When everything was prepared, we drove our camels into the camp. There were five of them, including Wad at Tafashan and Mohammid’s six-year-old ’anafi. I noticed that my camel looked thin in comparison with our pack animals. They were enormous, unruly camels that seemed only half trained. They kicked and roared and spat, snapping their teeth at us as we tied their headropes. They were fully adult males, bulging with fat from months of good grazing and powerful enough to carry tons of heavy salt for days across the desert. Mohammid told me that we should collect three more camels from the tents of his uncle, Musa, whose camp lay north of Jabal ’Aja.
Roping the camels into a caravan was even more difficult than I had imagined. Each one had to be tied by the jaw, which meant first passing the headrope behind the camel’s great canine teeth. If not tied in this way, the camels would resist and break the rope.
Mohammid showed me how to tighten the loop of rope around the camel’s jaw, and then told me to rope in one of the pack animals. As I approached the buff-coloured monster, the camel turned his head knowingly and fixed me with a piercing stare. He snarled and a slick of foam dropped from his mouth. I inched my way up to him and tried to flick my loop of rope over his jaw. Like lightning he dodged the movement, roaring and heaving and straining on his hobble, gnashing his teeth so that I narrowly missed getting my arm crushed. I tried again and again. Each time, he was too quick, lurching up and snaking the massive head away from me. It took all my concerted agility and dexterity to finally clamp the rope over his mandible, and I swore to myself as I pulled it tight. As I stepped back, wiping the sweat off my brow, I saw Mohammid’s big raw face creased in a grin. Too slow!’ he announced. ‘Why, my little brother could rope him faster than that!’
When all the beasts were tied, each had to be fitted with a straw mask, called a shakima, which resembled a surgeon’s mask. It was fitted over the animal’s muzzle and tied behind his ears. I thought this was to prevent the camels fighting but my companion told me, ‘It is to stop them eating the straw from the pack saddles when they become hungry.’
Finally, the caravan was loaded, pack saddles fitted into place and adjusted, bags of fodder tied on, riding saddles pulled tight and fixed securely. When we were ready, Fadlal Mula called us over to share a last meal. We ate well, gorging ourselves on the thick kisri and the buttermilk that we should not find in the open desert. ‘Eat! Eat!’ urged Fadlal Mula. ‘You will be hungry on the way, by God!’
After the meal, the crook-faced Arab shook hands with us both. ‘Go in the safekeeping of God,’ he said.
‘God’s blessing be upon you,’ we replied, mounted our camels and led our small salt caravan out into the desert.
The caravan moved with perfect synchronicity. In motion, the camels lost their aggressive savage manner and acquired the grace and power of noble creatures. We moved slowly up the incline and were soon on the volcanic underside of the mountain. The ground was rocky here, split into corries and canyons with a rubble of ironflake crust on which the camels slipped and stumbled. Mohammid led the animals, taking the lead rope in his right hand, while I followed on from the rear.
At about midday, we found Musa’s camp. His three brown tents were pitched under the rock wall of the mountain. As we ran our caravan in, he came out, shouting, ‘Welcome! Welcome in peace!’ He was much younger than his brother Fadlal Mula, with a broad, pleasant face and spiky whiskers. He wore a torn shirt and a thickly piled headcloth. We stayed in his camp until the sun began to sink, huddling in the shade of his tent. Musa’s wife brought us more kisri and tea, and as we ate, my host examined my camera and compass with interest. Finally, he turned to Mohammid and said, ‘Why is he going to Al Ga’a? What is his story?’ It annoyed me, as so many times before, that they should speak as if I were not present. I said nothing, however, for I knew that this form of address was only a social convention, and not considered rude in Arab society. What irritated me more was that the Arabs continually suspected me of having some ulterior motive for my journey here, connected with material gain. They were convinced that no one would experience such hardship without some tangible profit. I denied this at the time, though now I wonder if they were right. Despite their remoteness, they saw through every illusion, even those that others were not aware of in themselves.
One memory stays with me particularly from that camp: meeting Musa’s old mother. She was a very ancient, leather-skinned lady, who remained always in her darkened tent. ‘She is almost blind,’ Musa explained, and introduced me as one of the Ingleez.
The old lady sighed and said, ‘One of the government!’ I told her that the Sudan had been independent for almost thirty years, but she shook her head slowly. ‘I know the government!’ she said. I soon saw that my words meant little to her—she had lived her entire life in these ranges and deserts. Cities, countries, presidents, and parties were no more than vague names in the back of her mind, something quite separate from her world, as far off as a distant star. The desert world was far off from the Sudan, far off from police or governments or armies. This was a wilderness where a man’s only protection was the strength of his body and the loyalty of his companions.
We left the camp, each leading a string of camels. As we did so, I looked over the crooked canines of the hills and the wedge of yellow-green desert around them. We were like a tiny boat cast into the waves of the ocean, the boundless wilderness. As our small salt caravan climbed back into the guts of Jabal ’Aja, I knew there was no possibility of turning back.
At first, the going was difficult. We crossed the desert varnish of broken hardpan that glittered with the blood-red of iron and manganese. The camels slithered down gullies, shying and breaking the lead ropes. Each time this happened, we had to dismount and re-rope the caravan. At last, we descended into the jizzu. At night, we slept in the wadis, where a little grazing was to be found. We would hobble our camels and allow them to shuffle about as they liked. Often, they wandered several miles in spite of the restricting hobbles. This meant a long walk every night to bring them back to our camp. Mohammid was worried about bandits in the area, especially the Meidob.
As we moved, riding at a leisurely pace, we talked together. Mohammid asked me about my people and my country. How many camels did my father own? How many brothers did I have? Was the chief of my country a great sheikh and did he slaughter animals freely for guests? Were my people hospitable and would they welcome a stranger in their tents? He seemed to find my answers confusing. In return, I tried to describe life in a city, since he had never seen one. I told him that there were thousands of people living in houses, not tents, and always staying in the same place. I told him that there was almost always food to be had and you could buy milk and butter everywhere. There was no thirst or scarcity of water; water came easily out of a tap. I asked him if the idea of living in a city appealed to him.
‘Are there any camels there?’ he inquired at once.
‘No.’
‘Then what would be the point of living there?’ he asked. He talked a great deal about the Meidob, referring to them as Awwala. Once, he asked me, ‘What would you do if the slaves attacked me?’ I told him that no doubt, I should try and protect him. Then I asked him the same question. ‘I would protect you from anyone, even the Kababish!’ he answered.
‘Why?’
‘Because if I did not and something happened to you, the women would laugh at me and I should never be able to forget it!’
Soon the jizzu merged with the desert, which opened before us like a silent hostile entity. Mohammid filled the great silence with the sound of his singing, like a child treading deliberately on virgin snow. The rhythm of his song seemed to fit perfectly with the flowing movement of the camels; the clear, natural beauty of the song seemed to complement the beauty of the great emptiness around us.
He was quite content to pour out the story of his life, and I was a good listener. ‘Did they tell you I was once fined 300 pounds by the nazir?’ he chuckled.
‘Why
?’
‘Women!’ he told me. ‘I seduced a Ribaygat girl. She doesn’t like her husband. He is her cousin, so she was forced to marry him. Anyway, it happened one night, when her tent was pitched at Kilagi pool, and most of her family were away. In the morning her brothers found my tracks. The girl denied it, but they beat her, then they followed my tracks to a wadi. There were three of them, and when they caught up with me, I had to admit it, or they would have said I was afraid. They came at me with sticks, but two of my cousins were close by—thank God—and I called them. It was a battle, by God! I hit one of them so hard with my stick that I almost killed him! In the end they complained to the nazir, and he sent old Adam Wad ash Shaham to arrest me. He is a tough old man, that Adam!’
‘You are a bandit!’
‘No, I just like women.’
‘We all like women.’
‘But don’t you try it,’ he warned me grimly. ‘They would kill you and no doubt!’ I told him the story of the slave-girl at Umm Sunta, and he was very interested. ‘You lost your chance there!’ he smirked.
‘Will you see your Ribaygat girl again?’
‘Yes, by God! As soon as I get back!’
We rode for about twelve hours a day, stopping for a few minutes at noon to cook a bowl of kisri over some firewood, which was plentiful in this part of the desert. The porridge was bitter and unpalatable, and I realised how important the buttermilk gravy had been. To my surprise, Mohammid poured the dregs of the tea into the porridge with a drop of butter, saying, ‘Eat! It is better than nothing!’
‘God is generous,’ I replied.
The morning of our third day out dawned bleak and cold, with the desert wrapped in a chiffon mantle of mist. Visibility was down to a few yards; beyond our small island of saddles and saddler, the wilderness was veiled from our sight. As I crouched by the hearth, I suddenly heard the cry of a camel, faint but distinct, from across the desert. I grabbed my shotgun immediately. Mohammid, who had been twisting a new hobble out of wool a few feet away, jumped up, whispering, ‘Slaves!’ and seized his rifle. There was a click as he cocked it, and almost at the same moment, a great grey bull-camel loomed out of the mist like an apparition. Mohammid had his rifle at the shoulder and for an instant, I thought he would fire. Then a voice said, ‘Peace be upon you!’ in clear Arabic, and we saw that the rider was an Arab, a fresh-faced man with two little boys hanging on the back of his saddle. ‘And upon you be peace!’ we replied as he couched his camel and dismounted. The two children were dressed in rags, their heads shaved except for the customary ridge of hair in the middle. The man shook hands, but eyed us suspiciously. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ Mohammid said, and the visitor sat down in the hearth. He would drink no tea, but said at once, ‘We are thirsty! By God’s will, you will give us water.’
‘Welcome!’ said Mohammid again, and added, ‘what is your family?’
‘’Atawiyya,’ the Arab replied. ‘We saw your fire last night, when we were with our herd.’ Mohammid opened our skin and poured water into a bowl. The man drank most of it then gave the rest to his children. Afterwards, he produced a small waterskin into which my companion poured more water. ‘God’s blessing on you,’ the ’Atawi said. ‘If you are going to Al Ga’a, be careful of the Meidob. I have seen several parties of them recently. They say things are bad in Meidob country. Be on the lookout for them.’ He committed us to the safekeeping of God, mounted his camel with his two sons, and soon disappeared back into the mist. Both Mohammid and I looked at our waterskins. We knew that there had been no choice but to supply the man. By Kababish custom, those travelling were expected to give water to those herding. Our next source of water was still four or five days away in Wadi Howar. From now on, we should drink no water, but use it only for porridge and tea.
The next day, the mist cleared, and at midmorning, we halted on the top of a steep dune slope in the centre of a vast plain. The only other feature of the plain seemed to be a single nugget of gnarled rock a few miles away. It was a strange formation, like a huge piece of unfashioned iron around which the rainbow skirts of the desert gleamed in blinding array. Suddenly, Mohammid stiffened. ‘A caravan!’ he gasped. ‘There!’ He pointed across the great expanse of sand. For a few minutes, my eyes scanned the landscape, until I saw what appeared to be no more than a blemish on the smooth face of the desert. ‘It is a caravan of the ’Atrana—a salt caravan. That is certain,’ my companion said. ‘If we can pick up their tracks, we will be with them by the afternoon.’ He seemed very excited at the prospect of meeting more Arabs, and I could understand why. Firstly, the work of saddling and loading our caravan was difficult for two, especially with an inexperienced hand like myself. Secondly, Arabs love to talk, and though I spoke Arab fluently, there were still many things concerning nomadic culture that Mohammid could share only with someone actually brought up in it.
We soon picked up the tracks of the other caravan. Mohammid dropped from his camel to examine them. There are about twenty camels,’ he told me. ‘And three men. They are Kababish, but I do not know which family.’ I asked how he knew they were Kababish, and he regarded me with the disdainful expression appropriate for my stupid question. ‘It is clear from the tracks and the direction from which they come. Any child can tell!’
By late afternoon, we were close on the heels of the others, and when they halted briefly, we caught up with them. Three Arabs were waiting for us as we approached, standing by a mass of camels drawn up in three separate strings. Only one of the men had a rifle. He was an old, withered man with a ferret face and a feeble expression. The other men were younger.
‘Salaam ’alaykum.’
‘’Alaykum as salaam.’ We shook hands as the lingering greeting of the desert nomads was exchanged. The three men wore short jibbas of dirty white that foamed about them like skirts, above their knee-length cloth breeches. Only the old man wore a headcloth. He was called Ali and was from the Ruwahla. His companion was a thickset powerful Arab with a long, curly beard and a shock of hair after the manner of desert Arabs. His name was Ballal, and like Ali, he was a Rahli. The third Arab was no more than a youth about Mohammid’s age. He was tall and ungainly with a thin body, shaven hair, and an unusually aggressive expression. He was Balla Wad Ahmad, of the Hamdab tribe.
At first, these Arabs treated me with suspicion, and as we rode on, I felt their eyes evaluating my every move. They avoided speaking to me as much as possible, and asked my companion, ‘Where is he from? What is his tribe?’ in the usual way. I took a dislike to Balla very quickly. He continually mocked the way I encouraged the camels, saying, ‘You do not know what you are doing!’ with a leering expression, though I was riding as I always did. Once, we came across the track of a young gazelle, almost obliterated by sand. ‘What track is that?’ he asked, his eyes gleaming malevolently.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied.
He laughed mockingly and looked at the others. ‘He does not even know the track of the jadi!’ he declared. I saw at once that I should have trouble with this man. I had met many Arabs who were naturally suspicious of outsiders and who were exasperated by my lack of knowledge, but I had never before met one who seemed so determined to humiliate me. Now our small salt caravan had become a large one, but for the first time, I began to view the way ahead with some trepidation.
That night, we camped together. It was a crisp, cool evening and the black canvas above us was punctuated only by the matrix of stars and planets, a bright tapestry across the heavens. We unloaded our camels methodically, piling up the saddlery and the hay baskets into curved windbreaks to protect us from the cutting edge of the wind. Balla and I had the job of hobbling all the camels, for tonight there was no grazing for them. The job took some time, and the animals grunted miserably because of the cold and the yawning emptiness in their stomachs. After we had completed the task, we returned to the shelter of the windbreak, where the others were opening saddlebags and laying out equipment. Mohammid found three large stones that he placed close t
ogether in the sand. Balla brought a fistful of straw from one of the baskets and laid it between the hearthstones. I sat down a few feet away and watched the thick-bodied Arab, a dim shape in the starlight, as he stooped over the stones, placing a few precious spills of firewood between them. The match was struck and the straw exploded with orange fire and a crackle of sparks. For an instant, the gaunt faces of my companions were illuminated, cast into grotesque bronze masks by the sudden light. Then the blaze faded to a glow of embers, and I heard Ballal blowing into the fire with long, powerful breaths. All of us waited, expectantly now, caught by the familiar yet crucial drama. The first faint tongue of flame trembled on one of the spills. Then the others caught and the flames licked up a couple of inches, creating a pool of golden light with a diameter of about two feet All of us shuffled up close to the flames, knees and elbows forced together, holding our chilled hands up as if in adulation. No one spoke to break the spell of this miracle. For us, this spot in the desert had become the centre of the universe. The five of us sat entrenched by that tiny flicker of power, with our backs turned away from the great void that surrounded us.
A Desert Dies Page 18