A Desert Dies

by Michael Asher

  It was almost summer. If the temperature remained average, then we should each not need more than six pints of water a day, and our twenty gallons would last us for more than ten days. If summer conditions prevailed, however, our consumption would be double.

  Before we set off, Juma’ unwrapped his headcloth and put on a khaki army beret. It had a black lining, and he turned it inside out so that this side showed. ‘It is to prove that I am a ghaffir,’ he told me. ‘When I have official things to do, I wear it with the other side showing. But until then, I shall wear it this way.’ I thought of Wad Fadul and his Boy Scout badge, and said nothing.

  We rode on into the afternoon, seeing only some ’Atawiyya who were busy watering sheep and goats from a deep well in the middle of a plain covered in silver la’ot trees. They were using two camels to hoist the water, each animal straining alternately in opposite directions. The great cowskin hawsers creaked. The pulleys screamed and spun as the ribbed buckets sailed up to the wellhead to be dragged off by groups of shock-headed Arabs who poured the water into deep stone basins. The flocks crowded around them, pawing at the ground, and the water was finished before the Arabs had even flung the bucket back into the well.

  We spent the night near Umm ’Ajayja and the next day pressed on towards the Hattan plateau. At noon, we made camp by some tundub trees at the foot of the pass, not far from where we had been caught by a freak storm two years before. There were still a few stunted hummocks of grass on the sand flats that Juma’ said were the products of that storm. It had not rained again since that day. We hobbled the camels and turned them into the sparse grazing. Wad al Hambati grazed happily, but the red camel, which we had named Hambarib (The Little Wind’), fretted continually and turned his head from side to side, looking back forlornly towards Umm Sunta, where he had left his herd. He would not eat. ‘Hambarib wants camels, not grazing!’ Juma’ declared. ‘His belly is full.’

  My companion set to work to mend the pack saddle that had been broken slightly during the morning. I stood and watched Hambarib as he slowly shuffled farther from the camp. He was not interested in the juicy tundub shoots and seemed very agitated. I had seen camels behave like this several times before, and it usually preceded something odd. His forefeet, restricted by the gayd, were moving very fast. I realised suddenly that he was trying to escape, and ran around a bluff of sand with some ragged vegetation to head him off. It was the worst thing I could have done. Sensing my sudden movement, the camel bounded forward in double-legged strides. A second later, the leather hobble snapped and fell uselessly into the sand. Hambarib bellowed a single victory roar, and surged forward, breaking into a gallop. He charged off amongst the hillocks of sand, lifting his legs high and weaving around the scattered trees. Without hesitation, I ran back to the camp, shouting, ‘The hobble broke! He is running south!’ In an instant, Juma’ had couched the other camel and was saddling him. Moments later, he galloped off in pursuit of the monster, leaving me alone with our useless luggage.

  I sat down by the trees and waited. Many minutes went past. I reflected that camels always brought me bad luck. Hambarib was the most expensive animal I had ever bought, but still, he was unreliable. I was beginning to wonder what I should do if Juma’ did not return, when he rode suddenly out of the landscape, dragging the great camel behind his mount on a piece of rope. He slipped down from the saddle grinning happily. ‘His heart is sour!’ Juma’ said. ‘That is why they sold him. He is a cunning one, but not as cunning as uncle Juma’!’ As I unsaddled Hambati, he led the big camel to a tree and tied him securely. Then he took some strands of plastic rope and made a firm hobble. ‘You will not snap this one so easily!” he told the animal. ‘We know what you are now. You won’t get the chance again, by God!’ He hobbled the camel’s forelegs with the new rope. ‘Plastic rubs the hair off, but it is stronger than leather,’ he said.

  When we sat down and made tea, Juma’ told me how he had captured the beast. ‘I picked up his tracks and rode after him at a steady pace,’ he said. ‘He is a big camel, but he soon got tired. As soon as he slowed down I charged after him at full speed. He thought I should get him, so he galloped off again. Then I slowed down so that he would tire himself out. As soon as he slowed I charged again. I kept it up, charging and slowing, until he was exhausted. Then I just rode up to him in the wadi and lassoed him with the spare rope. He came as quietly as a child! But your ashab is fast, by God! I should never have caught him without Hambati!’ For the rest of the afternoon, the red camel raged to himself, desperately trying to smash the tree and break his headrope. When Juma’ saddled him at the end of the break, he dropped a few gobbets of cud to register his disapproval.

  We climbed the pass up to Hattan that evening. Gone was the running water I remembered from my previous expedition. A family of ’Atawiyya–two men and two boys, who wore their hair in masses of curls and carried homemade rifles pitted with rust—were climbing the pass. They were driving a few goats and sheep and leading two thin camels. A half-grown saluki bitch ran close behind them. We dismounted to lead our camels up the narrow path, watching the goats and sheep scampering away above us.

  We camped with the ’Atawiyya in some trees on the plateau summit. They slaughtered a goat for us, and we cooked it in oil and ate together. I asked the ’Atawiyya if they normally grazed in Hattan. ‘It is only because of the drought,’ answered one of them, a tall man called Salih. ‘Or we should still be with our kinsmen north of Khitimai. We move a little further south each year.’

  ‘There is plenty of shooting,’ another ’Atawi told us. ‘You had better be careful ahead. You know, the grazing in Meidob is finished. The Meidob are in trouble. They have all become bandits and they search the desert for Arab camels. Be on your guard further north!’

  These ’Atawiyya lived an incredibly hard life, yet they had none of the suppressed violence I had sensed with the Sarajab. They seemed courageous, confident, and dignified. I could not explain why men who lived such similar lives should be so different in character. When I asked Juma’ his opinion, he said, ‘Of course, it is true. It is like father, like son. It is true of camels. When you breed them, you know how they will turn out, or at least you have a good idea. Humans are the same. It is well known that the Sarajab are the rudest Arabs amongst the Kababish, just as it is known that the Barara are honest and the ’Awajda are cowardly. The ’Atawiyya are known as brave fighting men. They are not afraid. They are amongst the best raiders in the Kababish.’

  ‘Who are the others?’ I asked him.

  ‘The Nurab, of course,’ he answered, grinning.

  The following day, we travelled with the ’Atawiyya across the face of the mountain. At midday, we descended into the pool at Umm Suggura. There was no water in the pool and the trees around it were bare. As we approached, we saw that one of the siyaal trees was black and smouldering. A group of Arab youths stood around it. At once, Juma’ took off his beret and replaced it with the official side showing. He pulled it down sharply and with a grim expression rode towards the youths. ‘Why have you burned that tree?’ he snapped at them.

  ‘No reason,’ one of the Arabs answered.

  ‘It is forbidden,’ he told them. ‘Only last month, the nazir gave someone fifty lashes for cutting one branch of a tree; one branch, you understand?’ Then he turned to me officiously and said, ‘Take their names, Omar! We will report them when we get back.’

  ‘There are plenty of trees!’ exclaimed one of the boys. Juma’ bent forwards. ‘Remember this my son, and remember it well. Whoever destroys a tree in this land destroys life itself!’

  Khitimai valley was now nothing more than light-brown sand edged with the brooding outline of the hills. We rode down from the plateau into the cool of evening and arrived at the borewell in darkness. We made camp with some Arabs of the Awlad Sulayman, relations of the guide Baaqil whom we had met in the dikka. One of them was an old man who questioned Juma’ closely about the route we would take. Then he said to me, with unashame
d frankness, ‘There is no such place as Zarzura. I was born in the desert and I have never heard of it. You will not even find your way to Nukheila. Juma’ does not know the route. He thought Rahib came before Jabarona!’ I explained that I should be responsible for navigation and that I had brought Juma’ as a companion, not as a guide. Like Baaqil, the Sulaymani claimed he had an excellent knowledge of the desert. He had grazed his camels as far north as Nukheila in the past. ‘Some of the Sulayman used to go as far as ‘Uwaynat,’ he told me. ‘But it was much easier in the old days. Then you could find grass scattered through the sands. Now, you will never get beyond Nukheila. There is nothing there. The weather is getting hot and your camels will die.’

  As we set off the next morning, Juma’ said, ‘God’s curse on all Sulayman! They have plenty of talk, but the truth is they know nothing.’

  All day, we rode over cherry-pink sand hills scattered with depressions in which sat coarse little clumps of thorn trees, gafal, kitir, siyaal and sarh. A string of ’Atawiyya tents stood on the bare side of a hill. Some tiny Arab children played around them in the shrivelling heat. ‘See, just like desert foxes!’ Juma’ said.

  As we rose the next morning, we saw the cliffs of Tagaru massif in the early light. I had passed east of the inselberg with the Sarajab, but this time we should traverse it from the west and explore it more closely. As we drank tea, Juma’ said, ‘I have a devil in my head that won’t let me sleep. I have had it for years, I am lucky if I snatch a short doze in the night.’ He told me that he had awoken in the night and thrown the khatt. I had seen him do this many times before. It was a form of divination in which the Arabs made chains of marks in the sand with the thumb and forefinger. ‘What did you see?’ I asked him.

  ‘I saw a white camel,’ he said gravely, ‘and a man coming towards me from the back. I did not see him but he saw me. He was a good man!’

  We packed up and rode towards the southern toe of Tagaru, known as Qalbal Ba’ir (‘The Camel’s Heart’). Before us, the land dropped into a wide trench of sand filled with trees. It was the Wadi Mafarit that joined the Tagaru plateau with the Meidob hills. It was the richest vein of vegetation in this part of the desert, and the Meidob used it as a highway by which to approach the desert lands.

  We had been riding for about two hours when Juma’ shouted, ‘Look, by God! A white camel!’ Far to the east, I caught the reflection of a large, white body amongst the trees. I remembered Juma’s prediction, though it seemed little more than a coincidence. The ’Atawiyya often let their camels graze unattended, and there were probably several white camels browsing in the area. I was not, however, prepared for what happened next. There was a sudden commotion behind us, and turning we saw an angry little Arab carrying a Kalashnikov rifle and wearing a fuzzy mass of hair. He seemed to have materialised out of the desert sands. He ignored our greetings as we couched our camels, and stood there panting. Then he said, ‘I have been shouting you for minutes! Why did you not answer? I am dying of thirst! Have you no humanity?’

  ‘We did not hear you!’ Juma’ answered.

  ‘Give me water!’

  We poured out a bowlful of water. The man drank it with slow and appreciative dignity. Then he held up a tiny gazelle skin, and Juma’ filled it. ‘What is your family?’ he asked.

  ‘My family is ’Atawiyya from Wadi Howar,’ the man answered. ‘But I am taking my camels south in search of pasture. I have not drunk water for five days, by God! I have one she-camel in milk and the milk keeps me going. But you cannot make proper tea out of milk.’

  ‘What about the geltis in the mountain?’ Juma’ asked, referring to the rock pools where water collected. ‘Is there no water there?’

  ‘All finished,’ the man told us. ‘All finished months ago!’

  I could not explain how Juma’ had been able to predict these events with such accuracy. He told me, ‘The khatt is unreliable. Sometimes it tells you everything, and sometimes it is completely wrong!’

  At midmorning, we stopped in some trees. The heat throbbed over us and Juma’ said, ‘The summer is coming. There will be the simoom soon—the hot winds from the north. If the simoom comes, we shall never find Zarzura. We shall be lucky to get back to Umm Sunta.’ But as we set off later, a beautiful cool wind came down from the desert. We moved towards the great bluffs and spurs of Tagaru, which were now visible before us. As we approached, I saw that the bluffs were higher than they seemed, and after a while, I could see the pimples and veins etched in the face of the sandstone. Ridges of sand were piled against the foot of the cliffs, bordered with fields of blue boulders, through which a few straggling sallam trees pushed.

  Just south of the toe of the mountain, we came on a patch of hard ground, which Juma’ called a ‘city’. There were many ancient grindstones, millions of fragments of shattered bone, arrowheads of flint and stone axes of diorite. There were stones set in the ground that suggested houses, and some that might have been a large enclosure. The large number of milling and grinding stones seemed to indicate that agricultural people had once tilled this hard land.

  Little is known of the early history of this part of the Sahara, though rock pictures such as those I had seen at Jabal Musawwira suggested that cattle-rearing pastoralists once roamed the entire area. Despite the great number of milling stones that have been found, scientists believe that these people did not practise agriculture, but made flour from wild grasses such as the haskanit, which still grows in abundance on the desert steppes. It is not known for certain which race these men belonged to. The detailed naturalistic rock paintings discovered in places such as Tassili ’n’ Ajjer in the north indicate that the pastoralists had some customs still practised by the Fulani peoples of the Sahel.

  Whomever they might have been, they were replaced by Semitic-speaking camel nomads who were established in the desert by 1000 BC. The stones at the foot of Tagaru—evidence of the desert’s past—were sober reminders of how quickly and completely a culture might disappear.

  Tagaru was discovered by Douglas Newbold in 1924. It was an inselberg of sandstone stretching eighty miles through the desert. The vast area of the interior was crossed by corries and canyons, which still hid addra, gazelle, ostrich, and Barbary sheep. We camped at night near the cliffs, where we found some clumps of nissa growing along a shallow wash. We had no firewood, so I took a torch and walked west along the shallow wadi in the darkness. About two kilometres away, I found a single sarh tree with just enough fragments of wood scattered about to make a fire. I carried it back to Juma’ and laid it at his feet triumphantly. He smiled, saying, ‘Omar, you are a man!’ I knew this was the greatest compliment a Kabbashi could make. A second later, though, he spoiled it by saying, ‘The only thing wrong with you is that you have no woman. A man without a woman is like a camel without a nosebag!’

  The next day, we followed the line of the cliffs, gnarled and weathered, chocolate-brown and rust-red, towering over us like battlements. There were many details to divert us: the fresh track of a hyena, many V-shaped pads of gazelles, the imprint of a riding camel, the old grooves of a salt caravan, and the recent marks of a small grazing herd. ‘There are twelve camels in that herd,’ Juma’

  said. ‘And they have come from Khitimai in the last few days because they are well watered. One of them is being ridden. It is a calf, no more than a four-year-old. It might be the Sarajab boy I heard about in Khitimai.’

  Later, we turned off east into the belly of the massif, so that I might get an impression of its interior. We climbed a steep track up into the plateau. It felt like a fresh-new world. There were no tracks or droppings here. From the top of the track, we had a magnificent view of the valley beneath. A sheet of bright, red sand swept down to the valley floor, where it met a covering of thorn trees. At the very bottom of the gorge stood a perfect circle of stones. It looked like the foundation of an ancient roundhouse built before this land was desert. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live here now. Juma’ told me that some of
the ’Atawiyya spent weeks amongst the canyons of Tagaru, grazing their camels and drinking camel’s milk, drawing water from the hidden geltis when they were full, and shooting addra and Barbary sheep on the plateau.

  As we descended the side of the valley again, we saw many caves and natural arches cut into the stone along the galleries of red-gold bluffs. Almost at once, we picked up the tracks of the small herd once again. ‘He is very near,’ Juma’ said. ‘We will catch up with him before dark.’ The sun was already sinking over the featureless horizon to the west, when we came upon the herd. There were twelve camels, exactly as my companion had said, and they were being driven by a youth of the Sarajab called Kalklayt. He was about seventeen and rode a trim four-year-old camel, carrying nothing but a goatskin saddlebag, a set of hobbles, and a kabaros.

  We made camp with Kalklayt that night. I thought his name amusing, but Juma’ told me that it was a Kababish word meaning ‘kind’. He had seen no one for fifteen days and had been herding his camels inside Tagaru. ‘It is twenty-six days since the camels watered,’ he declared. Juma’ glanced at the camels and said nothing. ‘I know every inch of this desert,’ the youth boasted. ‘It suits me more than the wadi. But herding your camels alone is difficult. Today, I lost my baggage camel in the hills. It had the rest of my hobbles, my cooking pots, and my money.’ Juma’ made porridge, and the boy ate with us, ravenously. Afterwards, he drank cup after cup of tea as I poured it out. I admired his toughness, but Juma’ shot him questioning glances that I did not understand.