Musa the Meidobi unloaded a sack of ground millet from the pack camel and began to make kisri. Abdal Karim rode off to the market in Umm Sunta and came back with a goat slung from his saddle in a canvas sheet. Sannat slaughtered the animal, and within an hour, we were ready to eat. It was just after sunset. Drops of light hung like baubles in the clean, grey sky. We heard the sound of several camels being couched in the bushes nearby and shortly afterwards, two Arabs came walking into our camp. They were men of the Awlad Rashid from Darfur, impressive and mysterious in dark, hooded cloaks and high-furled headcloths. The Rashid were originally a cattle-owning tribe who had turned to rearing camels in recent years. There was no love lost between them and the Kababish, though they were not in open hostility. I had met many Rashid in my days in Darfur, and the two Arabs obviously recognised me for they shouted exuberantly, ‘Omar! Where have you been? Only last year, I saw you buying camels in Gineina market!’ After they had greeted us all, they sat down and began to talk to the guide and Abdal Karim, while the rest of us gathered around to hear what was said.
The Rashid were called Musa Adam and Bakkour, and they had just bought eighteen camels from my old companion Dagalol. ‘It is a small dabuuka,’ Musa Adam said. ‘And we want to take it to Egypt. But we need companions to pass through your territory. Those Sarajab bandits along the wadi will eat us!’
‘The Sarajab have no mercy for anyone, not even the Sarajab,’ old Bakheit growled. ‘They know that dabuukas don’t carry firearms. They respect no one. But you are welcome to travel with us. From tomorrow morning, we shall go together.’
I knew that this was no light matter. To accept travelling companions was to accept a contract of mutual loyalty in any predicament. If we were attacked by Awlad Rashid, for example, even if they happened to be Musa Adam’s own cousins, then he and his friend would be obliged to defend us. These Arabs, of two distinct tribes, were now obliged to defend each other with their lives; to fail in this would be to invite stigma for the rest of their days.
After we had eaten, the Rashid made camp amongst their own camels, screened by the bush about fifty metres away. As I lay down to sleep, I heard a strange chanting, like a meditation mantra, repeated over and over many times in a compelling and hypnotic rhythm. ‘What is it?’ I asked Sannat.
‘They must be Tijanis,’ he replied. ‘They repeat holy words, and it brings them blessing from heaven.’
When I asked Bakkour about it, he explained, ‘We are members of the Tijani brotherhood. There are Arabs all over the desert who belong to it.’
‘What is the point of the chanting?’
‘It is called zikra. The more you do, the more profit you get in heaven. It is like your saddle cushion. At first it is flat, but the more you fill it with wool, the more it rises.’
‘I never had much use for a saddle cushion that was too full,’ Bakheit commented dourly.
The next morning, we mustered the herd before dawn. The Rashid brought their eighteen camels into our camp and let them mix with the others. We drove them out of the wadi and through a bottleneck so that they could be counted. Abdal Karim stood on one side with old Bakheit on the other, two stark, primitive figures in their thick overcoats and furled tobes. As the camels ambled past them in ones and twos, they counted them out loud, moving their right hands, two fingers held aloft like priests giving absolution. There were about 160 animals in the dabuuka, which was slightly over optimum size. Apart from the guide, Bakheit, there were the three Kababish herdsmen—Sannat, Musa, and Mohammid—the two Rashid, and myself; a total of seven men. Abdal Karim did not intend to ride further with us.
After the herd had been counted, he strode over to me and said, ‘Your camel will never make Egypt. But don’t worry. I have told Bakheit to give you a replacement from the herd when he weakens. If necessary, you could sell him in Dongola.’ Then he gave me ten pounds as a parting present.
As always, I disliked accepting a gift, but I knew now that my host would have been deeply wounded if I had refused. I took the note and thanked him, saying, ‘If God wills, I shall be back later in the year.’
‘Go in peace.’
Within a few moments, we were all mounted and moving the great herd out northeast to the Wadi al Milik, singing camel songs and hooting with the familiar cries. We moved through the pale vestige of the greenery I had seen here the previous year. There was now no trace of grass underfoot, and the leaves of the siyaal trees had withered, leaving only the silver-grey branches. There was no green at all except the bitter, holly-like leaves of the mukhayyit, shrivelled and covered in a fine layer of dust. The sky was dark and filled with fleecy cloudlets, suggesting eerie, elfish faces. A wing of soft, grey fluff surrounded the molten sun. Beneath the shuffling pads of the ilbil, the ground was mudpack hard. Away in the distance, I could make out the glowering line of the Hattan plateau, and beyond it, a patch of orange desert. Everywhere, the land seemed deserted and dead.
We halted for a few minutes at noon for a meal then pressed on into the second half of the day. In winter, the Arabs preferred to move in one continuous drag from sunrise to sunset, for the camels would not travel into the night during cold weather. On warmer days, they would rest for most of the afternoon and travel perhaps to the early hours of the next morning. In the afternoon, we walked for hours, following the camels. The idea was to preserve their strength for as long as possible, for soon, we should be out of the desert steppes and into the desert proper, where there would be no grazing. Many camels died on the journey to Egypt, and the desert was littered with the bones of animals that had died from hunger or exhaustion.
Walking at ground level had its advantages in the winter, for the camels shielded us from the bitter winds that blew in the morning and evening. The pace was brisk and required a steady, unfaltering stride, for the herd moved with surprising speed. If we had to stop, even for a few minutes, we could only catch up with a jogging run; the idea of being left behind was a sobering one in this bleakness. The Arabs would mount their camels as the fancy took them, so that there were always some of us walking and others riding. To mount, they would run into the herd, scattering some of the beasts and singling out their own animal. They would catch his headrope, which was tied to the saddle, and bring his head down, clambering up on the neck and swinging back into the saddle. When they wished to walk, they would just leap down from the camel’s back and tie the headrope up so that it did not restrict his movement. Walking with the camels, one could sense the herd compulsion that seemed to hypnotise them. When moving fast, camels hated to be separated from their fellows, though when they were grazing, some animals would always wander off.
As we moved further east, we passed through wadis where lines of siyaals perched lifelessly above the sand, and where the trunks of kitir lay twisted and dead, turned over by the wind. As we walked, I saw that not all was lifeless here. I caught the brilliant yellow flash of tiny bee eaters in the dead trees, and once, Sannat pointed out a big hare that dodged through the husks of the bushes. ‘You would not die of hunger here, even today,’ the big man said. ‘Not if you know the secrets of the desert.’
Later, the sun came out of its covering of cloud and, taking off our cloaks and overcoats, we mounted. It was blissfully comfortable in the saddle after miles on foot, and the herd seemed to bowl along, gliding over the flat ground. There was often silence, broken only by the electronic burbling of the stud bulls that walked at the back of the herd or led from the front. They were enormous animals, their drooling maws and swollen necks showing that they were still in season. Occasionally, they would quarrel, testing each other with their canine fangs and butting each other’s heads, belching forth their revolting mouth bladders and roaring like lions.
At sunset, we would make camp. As it was continually cold by night, we would find a place sheltered by rocks or tundub trees; the saddles and saddlebags piled up together made a good windbreak. The ritual of hobbling took about an hour. When this was completed, each man retired to h
is own space to perform his prayers. Those were the most delicious moments of the day. The work was over, and for half an hour, no one moved. The Rashid recited their zikra in quiet meditation, while the others sat with their rosaries of wooden beads, staring into the depths of the desert night and repeating, ‘The lord be praised! The praise be to God!’ as they counted the beads between finger and thumb. Often in those moments, my mind was filled with tranquillity. The desert wind, drawing its breath across the sandy floor, seemed to merge with my own breathing, so that the internal and external became one. For almost the first time, I felt completely at ease and at home in this land.
After we had eaten porridge and drunk tea, we would sit around the fire, completely swathed in our blankets. With the low flames curling up from the hearth and the freezing night around us, this was the time for tales. Almost all nomads were good storytellers, but Sannat was a prince amongst them. While most Arabs recounted their own adventures, Sannat’s tales were of a different calibre. He told of the days of heroes like ’Antara Ibn Shaddad and Abu layyid al Hilali—magical stories that had been told for generations amongst the Arabs and that predated Islam by a long way. ‘Abu layyid al Hilali lived in the far-off time,’ he told us. ‘And once, he said to an old woman, “I was born without fear and no one can throw me!” She said, “Go to the Great Wadi that lies to the north and you will find an old man called Jalajil. He will throw you!” So Abu layyid rode off on his camel to the wadi, where he found an old man with a cowskin of water. He took his spear and threw it at the old man so that it stuck in his body. But the man paid no more attention to it than if it had been a splinter. He pulled it out and, seeing a lion in the wadi, went and killed it with the spear. He carried the lion back and said to Abu Zayyid, “You shall eat half and I shall eat the other half!” They sat down to eat, and the old man ate skin, bones, and all, but a little was left to Abu Zayyid. Then the old man picked up the cowskin and said, “You shall drink half and I shall drink the other half!” The old man drank a good half of the skin, but a little was left to Abu Zayyid. Then the old man said, “Now, my son, what is it?” “I have come to wrestle you!” said Abu Zayyid. “I will wrestle you with pleasure, on condition that he who throws the other shall have the right to slaughter him.” Abu Zayyid agreed and they struggled together. Then, tub! Abu Zayyid was thrown. “Let us decide on the best out of three throws!” the old man said. They struggled again, and tub! Abu Zayyid was thrown twice more. “You had better slaughter me!” said Abu Zayyid, lying on the ground beneath the old man. Then suddenly, he burst out laughing. He saw that beneath the old man’s loincloth, his groin was covered in camel ticks like an old bull-camel. He laughed until he cried. “Why do you laugh?” the old man asked him. “Nothing. You had better slaughter me!” “Not until you tell me what made you laugh!” “It is because you have camel ticks on your groin like an old bull-camel!” Then the old man said, “If you think that is funny, then you are no more than a child. And I cannot kill a child!” So he let Abu Zayyid go. He rode off on his camel and they never met again. The old man was the only one who could throw Abu Zayyid al Hilali.’
I was fascinated by the story. ‘Where did you hear it?’ I asked him.
‘From people,’ he told me. Like all the other Arabs with me, Sannat was illiterate. It was thrilling to think that this tale, perhaps a thousand years old, had been passed from mouth to mouth since the Bani Hillal Arabs had first come to the Sudan. ‘It is an old tale,’ he said. ‘But the story of ’Antara is even older. ‘Antara Ibn Shaddad was an Arab, but he was black, like me. His father was a free Arab but his mother was a slave from Habesh. ’Antara took after his mother. When he was young, his father called him a slave and set him to work as a herdsman guarding his herds. But ’Antara secretly sold some of the camels and bought a fine horse. Then he bought a helmet and a breastplate and a shield and spear. He buried them in the desert so that his father would not know, and he spent his time always with the herds. One day, raiders came and carried off all the camels. His father said, “I trusted that slave ’Antara and now I have nothing!” Then ’Antara saddled his horse and rode out into the desert. He dug up his armour and his spear and shield. Then he rode out to fight the bandits. He followed their tracks until he found their camp. There were fifty of them, a whole tribe! “I have come to take back my father’s camels!” he said. Then he charged at them and killed them all. He collected his father’s camels and drove them back to his father’s camp. Then all the women cried with joy and his father said, “From now on, ’Antara, you are my son!” What a man he was, that ’Antara! You know he had a house built of stone with a door that only he could open. He built the house out of a cave with his own hands. Many people came to try the door, but only he could open it. He was the strongest man in the world, by God!’
In those first few days I had warmed considerably to Sannat, I had been quite misled by his rascally exterior. He was a man of great and sincere warmth, with a generous heart. He would have shared his last crust even if he were on the edge of salvation. He had travelled to Egypt many times and had worked as a guide. I noticed that occasionally, Bakheit deferred to him.
Mohammid was a quiet man who did his job well but rarely joined in the conversation. This was unusual for an Arab, and I guessed that he was one of those unmarried old men whom the Arabs despised so much. Musa was no more than a boy, and this was his first trip on the route, which put me in the strange position of being more experienced than him in this instance. He was an excellent herdsman, like so many of the ’Awwala boys who had been brought up amongst the herds.
The Rashid were bright, intelligent, and alive, constantly talking and telling stories. Bakkour was unusual in that he had been outside the country to work. He had been employed as a labourer in Iraq. He told me how he had seen herds of the Ruwala bedouin coming across the country’s southern borders, with their womenfolk in litters similar to those of the Kababish. It was soon clear, however, that the Rashid regarded themselves as superior to my other companions. ‘These men are not true Arabs,’ Musa Adam once told me. ‘Even the guide is a slave!’ At meal times, they would scoff a little at the Kababish porridge, saying, ‘Your kisri is not ground properly. It is only crushed in a mortar. Ours is properly ground in a mill. It is far better than this!’
Like Sannat, Bakkour was an excellent storyteller. He had been brought up in the savannah lands of South Darfur, along the Barh al ’Arab, where there were elephants and giraffes, and his hunting tales were enthralling. ‘The cattle Arabs have a special way of hunting elephant,’ he told me. ‘Often, they use big, heavy spears because bullets have no effect. They hunt on horses. One man rides out to distract the elephant—they usually choose the bull—and when the beast is chasing him, the others ride out from behind and stab him with their spears. He has to be a brave man, that one! Sometimes, they make a platform in a tree near to the track, where the elephants come down to the watering place. The outside track always belongs to the bull, because he escorts the cows and the young down to drink, just as the fahal camel does. The men have to use a special scent to disguise their smell. The elephants have a good sense of smell and they can pull up a tree like a bunch of grass. They come at sunset. As the bull passes under the tree, they drop their spear on his neck! There is plenty of meat on an elephant, by God! They have enough meat for seven camel-loads. Of course, their tusks bring a great deal of money. The Mahriyya and the Awlad Janub are the best hunters. They will stay in the bush for three months. They kill elephants and giraffes too, and take the ivory as far south as Juba. They have an injection against tsetse fly that they give their camels so that they can enter the wet areas. But it is expensive and the camels have to be injected every day. The Arabs hunt giraffes as well, because the women like the skin as an ornament, but many Arabs are killed in the hunting. Elephants are dangerous. They can destroy a village easily. I once knew a man who saw a cow-elephant giving birth and he killed the baby out of badness. The elephants came after him like a swarm
of bees. He hid in a village, but the elephants just knocked it down until they found him. They picked him up and smashed him to pieces!’
In the morning, we would saddle up and move the herd out early. There were many families of Kababish moving across the dusty plains towards the Wadi al Milik. They were men and women of tribes like the Ribaygat, Ruwahla, and Sarajab, usually driving with them a straggle of camels or a knot of goats or sheep. The camels looked thin and exhausted, and the men told us they were still moving back from the north, where the ranges had not bloomed. One evening, we spotted a circlet of vultures in the azure sky, and by the forks of two thorn trees, we found a father and son of the Ruwahla slaughtering a bull-camel. Four other camels carrying pack saddles and a mass of leather bags and equipment were couched nearby. Further on, two little girls with brown faces and butter-smeared hair were watching six milch camels and a flock of bony goats. A woman in a blue cotton shawl sat in the shade.
The camel had been trussed up in a kneeling position by its front legs. Sannat and I stood by as the Arab told his son to stretch the animal’s head backwards. The camel growled its last protest and the Arab drove his dagger into its chest, just below the neck. The blood gushed out, welling across the sand. The light went out of the camel’s eyes, the head sagged, and the boy laid it gingerly on the ground. It was all over very quickly.
Then, like the superb predators they were, the Arabs set about skinning and butchering the animal, severing the back of the neck and uncovering the jelly of the hump. They cut out the entrails and stripped off hunks of meat that they dropped into saddlebags. The Rahli invited us to eat the raw liver with him and his son. It was cut up into chunks that we ate from a wide dish. As we squatted down, I saw the hollow carcass still kneeling by the trees, where it would mark the way for decades. About fifty metres away, four gigantic Nubian vultures perched on some rocks, and two more came gliding down on their great wings; a few yellow-headed Egyptian vultures settled in the sand, and several ravens. I knew that they would close in as soon as we moved off. After dark, the jackals would be out to finish off the feast.
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