Walid paused for a moment on the Voice of America. I almost asked him to leave it there, but quickly realized I didn’t care about knowing what was going on elsewhere. I’d long since reckoned with the phenomenon of being completely out of touch for weeks at a time, and the understanding that familial or global tragedies could occur while I was so sequestered. I was glad when he turned the dial to an Arabic music station.
When we finished the tea session, Walid jammed his camel stick into the ground at a sharp angle and hung the pot of lunch leftovers from it over the low, lapping flames. Before it was warmed, I fell asleep.
I woke up a couple of hours later to blow my nose and hawk up phlegm. The fire had burned down to small pile of embers. Walid was asleep. Hungry, I ate from the pot of noodles, now cold, and guzzled some water. Before going back to sleep, I wandered some thirty yards off to go to the bathroom. Relieved with the results, I praised Allah (something that comes instinctively after some time in Muslim countries, even for a non-religious Jew) that at least my gastrointestinal works were in good shape. More miraculously, even before I finished my business, four dung beetles converged upon me like black, bitesized tanks surrounding a target.
I was astonished that the beetles could have so quickly homed in on a fresh deposit of food, drawn by their keen sense of smell. With no true nose, the beetles detect and distinguish a wide variety of odors through their antennae, the palps on their jaws, and even the hairs on their legs. They shape excrement into balls about as big as a beetle is tall, then roll them across the sand and cache them underground. The buried balls are saved for future eating and used as incubators inside which female beetles lay their eggs. When the larvae hatch, they feed on the dung they sprang from. A single beetle can clean up 250 times its own weight in one night; it was once recorded that a three-and-a-half pound pile of elephant poop was consumed and buried by beetles in less than two hours. The claim has been made repeatedly that, but for dung beetles, of which there are nearly eight thousand species dispersed across all continents except Antarctica, the planet would have long ago been covered in shit.
The beetle’s hard exoskeleton makes it well adapted to the parched conditions of the Sahara. Aside from preventing water loss to the air, some beetles use their shells to collect water; by pointing its head to the ground and abdomen toward the sky, the beetle allows water vapor to condense on its shell, which then rolls down in a precious droplet into its mouth.
We rose before the sun. In the crepuscular predawn light, we appeared to be part of the world’s dream as it hovered in that fluid middle space between slumber and wake. Adding to that effect, an unexpected call to prayer wafted eerily from the north, as though rising from the desert itself. As it turned out, the village of Agouni was just over the next hill, out of sight. It was the last permanent settlement we’d pass until we reached the solitary village of Araouane five days later.
As Walid prayed, I stoked the fire. Though a steady stream still flowed from my nose, I felt much better than I had the day before. When he finished with his devotions, Walid came over to make tea.
He took a fistful of tea from a cardboard box a little bigger than a Rubik’s cube and dumped it into a green pot so small that its base fit easily in the palm of his hand. He added water and set it atop the coals. Once it boiled and simmered for a few minutes, Walid scooped a shot glass of sugar from a small leather pouch and added it to the brew. He poured the tea into the glass and dumped it back into the pot, raising the glass high and thrusting it downward to increase its stirring force. He repeated this until it was well mixed, then he filled the bottom of the glass with about a centimeter of the yellowish liquid, swirled it around, and tasted it. Satisfied, he served us each a glass, refilled the pot with water without removing the leaves, and put it back on the coals. There is nothing arbitrary or whimsical about the tea-making process—it is the same every time, practiced with the orthodoxy of a religious rite. While we waited for rounds two and three, we ate a handful of peanuts and dates and a few biscuits—the socalled Tuareg breakfast.
The Tuareg are the famed “Blue Men” of the desert, so dubbed because the dye from their indigo clothing bleeds into and stains their tanned but otherwise fair skin. Of Berber origin—North Africa’s indigenous race—their language, Tamashek, is a Berber tongue quite distinct from Arabic. They dwelt in the Sahara long before the arrival of the Arabs, who migrated to North Africa in two major waves, in the seventh and eleventh centuries, bringing with them their language, the word of Islam, and the gumption to launch the era of the great camel caravans.
Though they came first as conquerors, the Arabs who moved into the Sahara were eventually absorbed into the existing Saharan culture by way of intermarriage. Tribes of the western Sahara who today are commonly identified as “Arab” are considered as such because they speak Arabic dialects, which they adopted as the lingua franca for both religion and trade. Genealogically, however, these “Arabs” have largely Berber roots, like the Tamashek-speaking Tuareg. Their identification as Arab is both an oversimplified label given to them by Western scholars and a myth perpetuated by a number of the tribes themselves, since this allows them to more legitimately claim direct descent from the Prophet.
Saharans themselves historically classified tribes, regardless of their roots, into two types: the hasani, or “people of the sword,” and the zwaya, “people of the book.” The hasani, among whom most Tuareg were counted, were warriors and raiders who lived from pillage and by exacting tribute from caravans in exchange for Mafia-like protection. The zwaya were followers of religious clerics who engaged in study, trade, herding, and some farming. Yet even these categories were far from airtight. There were hasani groups who traded and studied, and many who herded, as there were fierce zwaya militias. While these two types of groups sometimes lived in enmity, they also formed alliances for mutual benefit.
Rather than thinking of the people of the Sahara as Arab or Tuareg, the notion of a broad Saharan culture with individual variations among tribes who share fundamental similarities is more persuasive. Recognizing this, the French, in the 1950s, even considered scrapping the political boundaries that they had imposed upon North and West Africa in favor of creating an independent Saharan state from parts of the colonies that became Mali, Niger, and Algeria. Though it never came to fruition, dreams of such a homeland festered among the Saharans, providing part of the fuel for future rebellions against the governments of Mali and Niger.
One of the unique features of Saharan culture that separates it from the rest of the Muslim world—and an example of how Tuareg practices were carried over with varying degrees of orthodoxy by so-called Arab tribes—is that the men traditionally veil their faces while women do not. Though there is a practical aspect to wearing a turban that wraps around the head and covers the face like a shield against sand and sun, the Tuareg veil, called a tagelmoust, has deep cultural connotations—as does the fact that women boldly show their faces to the world.
The tagelmoust symbolizes the Tuareg emphasis on personal reserve and respect for self and others. It serves as the ultimate poker face, through which emotional expression becomes completely opaque. According to Dr. Susan J. Rasmussen, an anthropologist who has lived with Tuareg tribes on and off for more than twenty years, veils “are props in a masquerade to protect one’s status and interests. They remind the wearer of the need for caution and self-control, (and) underline status….” Men adjust the level of their tagelmoust to reflect the social hierarchy within a particular gathering, with the highest-ranking man wearing his veil the lowest. Exceptions to this general rule include marabouts (holy men), who often cover as much of their face as possible, and smiths or artisans, who are said to lack the quality of reserve, and thus may do away with the veil (and a number of other social prescriptions) altogether. Another reason for the veil is that the mouth, like other bodily orifices, is considered by the Tuareg to be dirty, a socalled “zone of pollution” meant to be covered. As such, they say “the vei
l and the pants are brothers.” Shrouding the mouth also safeguards against the evil spirits who seek to enter the head and cause madness. According to some Arab wits, however, the real reason Tuareg men cover their faces is to “hide their ugliness.”
A man usually adopts the tagelmoust sometime around his twentieth year, at a time determined by his father. It is a major rite of passage; after a man takes on the veil, he is deemed ready for marriage and war.
The head scarves worn by women also represent their reserve. That they are not expected to cover their faces entirely is due to the belief that it’s appropriate for them to be more emotionally expressive than men. Though of course Tuareg dress codes were not established for this reason, when I think about the veils and burkas that other Muslim peoples require women to wear, I can’t help but see the headdress practices of Tuareg women as a symbol of the relative independence and autonomy that they enjoy.
In stark contrast with the customs of Middle Eastern countries, many of which forbid women from holding passports independently of their husbands, Tuareg women can travel freely. They interact socially with men, and, though discouraged, can even have premarital affairs without fear of being ostracized (let alone stoned to death). Since the Tuareg understand that both men and women may be infertile, childlessness is not a black mark against a married woman. What’s more, wives have the power to divorce their husbands, and divorced women are not looked down upon.
Social status in this traditionally matriarchal culture is determined by the lineage of one’s mother, and a significant portion of any family’s property is explicitly owned by its women, including herds of goats and sheep. The tent in which a couple lives is part of the bridal dowry and belongs to the wife, who keeps it even in the event of divorce. While Tuareg women generally inherit half of what their brothers inherit (based on the principle of Islamic law that states that, for legal purposes, a woman is equal to half of a man), one Tuareg chief told me that in his clan, family property is divided such that half goes to the daughters and half to the sons, meaning that if a family has one daughter and two sons, the daughter, who inherits the entire female share, gets twice as much as either son, who split the male share between them.
Though this relatively liberal attitude toward women is shared by both Tuareg and non-Tuareg tribes, it has its roots in the Tuareg’s pre-Islamic, animist traditions—the practice of which first inspired the Arabs arriving in North Africa to dub them Tuareg, which means “abandoned by God.” The Tuareg refer to themselves as the Kel Tamashek (Tamashek people) or Imashagen—“the free.” Living up to that name, they’ve managed to blend animist and Islamic customs in an unorthodox manner that is often complementary and sometimes contradictory, but functional within its own context. The so-called Arab tribes retain some animist superstitions, but have generally forsaken the array of prescribed animist rituals in favor of a more traditional Muslim perspective, as well as a lineage system based on patriarchal descent.
The reading I’d done before leaving for Mali, which was a somewhat hasty survey of all things Saharan, more popular than scholarly, had inaccurately overemphasized the involvement of the Tuareg in the salt trade; I had been led by it to believe that a trip to Taoudenni would likely be made with Tuareg tribesmen. But the Tuareg, I found, virtually never drive salt caravans.
Since they historically ruled the region through their military prowess, the Tuareg left the running of caravans to others, from whom they collected tribute in exchange for safe passage through the desert, raiding those who didn’t pay. The three main groups involved in the Taoudenni salt trade were “Arab”: the Tajakant, the Kunta, and the Berabish—Walid’s tribe. Though ascendancy among these groups shifted through the years, the Berabish were the dominant force by the end of the nineteenth century. They held exclusive control over the southern end of the route, between Araouane and Timbuktu, in part because of an arrangement they’d made with the Tuareg. Rather than paying tribute, the Berabish became the tribute collectors for the Tuareg, gathering payment from other clans for a free pass through the desert and a small percentage of the take. Though the Berabish were a mighty hasani clan in their own right and had fought sporadically with Tuareg tribes over the ages, this alliance allowed them to devote their resources to trade rather than battle.
Due to their specialized role in Saharan society, the Tuareg bred and owned different kinds of camels than the trading tribes did. Tuareg herds were composed largely of riding camels, which are lean and fast—the Corvettes of the desert—giving raiders a significant tactical edge over heavier, slower-moving cargo animals, which are more like pickup trucks. Of course, if you’re hauling heavy loads you’d rather have a pickup than a sports car, and the Berabish and Kunta raised huge herds of baggage camels, which were bred specifically for endurance under severe stress. They could carry more and travel longer on less food and water than the riding camels. Since preeminence in desert trade hinged on who had the baggage camels, the Berabish and the Kunta kept a lock on their propagation and possession in this part of the Sahara; when longdistance caravans from other regions entered Berabish territory, they were forced to abandon their own animals and buy or rent new ones from the Berabish.
Today the Tuareg wouldn’t have the camel-power to run caravans even if they wanted to. Their herds were decimated during the Great Drought of 1973–74, when the sparse pasturelands on the fringes of the Sahara disappeared as the true desert advanced some sixty miles southward. Before the drought, it wasn’t unusual for Tuareg families to own a few hundred camels and cows, along with a thousand sheep or goats. Afterward, a family was fortunate to have any animals left at all. Another drought hit in 1984; then, after the Tuareg Rebellion broke out in 1990, the Malian army severely curtailed nomadic movement, making it difficult, if not impossible, for desert dwellers to approach Timbuktu and other towns that they relied on for supplies. As a result, many families were reduced to eating the few animals they had. Though the war ended in 1995, Tuareg herds have not recovered much. And the Tuareg people, who suffered greatly through it all, are just beginning to.
Though the Berabish were subject to the same circumstances, their hardier camels made it through the drought a little bit better. More important, with their extensive trading networks, the Berabish were able to sell many of their animals to merchants in Morocco and Algeria, then use the money they received to buy new ones later on, once the droughts and the war abated. Though they suffered right beside the Tuareg and have far fewer camels than they did fifty years ago, they still have enough with which to trek to Taoudenni.
We finished our breakfast and were loaded and on the trail by seven o’clock. Walid led the camels as I kept pace beside him. His steps were quick and light, his lithe legs hardly thicker than my arms (and “burly” isn’t on the list of adjectives that describes me). Though my strides were longer, my feet sank and slid backward in the sand while Walid’s padded nimbly over the surface. Walking through the desert with a nomad was like swimming with a seal.
That I was where I was, marching next to a turbaned nomad puffing smoke from a stubby, antelope-horn pipe, leading a couple of camels through the Sahara into which we were heading ever deeper, felt like exactly what I was meant to be doing. With my health definitively on the mend, I was swept with a heady surge of hubris. One day down, only thirty-nine to go, I thought. I’ve got this caravan thing licked.
Before long, our path merged with that of a lone camel driver and his string of five camels. His name was Nashuf, and his camels were burdened with coils of rope, wooden tent poles varying in length from about three to ten feet, bolts of cloth, metal cooking pots, rice sacks, and goatskin water bags. The camels looked like desert versions of the loaded jalopy driven by the Beverly Hillbillies.
Nashuf was heading to his family’s desert camp, then on to Araouane. As is the custom with the azalai, we would travel together while our routes overlapped—for greater safety and company. When he asked where we were going, Walid said, “Taoudenni.”
“Wallahi?” Nashuf asked—Arabic for “really?” or “You swear to God?”
“Wallahi,” Walid confirmed.
Nashuf didn’t reply immediately, but looked at me with an expression that conveyed a mild skepticism. He shook his head and chuckled.
“It’s very far,” he said.
“I know,” I said, the confidence I was feeling at that moment coloring my tone, which probably made me look like an idiot.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“America,” I answered, with some hesitation.
“Welcome!” Nashuf said brightly, without the slightest trace of animosity.
Some two hours after leaving camp, Walid indicated it was time to ride. We stopped to couch Lachmar so I could get on; Walid and Nashuf, of course, could leap on and off their camels at will without causing them to break their strides.
They rode side by side, absorbed in conversation, until Nashuf looked back and saw that he was missing a camel. The last one in line had become untied from the one in front of it; with no inborn compulsion to stick with the other camels, when one gets loose it usually stops where it is to graze—if there’s anything to eat. By now, the lost camel was out of sight.
Nashuf dismounted, untied the three camels behind the one he was riding, and tied them to Lachmar’s tail. Then he remounted and rode off in the direction whence we came while Walid and I continued on. Within half an hour, Nashuf was back with his maverick.
With none of the cloud cover of the previous day, the morning heated up early. The landscape was similar to the one we’d passed through the day before, though the flats between the hills grew wider and wider and the terrain appeared much less hospitable under the fierce glare of the sun. As the hours passed, the air grew so hot, so heavy, it sat on me like a rhinoceros. It seemed like we’d already hit the predicted high for the day, which I’d seen on a weather report back in Timbuktu—about 115 degrees. Meanwhile, my ass felt like it was being pummeled with a splintery club. My earlier confidence began to ebb.
The Caravan of White Gold Page 5