A Desert Dies

by Michael Asher

  The next morning, the Arabs gathered their few camels and the women set up their litters. The animals looked grey and weary in the morning light. The wind started again. The men wrapped their shawls around their heads for protection against the driving sand. ‘God protect you,’ they told us. ‘Go in peace.’ They mounted up and rode south into the steppes. I watched them until they disappeared, then turned to saddle Wad at Tafashan. The tracks and marks they had made around us were already being buried under the shifting dust.

  Within a few hours, they would be gone forever.

  _____6._____

  Arabs of the Wadi

  A rude and wilde people and in every

  deade estranged from all humanitie

  Leo Africanus, Travels in Bombay

  LATER THE SAME MORNING, WE saw the thick treeline of the Wadi al Milik straddling the desert like a fortress wall.

  ‘Are those really trees?’ At Tom asked, and lurched forwards on his camel as if to make sure. The wind still raged around us, and the lure of the haven of shade ahead was too much. Soon, we were all trotting beside the young sheikh, extracting the last ounce of energy from our exhausted camels. We left our small herd far behind and crashed in through the first pickets of the thorn bush like cavalry charging an infantry line. It was a shock to be so suddenly out of the wind and in the cool shade, letting our eyes readjust to the unaccustomed dimness after days in the glaring sun, on a landscape bound only by the horizon. There was yellow grass growing amongst the cracked black earth, and dozens of camels were munching contentedly in the acacia thickets.

  It took us only minutes to find the well field at Al Ku’, where Juma’ and the others were encamped. We found them at once and couched our camels as Ibrahim, Hamid, and Juma’ ran out to welcome us and help unload. The first thing I noticed was how healthy and well fed they looked after the grey-faced Arabs I had grown used to seeing in the jizzu. Their black skin had a sheen of freshness about it; my companions seemed dry, withered, and lacklustre by comparison. After Juma’ had greeted me, he said, ‘By God, you look as if you are half starving!’

  Soon, the herd arrived, driven by Mura’fib and Wad az Zayadi. Juma’ and Ibrahim took the camels off to the wells at once, while Hamid produced a huge bowl of kisri. Some Arabs, whose tent was pitched nearby, brought us a goat, and we feasted royally for the first time in days.

  Beyond our camp, the well field stretched for 500 yards in a clearing on the western rim of the wadi. Many Arabs, men and women, were at the well-heads watering sheep, goats, and a few camels. The men were dressed in balloon-like sirwal and woollen caps, and their dark muscles stood out as they hoisted up the leather buckets to fill their mud-walled basins. The women wore coloured tobes, piled up on their braided hair, and whipped the flocks into order with springy sticks. A knot of camel hair tents stood on the edge of the field shadowed by the intertwining acacias. Through gaps in the trees, the eastern desert shone like a mirage, rising steadily from the wadi towards pillows of orange dunes and the silver-grey ghosts of the Sumi’yat mountains.

  Although the nazir had chosen his camp 100 miles away at Umm Sunta, the Wadi al Milik was the real heart of the dar. It was a rich serpent of greenery that coiled north and then northeast, cutting the desert like a sabre and touching the Nile near Ed Debba. In heavy rains the wadi would be in flood, though it rarely happened that water filled every part of it at the same time. As it turned towards the river, the trees thinned out and became no more than brakes of bushes, low and skeletal, at intervals of many miles.

  The wadi was occupied by various clans of the Kababish. One of the most numerous was the Sarajab, who were considered to be amongst the older sections of the tribe. Four-fifths of the Kababish had their dammering places in the Wadi al Milik and their animals grazed there in the summer months.

  ‘The Sarajab are the wildest people amongst the Kababish,’ Juma’ told me. ‘If they have a guest, they will challenge him to a camel race. If his camel wins, they will turn him out of their camp, by God!’ While I was at Al Ku’, I noticed that my companions had a deprecating attitude towards the Sarajab and called them ‘Arabs of the wadi’—a term that seemed to be synonymous with all that they considered ignorant and primitive.

  ‘They know nothing of the outside world,’ Wad az Zayadi commented. ‘They do not understand government or rulers. They only know their animals. If you ask them who the president is, they will say, “What is the president?”’

  The day after we arrived, Juma’ and Wad az Zayadi brought a young Sarajabi into our camp. I noticed at once that his legs were bound by iron manacles that clanked ominously as he walked. He was short and muscular with a bullet-shaped head, his hair shaved cleanly down to the skull. He wore a stained shirt, sirwal, and leather slippers. Juma’ told him to sit as if he were talking to a dog, and when the youth hesitated, the Arab pushed him roughly down into a sitting position. As he looked around him, his eyes strafed us with hot, defensive aggression.

  My two companions sat down with us and recounted what had happened. Juma’ said that earlier that morning, they had ridden off down the wadi to collect a camel from the boy’s family. They were living in cabins south of the wells,’ he told us, ‘and there seemed to be no one around when we arrived. There were some camels and goats feeding nearby. I called out, “As salaam ‘alaykum!” and this Arab came out. He did not answer my greeting, he just said, “What do you want?” I told him that his name was on the list for the Requisition. He just stood there. You would have said he was a half-wit and did not understand. But I knew he understood well enough! Then I told him that the Requisition was for the government. “What government?” he said. I knew there would be trouble then. I told him again that we wanted a camel. He said, “You will take no camel of mine, by God!” So I took a headrope and went to bridle one of his camels. Then he moved. “Take your hands off my camel, son of the uncircumcised!”he shouted and ran over to me with a dagger in his hand. He would have let me have it too, but Wad az Zayadi grabbed him from behind and hit him with his club. Then we jumped on him. Wad az Zayadi got the manacles from his saddlebag and we locked him up. “Now, we will see who the government is!” I told him. He needs to learn a lesson, by God!’

  I looked again at the youth who sat nearby listening. He sat cross-legged with great dignity. As I watched, he spat a glob of saliva on the ground. I saw in his face an unbending, unyielding pride, a self-sufficiency that had thickened into arrogance. This Arab knew no submission and no master but the unfathomable forces of the desert; he would bow only to them.

  The youth was kept in our camp for several days, and in all that time, he never spoke. At Tom held a summary court and fined him fifty pounds for his offence. ‘There will be no profit in lashing him,’ At Tom said. ‘These Arabs of the wadi lash each other as a game. Money will hurt him more.’

  A few days later, there was another candidate for the manacles. I had spent some hours exploring the wadi, and returned to our camp at sunset. There was a new guest in the camp, a Sarajabi with a berry-brown face and a single curl of beard. He sat cross-legged near the fire and did not rise when I greeted him. I sat down and tried to make conversation. Where had he come from? Where was he going? He ignored my questions with a rudeness uncommon amongst Arabs, and I felt irritated despite myself. As I was talking, he interrupted me, saying, ‘Give me a knife!’ I was surprised by the question and told him I had no spare knife. Just then the others came over with a bowl of porridge and we crouched around it to eat. The Arab remained silent throughout the meal and the others ignored him. I knew that Arabs have no luxury greater than conversation, and wondered why this man was so rude.

  I slept quite near to the Arab that night and the first thing I saw when I awoke the next morning was a pair of legs bound by manacles. It was the same man, standing up for the first time. I burst out laughing involuntarily, and the Arab looked at me sharply. ‘What was your crime?’ I asked him.

  ‘I refused to give them a camel!’ he replied s
ullenly.

  I learned that Juma’ had again been involved. ‘He is a Sarajabi of the same section as the other one,’ Juma’ said. ‘And Sheikh at Tom sent me with Hamid and Ibrahim to collect another camel from them. One of them saw us coming and ran away, and this one came out with the rifle and cocked it, shouting, “Go back you cursed bandits!” Three more of them came running out with whips in their hands, so we jumped off our camels and cocked our rifles. I shouted to the Arab that we only wanted to talk to him, and in the end, he agreed to come over to us. As soon as he was away from the others, we jumped on him and took his rifle away. Then Ibrahim clapped the chains on him. I said that he would get his rifle back if he came quietly, and in the end, he agreed.’

  ‘Do you think they would dare to shoot a ghaffir?’ I asked him.

  ‘It has happened, I tell you!’ he replied. ‘A few years ago, one of the nazir’s men went to collect taxes near Umm Badr and disappeared. No one ever saw him again, and of course, they knew someone had murdered him. Not long after that, there were some Berti merchants killed while riding through the Umm Badr area. They had just taken some donkeys to Omdurman for sale and were riding back. There were nine of them, I remember. Well, they were attacked in the bush and all of them were shot dead. Later the police found out who had done it. He was a well-known Arab from the Sarajab. Just before they hanged him, he told them, “Do not search for the body of the nazir’s man any more. I can tell you where the body is, for I killed him. He asked me for a bribe, so I had to put an end to him!” But he was a man, by God! The Sarajab are wild men, but they do not lack in courage!’

  Juma’ told me that the Sarajab had a reputation for attacking dabuukas—the camel herds that were taken to Egypt and that often followed the wadi for part of the journey, much as the one I had accompanied in 1980. ‘Only two months ago, a dabuuka came this way, being driven by Arabs from Darfur. They were Awlad Rashid or Rizayqat, I do not remember which. The Sarajab ambushed them and shot the guide dead. Then they helped themselves to the camels. It has often happened, by God! Some of these Sarajab are not just raiders. They are full-time bandits who make their living by stealing. They move around quickly and never camp in the same place for long. They only ride into the markets in late afternoon, when there is no one about to recognise them!’

  These stories interested me because they showed that here was a group of Arabs, bred in the desert, who valued their freedom and independence so highly that they would be dominated by no one. It had always surprised me how easily the nomads could be persuaded to give up their animals to my companions. Here, at last, was a tribe that Sir Ali Wad at Tom had not succeeded in dominating.

  That day, At Tom shot a kibjan, a huge monitor lizard, which we skinned and ate. Some of the Arabs would not join us, saying that the meat was forbidden. I enjoyed it, however; the flesh was not unlike chicken. In the evening, I walked out in the desert to the east. I remembered how I had ridden this way with Abu Sara and my friends from the Rizayqat more than two years ago. I could hardly recognise the man I had been then. Time had reshaped and rearranged my perception of this environment. I had a vague recollection of the excitement I had felt in this remote, dangerous land. I recalled how my companions had pretended to be from another tribe, fearing that the Kababish would attack them, and how they had viewed this place as hostile territory. Now I began to understand why.

  The desert here was almost as featureless as a blank page. Here and there were tussocks of tomam, and in the distance, the shadows of solitary tundub trees. As I walked, I saw three riders materialise out of the sand, no bigger than flies, slowly thickening as they approached. A horde of camels came from the east, a squadron of dark warriors, whose spider legs took shape as they passed by in the distance. Another column of camels returned from the wells fat with water, travelling in file, pacing solidly, full of grace. I thought that in the desert, there was nothing more beautiful than this animal and nothing that seemed more securely at home. By one of the solitary trees, I discovered the remains of a camp. There was a fireplace of three stones, a black pot with a hole in it, a torn length of goat hair hanging from the tree, and an old waterskin, split and hard with age.

  Back in the camp, there was another visitor. At Tom called me over and introduced me to a Sarajabi with a twisted nose that looked as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. The man was thin and sickly, dressed in the familiar stained desert clothes and cowskin sandals. ‘This is Fadlal Mula Wad Arba’ini,’ At Tom said. ‘He says that his son is going to El ’Atrun soon with his own salt caravan. If you want to go with him, you have my permission. He says that his son could do with some help.’

  I agreed at once, but afterwards, I began to regret my decision. I had dreamt of riding to El ’Atrun for years, but now the chance was within my grasp, I felt reluctant to leave these Nurab who had been such good companions over the last months. Often, I had grown tired of their talk and their imperative manner, and had longed to be alone. Now, the thought of leaving them made me desolate.

  However, I had agreed and there was no going back. I knew that I might not find another chance. That evening, At Tom gave me twenty pounds to help buy provisions. I was embarrassed but knew that I could not refuse it, especially as I had little money left. Wad Fadul told me, ‘You will never make it. Your camel is too tired.’

  ‘You cannot trust those Sarajab,’ said Juma’ Wad Siniin.

  These were exactly the statements I needed to entrench my determination to succeed, and by the next morning, I was firmly set on my course. I shook hands with my companions, saying that I should see them in the dikka. Then I picked up my shotgun and mounted Wad at Tafashan. I rode south with Fadlal Mula.

  We rode down the wadi to the merchant’s shack at Efayn, where I wanted to obtain provisions. Fadlal Mula was a good companion, neither disrespectful nor obsequious, neither talkative nor silent. The merchant was a Ja’ali called Abboud, who received us like guests and brought us flat loaves of unleavened bread in a delicious gravy of onions and spices. I bought flour, sugar, oil, tea, and a pound of chewing tobacco, for my pipe had long since been redundant.

  In the afternoon, we rode west out of the wadi and crossed the great yellow flats of desert towards the peaks of the Graynat Hills. Fadlal Mula told me that his camp was in the small oasis of lidayn ’Aja, not far from the borewells at lided Abu Sufyan. The afternoon was cool with a soft breeze blowing, and after about four hours, we came to a plot of green, where some Sarajab had planted sorghum. There was a single tree under which stood a shanty cabin, from which a stunningly beautiful woman flashed white teeth at us as we rested in the shade. This was the first time I had come across desert Arabs cultivating crops. I had thought that the Kababish considered cultivation a disgrace, and besides, it was illegal to cultivate in the rangelands of the dar. I asked the Arab whose plot it was. ‘The nazir says it is illegal,’ he scoffed. ‘But the nazir has never been hungry. Nothing is illegal if you are hungry, and nothing is a disgrace!’ He told me that this entire plot would produce only two sacks of sorghum, but that would last his family for half a year.

  We rode on in the evening towards the deep orange globe of the sun, the only colour in the whole great landscape of grey sand, grey bushes, grey tufts of grass. As the sunset came, an extraordinary feeling descended on me. It was as if there were really nothing beyond this desert, which stretched to every horizon: no cities, no seas, no Britain, no place inaccessible by camel. The world seemed no more than a boxed-in garden with the great unspanned spaces of the stars above.

  I asked Fadlal Mula for his opinion of the nazir. ‘He holds his position by fear,’ he said at once. ‘You have seen it. They misuse people and cheat them. They say there is a hospital at Hamrat ash Sheikh! I have not been to Hamrat ash Sheikh since I was a boy. Nor have many of my family. I shall not start going there now. What use is a hospital to me? It will never be used, by God!’ I began to realise that I should get quite a different perspective on the Kababish while riding with the Sa
rajab.

  We rode on into the night in clear moonlight. The desert was sheer and clean without a single tree. We halted and made a tiny station on the vast platform of sand. It was perfectly quiet and peaceful. Fadlal Mula cooked a hunk of meat we had brought and afterwards, as I lay down, my head was full of thoughts of power and freedom and the complex and confusing interaction between them.

  The next morning was freezing and a cold wind blew down from Jabal Dar al Humar, a flat-topped blue mass behind us. As we mounted, we had a view over endless miles of sand, drifting as far as the black peak of Jabal Musawwira. Below the mountain stood a rash of trees, a line of shadows standing out from the pale desert like human figures. Once, we saw a group of eight camels moving across the furrowed sand. There was no one with them, and Fadlal Mula said, ‘They have been lost and no doubt.’ As we watched, the four leading camels stopped suddenly and gathered together with their heads touching, exactly as if they were holding a parley; then they turned and strolled superciliously by. I knew that there were no wild camels in the Sudan, and wondered if we should try to catch them and find out to whom they belonged. My companion was against it. ‘They will find their own way back when they want to,’ he said. ‘Camels never forget directions. You could take them a thousand miles away and they would find their way back.’