In Search of the Forty Days Road

by Michael Asher

  ‘He doesn’t know how hard the desert is in summer. He will not like what he finds. And look at that camel of his. It’s weak and will probably die on the first day.’

  I remained quiet throughout this invective, letting the others talk for me. I had no wish to begin an argument at this early stage with someone upon whom I might have to depend. I decided that discretion lay in silence, and hoped that one day I might be able to win the respect and acceptance of this proud and uncompromising man.

  When the work of watering was completed, we mounted and rode north into the qoz, driving the herd before us. It was the first time I had ridden with a mob of this size and I found the sight spectacular: a brown press of furred backs eddying over the plain with that familiar liquid motion I had come to associate with these animals. The rest of the herd was grazing on a wide sward of thornbush some miles outside El Fasher. We passed through their lines and couched our mounts by a cluttered camp, where two more Rizayqat, oldish men as lean as whippets, were brewing tea in the shade. Their names were Abu Musa and Abdallahi. I spent the rest of the day in their camp trying to become acquainted with the character and customs of these men, who were to be my companions on the way.

  Here, outside the town, they seemed comfortable and at home in their natural environment. These Rizayqat were tough, resilient nomads, well used to the stringent discipline of the desert. They were rough diamonds, beside whom the other Arabs I had met seemed almost genteel. They were openly courteous, as all Arabs are, but I sensed beneath this an uncompromisingly suspicious attitude. I felt very much like an applicant for an exclusive club who had to prove himself to the established members. It was a club of which I could never become more than an associate member. To them I was not only a townsman, but also a non-Arab, a non-Muslim, and a khawaja. They were al ’arab, descendants of one of the purest races in the world, and their superiority was beyond question. I felt on the first day that all my actions were being closely studied: if I went away from the group, or merely tried to get something out of my saddlebag, I would hear one of them saying, ‘What is he doing now?’ or ‘Where’s he going?’

  I had to reconcile myself to the fact that everything I did in future would be public property, for the desert allows no secrets, and the Arabs are men who know no falsehood amongst themselves. This harsh environment in which they lived exposed all pretension and reduced everything to its empirical essence. The privileges of wealth, skin colour, and education were meaningless here: the desert equalised all, reducing each man to the elements of his nature.

  I could understand why these men were so critical. The journey we were about to undertake was no jaunt across the semidesert, but a long period in one of the grimmest landscapes on earth. Each man would be dependent on the others for survival, and a weak link in the chain could lead to the extinction of all. My experience was without significance to these men who had been reared in the desert, who regarded all townsmen, even those related to them, with disdain.

  For my own part, I knew that I was meeting these Arabs over an enormous cultural chasm: they had not chosen me as a companion, but I them. My world was a total mystery to them, though I had the advantage of knowing something of theirs. I was willing to make almost any sacrifice to gain their acceptance.

  At sunset the Arabs began a flurry of activity, and Adem thrust a whip into my hand, and showed me how to run around the edge of the herd, drawing them close into the centre. There were to be no passengers on this trip: I was expected to fulfil my part of the work. When the hundred and forty-odd camels had been brought in, each one was carefully hobbled with a loop of rope called an ’uqal. The loop had a wooden peg at one end and was fixed around the knee of one of the camel’s front legs to make it difficult for the animal to rise. Then the Arabs laid out their blankets in a rough semicircle in the midst of the herd.

  It was a beautiful evening, calm and cool, and the scores of camel heads swayed around us like a forest of weird moving plants. The Hamedi began to sprinkle flour into a pot, making ’asida. Adem sat mending a broken ’uqal. All the time the Arabs kept up a solid stream of talk. Adem and Saadiq were comparing their respective journeys to Libya and Egypt, and often the others interjected. I felt, once again, how much of a luxury talk was to the Arabs. It was from this love of language that their powerful poetry and literature developed. The phrase ‘Silence is golden’ has no meaning to the Arabs of the desert.

  The men’s raised voices were suspended in a background of teeth- grinding, grunting, and chewing from the camels, and their smell drifted over to us as we sat there. Occasionally a large bull would flick sand over us with a sweep of his tail, and often one of them would hop to his three feet and begin antagonising the seated animals. Then the Arabs would get up, whip in hand, and separate the culprits. As I sat writing my journal by torchlight, Adem came up and peered directly at my writing.

  ‘Is that Arabic or foreign?’ he asked.

  ‘English,’ I said.

  ‘What are you writing about?’

  ‘Oh, about camels, the country, anything I see.’

  ‘Are you writing about me?’

  ‘Some about you, yes.’

  He scowled and withdrew, but from time to time I caught him casting resentful glances my way, convinced, I was sure, that I was some kind of spy.

  That night I got little rest. My sleep was constantly disturbed by the roaring of camels and the shouting of the Rizayqat, ‘Get down, dog! Bandit, get down! God curse you!’ In the morning, however, Abu Sara arrived and inspected my camel.

  ‘It’s too weak,’ he said. ‘It’ll never make Dongola, by God! It has come a long way and needs rest. You must sell it at once and get another.’

  ‘But when are we leaving?’

  ‘Not for two days. Some of the camels are sick and have to be treated before we go. Ride to the market with Saadiq, and I’ll see you there.’

  Some time later, I found the guide in El Fasher animal market. Abu Sara took charge, and paraded the camel around as if he belonged to him, expounding to the potential buyers his qualities with polished oratory. Very soon he was sold, and a satisfied customer led him away.

  Then, Abu Sara and I began to search amongst the animals for sale, for what he called a ‘clean’ camel. We examined beasts of all colours, shapes, and sizes, and finally Abu Sara turned to me and said, ‘There are no clean animals here. They are either butchers’ camels, or they are too weak.’ I felt panic inside: now I was stuck without a camel, and the herd would soon be moving. ‘There is a bigger market in Mellit tomorrow,’ the pilot continued. ‘Osman’s assistant Juma is going there to buy camels. You go with him, and you can find a clean, strong beast.’

  The market of herds in Mellit was no more than a zariba, or enclosure of stone, situated in the desert about two miles outside the town.

  There, far away from lorries and telephone wires, it was possible to imagine that nothing had changed for centuries. Camels were brought here from all over the west of the Sudan, and many different tribes, including the Zayadiyya, the Zaghawa, the Kababish, Berti, and Meidob were represented.

  On the morning that Juma and I arrived, there was a fierce haboob blowing from the north, and the air was gorged with a white mist of sand. Gradually the zariba filled with people. Camel-riders came like spectral apparitions, materialising suddenly out of the mist, their faces muffled with cloth, their bodies draped with swords and daggers. As groups of tribesmen formed with their camels, Juma walked around greeting old friends and inspecting the stock. I received some strange looks from people, though others seemed quite familiar with my story, and I gathered that the news had been passed on the Arab grapevine.

  By the end of the morning, by supreme industry in the long-winded ritual of purchase, Juma had bought twelve camels for Osman Hasabullah, and I had bought a great battlecruiser of an animal, pure white in colour, with an unusual mane of hair around its neck. It seemed rath
er slow, but Juma had persuaded me that it would ‘go anywhere’. When the market closed, Juma and I went to drink tea, and he introduced me to an old Arab of the Zayadiyya, called Babullah. ‘Babullah is taking Osman’s camels back to El Fasher,’ he said, giving me a wry smile. ‘You’d better go with him and help to bring them back.’ There was something in the way Juma said this that I did not like. I had no objection to helping Babullah, but I did object to being spoken to in such an imperious manner. Babullah seemed an old, old man. His hair was grey and he was as thin as a broom-handle. I found it surprising that he could actually ride a camel. He was occupied in tying up a saddle which Juma had given him, when the Rizayqi brought from his pocket two pounds and threw them in the sand at the old man’s feet. ‘Take that,’ he said. ‘That’s your food. Now, get a move on, grandad, the herd’s waiting for you!’

  I was shocked by this behaviour, for Babullah was old enough to be Juma’s father, and I knew that the Arabs generally respected old age.

  Babullah ignored this rudeness, however, and though I looked sharply at Juma, I knew I could not interfere. It seemed to me that he had been living for so long in the town, trying to become like the merchants, that the very worst of their attitudes had rubbed off on him. I stayed with Babullah as Juma stalked off, and when the old man had finished tying up the saddle, he said, ‘You’ll have to work with me. I told Juma that we needed another herdsman, but he’s mean.’ My half-suspicion had been correct—Juma had been trying to save money by using me as a second herdsman.

  It was approaching sunset by the time we reached the outskirts of the town, having stopped on the way to get water and food. We descended into a deep wadi, the bed of which was lined with sand as fine as gold dust, and climbed out into thorn woods, which became thicker as the evening darkened. As we went, I got used to my new camel. He was strong and steady, but slow, as I had thought, and I found it difficult to keep up with Babullah, who was riding a three-year-old. He kept shouting for me to catch up, but though I belaboured the camel with a whip, he refused to change gear, and I began to feel frustrated and angry. Had the bad-mannered Juma deliberately given me bad advice, I wondered? If not he was as bad a judge of camels as he was of men, for amongst the twelve he had bought for his boss, one had a bad leg, and another was blind in one eye which caused it to wander off constantly. There was also a naqa, a young female, which seemed to have a route of her own mapped out.

  I could see already that the situation was perilous: this old stager, twelve wayward camels, and an assistant on a slow mount. Babullah was having trouble with his own camel, which was young and improperly trained. Suddenly, it began to turn in dizzy circles while he fought to control it. The other camels started to scatter in the dark woods. ‘Come on, khawaja!’ shouted the old man angrily. I became separated from the others in the darkness, and when I emerged from the forest, I found that Babullah had halted the camels around a single bush and was walking round and round them, shaking his head.

  When he saw me, he cried. ‘The naqa! Where is the naqa?’ I slowly counted the animals myself. There were eleven: somewhere in the forest we had lost the errant female. I couched my camel by his, and he looked at me accusingly, ‘We’ve lost the naqa. Now what will we tell Osman Hasabullah?’

  Close up, I saw that his face was a mask of misery, and the situation became clear to me in a flash. Babullah was a poor man, probably very poor, and well into old age: he had no doubt worked with camels all his life, and his reputation depended on his being able to transport them safely from one place to another. Now he had lost one, the value of which was more than he earned in two years. Everyone would laugh and say he was ‘past it’: the bottom had fallen out of his world. He looked exhausted and inconsolable.

  I said, ‘I’ll go and look for her, she can’t be far.’ I set off back into the thorn wood, but the shadows were thick and raven-black: I knew that the only chance was to find her tracks, and I returned to the old man.

  ‘Perhaps she’ll return to the wells,’ Babullah said. ‘We can go and search for her at daybreak. We’d better stay here now.’

  He unloaded his meagre possessions: a single blanket, ragged and torn, and an old saddlebag containing a few charred cooking pots and some food in twists of paper. He sank feebly on his blanket, and sat there motionless. I began to feel increasingly that the loss of the camel was partly my fault. I made a fire silently, collecting stubs of dry wood, and all the time the old man stared into space, not uttering a word, as if in a kind of daze.

  We ate in a terrible silence, and almost immediately afterwards the old man hobbled the camels and went to sleep. I lay awake for some time, thinking about Osman Hasabullah, and how the news of the lost naqa would affect my chances of travelling with the Rizayqat. In my heart, though, I nursed a swelling grudge for Juma, who in my view was the real culprit, and who had brought what was almost a tragedy into the dotage of this old man of the desert.

  Before dawn Babullah was awake, saddling his three-year-old. ‘I’m going back to the wells in Mellit,’ he said. ‘You stay here and look after the camels. Whatever happens, don’t give the water to anyone!’

  Less than an hour later, he was back without the lost camel. ‘She’s not there,’ he said. ‘But I found her tracks. I can’t follow on this camel. It just won’t behave!’

  ‘Then take mine,’ I offered. ‘But it’s slow!’

  Babullah agreed, and I helped him to fill a small waterbottle from the skin. ‘Don’t move from here,’ he instructed me. ‘And don’t forget about the water!’

  In a few moments he had disappeared into the distance. I guessed that it would take all the skill acquired in a lifetime of experience to recapture the escaped camel.

  Meanwhile, I looked around at my surroundings in the fresh light of morning. I was in an open stretch of desert beneath the volcanic plugs of two mountains, which rose like the fins of a giant marlin from the pale froth of the sand. There were some stunted thorn bushes near at hand, but none large enough to provide shade. I could not move the camels back into the wood for fear of losing another. There was no alternative but to wait here in the blast-furnace of the day, until the Arab returned. As the sun came up, it began slowly to roast me. The hours passed, but Babullah did not appear. I wondered idly if he had decided to take my camel and escape to some camp in the desert, leaving me to face the consequences.

  It became too hot to move, and I tried to bind my headcloth around me to provide a little protection from the strafing sun. I kept the waterskin covered, and occasionally sucked water from its mouthpiece, and this provided a welcome relief from the blistering heat. I was afraid to drink too much, however, since it seemed unfair on my companion. All day I saw nothing but a single camel-rider passing far off by the foot of the mountain, and a few children with some goats. I did not want company, for I was afraid of attracting the attention of thieves to these eleven all but unprotected camels. As I sat in the oven of midday, my mind wandered in strange corridors. I thought about the hostility of the Rizayqat, the unpleasantness of Juma, the potential wrath of Osman Hasabullah. Seldom had this world seemed so strange and incomprehensible. Often I asked myself why I was here, sitting out in the hot sun, watching a mob of camels somewhere in northeast Africa.

  The sun was well past its zenith when the figure of Babullah appeared on the skyline. I saw immediately that the naqa was not with him. He approached very slowly on the large white, and as he came nearer, I saw that his face bore an expression of absolute defeat. We did not speak as he couched the camel, and I noticed that as he stepped down his legs trembled slightly. He had been in the saddle all day, and was obviously shattered. There was nothing to be said, and we sat for a few timeless moments in silence, hearing nothing but a faint breath of wind playing across the surface of the sands.

  ‘I saw her!’ he said suddenly. ‘By Almighty God, I saw her, but I couldn’t catch her. That camel of yours is too slow.’

 
‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We must go on. The herd is waiting to move. We have lost a day already.’

  Almost at once we packed up and moved off, herding the camels between us. It was a journey which I will never forget. The animals constantly wandered off and had to be chased back into line. The old man, after a whole day in the saddle without food, rode like a boy. We went on and on without a break. Sunset came and went, the hours of the night passed. Finally, not more than three hours before dawn, we made camp in a wadi and both fell into the sleep of the dead.

  16. WHERE THE SUN BEATS

  Away, for we are ready to a man,

  Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.

  James Elroy Flecker, The Golden Road to Samarkand

  WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE camp of the Rizayqat the next morning, Juma, Osman Hasabullah, and Abu Sara were there to meet us. They saw immediately that we had lost a camel, but to my surprise, they showed neither anger nor astonishment. They were much more concerned with our lateness. Abu Sara had collected together the rest of my equipment, and as I dismounted in order to load it on he told me that the herd was waiting to move.

  ‘Come on, khawaja,’ he bellowed. ‘Ride! Ride!’

  I had scarcely managed to get my breath before I found myself riding in the wake of the great herd, with the Rizayqat and the Hamedi positioned at intervals around its edges.

  The mob moved like a single organism with a thousand elongated legs, swarming up a concave slope of sand as if drawn on by some terrible compulsion. My senses were choked with camels: the bittersweet smell of their bodies, the humped curvature of their backs, their inaudible flat-footed stride, and the high-pitched wail which they sent out as they went.

  Abu Sara took up a post on the left hand flank of the herd, occasionally shouting orders, ‘One by one, brothers, spread out and keep them moving!’ Mostly, though, he directed the movement by silent hand-signals. The others kept up a continuous barrage of sound, intended to urge the mob forwards; they cracked their whips and chased wanderers back into the belly of the herd with much swearing and many oaths by God. I could do nothing but ride bemusedly: I had not eaten for thirty-six hours and had ridden almost fifty miles after a day of being baked by the sun. My mouth was as dry as parchment, my head aching from the heat; I was too exhausted to appreciate fully the beauty of the scene I was witnessing.