As we walked back to the camp, there was a single ‘kuff’ from a shotgun, and Wad Fadul said, ‘That is the sound I like!’ We found that At Tom had shot a young hare that he had seen skipping across the rocks near the camp.
After supper, there was more talk of the Meidob. One of the ’Atawiyya told me that there was blood between his family and the Meidob, who had killed more than a hundred of the ’Atawiyya. ‘There was the one called Musayid,’ the Arab said. ‘He was one of the Arabs who always pitched his tent in Meidob country. He was very friendly with his Meidob neighbours and they shared things and called themselves brothers. He had a daughter—a beautiful girl, by God! She was married to her cousin and was pregnant. Musayid left his camels with them and rode off to the jizzu to hunt oryx, as our family often do. It was winter and he was away for a long time, but the hunting was good and he shot six of the animals and dried their meat. When he arrived back at his tent, he found no one there, but he was tired and lay down to sleep. The next morning, he had just made himself tea, when four of his Meidob friends came into the camp. He was pleased to see them, for he wanted to give them some dried meat and ask for news of his daughter. They gathered around him as if to greet him, and then suddenly jumped on him and tied him up. They tied him very tight with a nylon rope, so that his arms were behind his back, lashed to his feet. Then they abused him and took his rifle, his camels, his meat, and everything they wanted. They left him there to die, thinking that no one would ever come by. No one did, but he saw the ashes of the fire were still hot, so he rolled over to them, and lay in the hot ashes. It took a long time before the rope burned through. By the time he was free, the flesh was burned off his hands and his back. He took what he could and walked towards Hattan, and the same day, he met some Kababish with their herds. He recognised them and asked them if they had news of his daughter. They said that his daughter had been shot dead by the Meidob days ago, and that they had taken all his camels. No one knows what happened to the girl’s husband. He said that of all the burns he had received, that burned him most of all. It was a year before his hands were healed, but then he got a rifle and went back to Meidob. He shot eight of them before the devil left him!’
My companions nodded, obviously familiar with the story, muttering to themselves. Then one of the other ’Arawiyya said, ‘Do you remember when the Meidob attacked the borewell at Khitimai? I will never forget that day, by God! Forty or fifty of the slaves came out of their mountains on camels, but they found no one at the well but some womenfolk and the watchman with a boy. The watchman ran away, but they caught the boy and broke his arm. Then they stole gold from the women and told them that no Arab should use the well again, as it was theirs. But the watchman came to our camp—we were in the hills near the water pool—and warned us. We just saddled our camels and rode out—there were about eight of us, I recall. The slaves were still at the well when we got there, and we shot two of them. They sheltered behind the huts and killed two of us with their bullets. Then we just sat there. There were too many of them for us to attack them. Someone fetched the police, but they could do nothing. In the end, the slaves left. But there was no settlement, and no blood money was paid. The Meidob still say that Khitimai is theirs and that they will take it when they want it.’
The next day, we saw the disputed well at Khitimai. We left Hattan and rode into the valley beneath. It was carpeted in soft sand and shaded lime-green by the new growth. There were scatterings of knee-high bushes delicate as paper models, and seams of thicker trees standing out like the veins on a man’s hand. Far in the distance stood a mass of granite cliffs and knolls, weathered into the shapes of pyramids and trapezoids by the winds from the desert.
Soon, the vegetation thinned out and disappeared except for a few twisted sarh bushes with thorny leaves on the upper branches. Everywhere, there were the droppings of generations of animals, and the sand was deeply imprinted with their hoofmarks. I saw the storage tower of the borewell stuck like a black pimple on the smooth floor of the valley. It was exactly in the centre of a vast radius of dead land—not a clump of grass or a low bush grew there. As we came nearer, I saw the two corrugated iron shacks that housed the pump engines, and a line of four concrete bunkers beneath the metal reservoir. Apart from this, there were three or four broken-down shops made of grass and cane.
This was one of the wells drilled in the postcolonial period, and the few sarh trees around it were grotesque reminders of the destruction that it had helped to bring about. I knew that this was the last permanent watering place until one reached Wadi Howar, 200 kilometres north; these shacks and broken-down emporia were the last permanent buildings for 1,000 miles. This was where the Sudan ended. It was the last outpost of the known world, beyond which the desert lay ancient and forbidding.
The well was almost deserted. At this season, the Arabs watered their animals at the water pool that lay an hour’s ride to the north. We moved on quickly and were soon sloping in under the siyaal trees that surrounded the pool. Hundreds of camels were being watered there. They bore the brands of the ’Atawiyya and the ’Awajda, and there were some belonging to Nas Wad Haydar, with the familiar mark of old Habjur.
The water was bright red and about a foot deep. Many Arabs stood up to their calves in the liquid as they coaxed their camels to drink, calling, ‘Aw! Aw! Aw!’ The animals crowded together, clustering round the mud basins that had been carefully made at the water’s edge. There were many women about, slim, muscular girls with copper-bronze skin and braided black tresses smeared with butter. They wore only skirts of blue cotton and stood by the water with their flocks of goats and sheep, and donkeys carrying waterskins.
We spent the night further up the hillside, at the foot of a granite outcrop. Here, we were away from the mosquitoes that always hung about these water pools, and there was a little grazing for the camels. The next morning, we rode back to the pool, to begin the work of the ‘Third Requisition’. I was very curious to see how the Arabs would react to us.
At Tom made himself comfortable beneath a tree, sitting on his sheepskin with a small briefcase as a desk, and with his two rifles leaning against the trunk behind him. He looked grim and impressive with his long, unkempt hair; every inch the great grandson of Sir Ali Wad at Tom. Throughout the morning, the ghaffirs moved around the pool, finding out which families were there. When they found an individual whose name was on the list, they would send him to At Tom. The first arrival was an Arab of the ’Awajda, who approached us looking worried and apprehensive. He greeted us, and we stood up to return the greeting. After he had sat down on a canvas sheet that Ibrahim laid out, At Tom said, ‘We are making a requisition of camels for donation to the regional government. The donation is in gratitude for the hospital they have built for all the Kababish, in Hamrat ash Sheikh. Your name is on the list to donate a camel. We want a good camel, not a worn-out one. When you have chosen it, my men will value it so that your relatives can pay you their share.’
The Arab regarded him with slow incredulity, then, as he realised that this was serious, he scratched his beard and said, ‘Sheikh, my family gave a camel to your grandfather. Surely you would not ask another from us?’
At Tom replied calmly, ‘Your name is on the list. Have you anything to prove you gave a camel to my grandfather?’
‘No.’
Then we want a camel. If you do not choose it yourself, my men will, and they have very high standards.’ Taking the hint, the ’Aidi stood up and walked sadly back towards his herd.
I could not help feeling sympathetic. I knew that these Arabs hated to part with their animals and would often go hungry rather than sell them. I also realised that for most of the Kababish, the hospital was useless anyway. When I mentioned this to At Tom, he replied, ‘You are right, many of the Arabs do not like hospitals and will not have anything to do with them. But most of the Kababish are uneducated and do not understand the value of a hospital. Are we to let our land stay backward just because of the people’s ignora
nce?’
All day, there was a stream of visitors in our taya. Occasionally, the Arabs would smile and graciously agree to donate one of their best camels. Mostly though, they would look sullen and rebellious and say, ‘Sheikh! My relatives will never pay me their share. They have no money, anyway,’ or ‘Sheikh! All my animals have died, by God! I have only enough left for my family!’
At Tom would listen patiently to the talk, making diplomatic answers but never allowing himself to be put off. He would reply, ‘You are Arabs and you say your relations will not support you?’ or ‘Your camels looked fine and healthy when I collected the herd tax last year!’ When the Arab had been persuaded, At Tom would send Mahmoud, Mura’fib, or Adam off to inspect his camels. If they thought that the one chosen for them was of poor quality, they would select another. They would value the animal, and At Tom would present the owner with a paper declaring its value and proving that they had donated it to the Requisition. I asked At Tom what would happen if anyone refused point-blank. ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘We are the government here!’
At our camp that night, there were many guests—Arabs of the Nurab and ’Awajda—who had come to hear the news from the south. At sunset, I climbed the granite knoll behind it with Juma’ Wad Siniin, and we sat and looked north across the vast ranges. The land below was semidesert, red and yellow and amber, punctuated by coarse clumps of nissa grass, with slabs of grey rock rising in the far distance. Beyond them lay the fabled jizzu pastures and then nothing but the open wastes of the Libyan desert, on and on as far as Egypt. The distances awed and humbled me. I looked down at the fire burning in our camp, a jewel of bright orange no bigger than a candle flame.
As I sat there, stunned by the beauty of this place, I felt once again a sense of deep sadness. I traced it back to the happenings of the day, and my conversation with At Tom about the hospital. I could not argue with his logic, yet I knew that he represented the sweeping changes that would soon come to this desert land, where his ancestors had roamed wild and free for centuries.
We watched the sun slipping down through terraces of blue cloud until it reached the horizon, bathing the barren steppe in an aura of gold. Slowly, it disappeared and night stole over the great plain, spangled with stars.
‘What do you think the stars are?’ I asked Juma’. They are the work of God,’ he said. The sons of Adam should not interfere with that: Perhaps this was ignorance. As we climbed down the hill back to the camp, I was inclined to believe that it was not.
During the next morning, some Nurab arrived on fast camels. They were messengers from the nuggara herds that were now grazing at Hattan, and as soon as they sat down by At Tom, one of them announced, ‘Sheikh! Your father’s herd has been attacked by Zayadiyya. The slaves got away with seven camels!’ He told us that the bandits had come upon them at the mouth of the pass, near the place where the rain had caught us. They had come in the night and there had been a gun battle, though no one had been shot. A pursuit party had set off the next morning, but it had not yet returned. The Nurab wanted At Tom to return with them to take charge. ‘I cannot go,’ At Tom said. ‘Salim will go instead.’ His brother agreed at once and declared angrily that he would lead another pursuit party and take any Zayadiyya camels he saw. ‘Be careful,’ old Adam advised. ‘This could be a trick. If you go, go well armed. Those Zayadiyya will not give up the camels. You will have to take them by force!’
Salim left the following day, while the rest of us headed north towards Jabal Umm ’Atshani. We were now driving before us the seven camels that we had acquired at Khitimai. Wad al ’Atiga was walking with them, for the gall on his withers had grown worse and At Tom had allowed me to ride one of the new acquisitions rather than founder him.
Soon, we came to a herd of more than fifty camels being driven by a lad of about thirteen and his smaller brother. Both of them were dressed like miniature adults: in jibbas, sirwal, and small headcloths. As we dismounted, they greeted us with the solemnity of men, and the older boy poured us some milk. He asked At Tom why we were travelling, and when he heard about the Requisition, said, ‘Sheikh, I will give you one of my she-camels.’
‘Your family’s name is not on the list,’ At Tom replied. ‘No matter,’ the boy insisted. ‘I will give you one of my best camels as a personal gift.’
‘By God, here is a man!’ At Tom declared in admiration, and old Adam smiled and nodded in agreement. I was astounded that one so young should own camels, but At Tom said, ‘A father often gives his sons their birthright as soon as they are old enough to look after them.’
After we had drunk, the boy took us to see the she-camel. Walking with At Tom, he conducted himself with great dignity and self-consciousness. ‘Here is a man, by God!’ At Tom repeated.
The little brother followed on, trying to keep up and to maintain dignity at the same time. At last, we came to the camel, a four-year-old with a growth of woolly hair. ‘This is my gift to you, Sheikh at Tom,’ the boy said.
At once, the little brother let out a howl of misery, shrieking, ‘That is my she-camel!’ He ran at the bigger lad, crying loudly and laying into him with his tiny whip. Suddenly, the mask of adulthood fell away, and the boy pushed his brother aside roughly and struck him across the head with a look of bitter irritation.
‘No, leave him,’ At Tom said, with a grin spreading across his face. ‘It does not matter.’ The tiny Arab ran after the she-camel and hastily drove her off with his little whip. The older brother looked as if he too were about to burst into tears. ‘It is not important,’ At Tom added. ‘But when you give something, make sure it is your own.’
In the afternoon, we crossed a valley of baked red dust dotted with cairns of stones. The steppe here was almost devoid of trees, and clumps of nissa and tomam—the coarse grasses that grew in even the most arid of places—were the only forms of vegetation. Plain opened into plain, endless sandy ergs without feature except for the occasional tent, like a dark speck on the vastness. The Arabs were camping here on their way to the jizzu and often, we saw herds of camels, forty or fifty strong, padding on like silent flotillas. Behind the herds came the black litters, two or three or four of them, ridden by unseen women, and towing long trains of baggage camels that carried all that the nomads owned. As we passed them, At Tom would send a couple of his men out to discover who the Arabs were and to which tribe they belonged. Most of them were ’Atawiyya or Awlad Sulayman.
We spent the night with some Sulayman in a dry wash, where a few acacia trees were growing. The Sulayman had arrived just before us, and their womenfolk were unpacking the litters and unfolding their tents. When we had couched our camels, two small, grizzled Arabs came to meet us. They were dressed in sirwal and leather slippers, their torsos wrapped in tobes of cloth and their necks decorated with wooden beads. At Tom found their names on the list.
‘It is no good asking us for a camel, Sheikh at Tom,’ one of them said. ‘We gave one to the last Requisition. We cannot spare another!’
At Tom checked the list again and said, ‘Your family’s name is here.’
After an hour of discussion and protest, the two men went off with Wad Fadul and Mahmoud, who came back leading a worn-out ashab and a four-year-old calf. They had no good camels,’ Mahmoud said, ‘so we took these two poor ones. The ashab is old but it still has some strength.’
The next morning, a strong wind blew from the northeast. ‘It is the wind of darat,’ Juma’ told us. That means the rainy season is over. There will be no grazing in the jizzu this year.’
‘It is going to be a hard winter for the Arabs!’ old Adam commented. ‘It is seven years since the jizzu bloomed properly.’
That day, we rode on and on across a desolate landscape, where only horns of granite relieved the emptiness. We travelled on after sunset, though the night was pitch dark and the camels stumbled over chasms filled with loose stones. In the distance, we could see the feeble light of a campfire, and Wad Fadul led us towards it for two hours in the darkness. Our
animals continued to stagger and slide on the shattered boulders, and at times, I wondered if Wad Fadul really knew the way. ‘I was born in this area,’ he told me later. ‘I could lead you here blindfolded.’
At last, we came to the campfire and set up our taya. The camp belonged to Ali Wad Ibrahim, a cousin of At Tom’s who had brought his camels to water at the gelti inside the mountain massif of Umm ’Atshani, which was hidden by the darkness. He was a massive, dark-skinned man, the son of one of Sir Ali at Tom’s younger progeny, travelling light with two of his slaves. He welcomed us into his small taya, and his servants spread out a canvas for us to sit on before bringing us a meal of meat.
In the morning, we saw the double-cone peaks of Umm ’Atshani rising out of the plain, and Wad Fadul led us through a winding series of ravines until we came to the hidden gelti. It was a seasonal water pool, where the rainwater collected amongst the impermeable rock. Scores of Kababish were there with clusters of camels, filling waterskins from hand-dug pits. The pool itself had dried up some days ago, leaving only a patch of sodden ground, where the Arabs had to dig down to the water level.
After we had couched and unsaddled the camels in the wadi nearby, At Tom told his men to dig a new pit in order to water our animals. Wad Fadul chose a place and we scooped out the damp earth with hands and bowls, working for several hours until we had made a pit about four feet deep, into which water began to trickle. Hamid filled a bowl with the yellowish liquid and drank some. ‘It tastes like camel’s piss!’ he exclaimed, spitting it out. We lined the sides of the hole with grass and roots so that it would not cave in, and Mura’fib began to mould a shallow basin near its brim, to be lined with a canvas sheet, from which the camels could drink. The Arabs took turns standing in the pit and pouring water into the basin, while Juma’ and Mahmoud brought the camels up one by one. No matter how brackish the water, it seemed a miracle to find it in this arid place. Wad Fadul told me that the water here was ‘blessed’ by the bones of a famous camel called Wad as Sihab, which had fallen into the gelti several years ago.
A Desert Dies Page 12