding, and again he shook his head, ‘By God that Jiddu,’ he said. ‘Look at those brands, they’re Arab marks, Ribayqat Kababish. I would say that camel is stolen. Have you got the paper? No, I thought not. I think you would have trouble trying to sell this animal.’
‘Stealing from the Kababish is one thing,’ said Harara, ‘but robbing a guest in our land is another. A serious matter.’
‘Yes,’ replied Rabi’. ‘But he’ll be here in a few days, I’m sure. Then we’ll have him, by God!’
It seemed suddenly that those two days of desperate travelling had been worthwhile, and I had had the luck to fall in with these gracious and right-minded Zayadiyya, who were able to help me.
I stayed at Malemal Hosh for four days. It was a mini-sized settlement with only four houses, which were inhabited by the Zayadiyya who looked after the well and their families. Each day huge herds of camels were brought into the well from the sparse grazing on the qoz. Rabi’ took me to visit many of the nomads of his own family, the Awlad Jerbo Zayadiyya, and we would sit and drink tea and camel’s milk while they talked of their journeys in the desert. These men had the largest herds I had ever seen: one single family I met had two thousand head. Each day I awoke to the sound of roaring and braying and went to join the men struggling at the metal troughs amongst the piles of excrement on which the well seemed to have been built. Always herds of camels waited on the dry mudflats of the wadi, like soldiers on parade, and dust rose from the great squadrons of animals as the Arabs drove them into the wells. The Arabs of the Mahriyya, Zayadiyya, and Awlad Rashid I met here seemed affluent in comparison with other tribes, judging by the richness of their saddlery, which was often worth far more than the camel. They carried Zayadiyya saddles of polished wood and studded leather, draped with costly sable furs, hand-decorated saddlebags, expensive curved scimitars, and automatic rifles. I knew that I was in one of the finest camel-rearing areas in the world, and amongst some of the most successful camel-breeders of all time. In the evening more herds would descend from the surrounding dunes,which were known as the Qoz Al Hor and Tawaanis; the wadi filled with the thunder of their hooves and drapes of dust rose around them, hanging in the golden light of the dying sun.
On the second day, Rabi’ introduced me to an old man who was watering some goats in the iron troughs.
‘This is Mahmoud Biddi,’ he told me, ‘Father of Jiddu.’
Rabi’ explained to the old Zaghawi a
bout what had happened.
Mahmoud Biddi lost none of his composure, but he nodded and said that he would come to the Zayadi’s house to discuss the matter. He arrived later bringing with him some relations, among whom I recognised Mohammed, Jiddu’s brother. I was tempted to give vent to some of my pent-up anger towards him, though I managed to suppress it, thinking that I would gain little. We ate ’asida, and sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor of Rabi’’s house, and many more of the Zayadiyya and Mahriyya came up to join us out of pure curiosity.
It was Rabi’ who held the floor. He spoke with the fluency of an orator, explaining my plight, and representing me as a visitor to this area, who would no doubt be making reports as to the hospitality of the people here. He waxed eloquent about my personality, sometimes claiming that I was a ‘poor, unfortunate person’ who knew nothing of the desert or its ways, and others as a ‘person who knows everything about the desert and camels’. I hoped that the apparent contradiction here would go unnoticed in the flow of his rhetoric, and so it seemed, for when he had finished it felt almost as if we should all stand up and applaud. Mohammed Mahmoud, Jiddu’s brother, then apologised for the behaviour of Jiddu and of himself and his brothers, but explained that Jiddu had returned to Muzbat, an assertion which I did not believe.
His father, old Mahmoud, cut in, however, speaking in a dignified and respectful manner. He told us that he had once been a desert guide for the British like his famous father and had the greatest of respect for them. He regretted the ‘misunderstanding’ and assured me that the camel would be returned directly.
Sure enough, the next morning Jiddu turned up at the wells with my camel. He approached me with a grin on his face, as if to say, ‘It was only a joke, it’s all over now.’ I felt like punching him in the teeth, but remembered the words of the survival manual: ‘Tact, patience, honesty.’ It was, after all, good advice.
In Search of the Forty Days Road Page 15