I see parallels all around me. I am not the only one to argue that we ourselves socially are barely out of the Middle Ages, judging by the broad ideas of the hoi polloi. Our philosophy—from Aristotle to the present—which has made us so great is meaningless to the man in the street, who benefits, incidentally, from it. Left to his own devices, he would cheerfully drink his beer, whistle his little tunes, study his pools, while his priceless institutions, for which so many sacrificed themselves, his very security as an individual, crumble noisily about his ears. Indeed, I could easily prove that the average Wahabi, for all his obnoxious piety, would be able to debate the Greek and French schools more fluently than any modern middle-class Briton!
As the familiarity and sense of security grew, as it became less and less likely that our disguises would be discovered (I had even heard some Hadjizin claiming to have fought beside my ‘sharif’ at some wadi famous only in their own annals) I grew to appreciate my position. My life in Hollywood, almost certainly in ruins, could be restored; I had escaped an appalling fate with my health and mind intact and I was reunited with my best and oldest friend. I needed time for my mental wounds to heal, for all my nightmares to be banished and my usual cheerful optimism to return in full. By assuming the rôle of a simpleton I found for myself the least demanding persona. When I at last reached Tangier in a couple of months or so I would be fully able to resume my place in the civilised world. My California money could be touched by nobody save myself. Yet I had grown used to the caravan’s pace. I had made pleasant acquaintances, including several young women who trusted an idiot far more than any fully sensed youth. Sometimes I could hardly conceive of any other life, or of wanting any other life. I had come in particular to appreciate the beauty of the camel and to enjoy the subtle meaning of a sunset sky and to take pleasure, as my colloquial Arabic improved, in the story-tellers who moved among us (sometimes with a single laden camel), earning their place with a mixture of traditional tales—including most of Aesop’s—misreported world news, snatches of doggerel, prejudice. Ignorant and with a relish for sensation, particularly sexual sensation and local sport, they were, in effect, complete walking tabloid newspapers. For those who preferred more highbrow fare there were a few other sharifs ready to debate matters of Koranic law, recite verses from much-loved books, even from the Holy Book itself. Our train grew longer as smaller trains joined us, until it stretched out of sight across the red-gold dunes and valleys of the wide Sahara. Its general mood resembled more closely the mood of an Odessa public holiday in August, of good-humoured determination to make the most of all the hours God granted. As a result they could be the most tolerant and in the main the most honest of people. It was necessary to cultivate these virtues. There was nothing worse, all agreed, than a mood of ill-feeling or mistrust on a caravan which might be together for months. Such a mood could, what was more, be highly dangerous for all.
Compromises were sought first in every sphere of their lives, from trading to surviving—even to war. From this mixture of Bedouin grain merchants, Sudanese traders and Berber camel-buyers, of tribes and races as unique and as far apart in culture and experience as people from Birmingham and Bratislava, in all their clannish specificity of costume and courtesy, was developed a level of social stability, a sense of the individual’s responsibility to the common good, that any Western democracy would envy. This was a world acknowledging few kings or governments, a natural democracy, almost an anarchist ideal. Sadly, though, such perfection is probably only possible in a desert or a vacuum. Why do we in the West believe we have the right to determine what is progress and what is not? We have created the power to destroy the very star around which we whirl. We, surely, are crazy? That, at least, was what I came to believe as I capered and shrieked for the entertainment of grinning Wahabi and chuckling Sudanese. As we moved deeper into Italian Tripolitania we were joined by a small band of blue-veiled Berber Hadjim returning from Mecca, their skin stained deathly grey by the indigo from their robes, so that they might have been a gathering of the dead on the walls of some kingly tomb. They had green or blue eyes, most of them, and the same fine swaggering control of their camels which a Cossack exerts upon his half-wild horse. Their long rifles and spears were slung over their backs; their bandoliers and belts were festooned with knives and the very latest in German automatics and English revolvers. These were the famous Tuareg, regarding themselves as the natural overlords of the Maghribi Sahara, the Land of the West. On their way back to their hidden cities they rode apart from the Arabs and the other Berbers, their cream and golden camels reined in silver and brass, the blue leather decorated with tassels of scarlet and white, the embroidered blankets carefully matching the rest of their costume in a display of magnificent challenge. The weapons, the vivid colour, the workmanship of their harness and clothing, were all a cautionary display of power. This display had its desired effect on their Semitic co-religionists whose chief prayer was that the veiled ones would not take against them or demand tribute for the privilege of their aristocratic company. I threw myself more enthusiastically into my rôle. Western newspapers had frequently reported cases of Europeans slaughtered by these unrulable desert warriors whose women, the Arabs said, went unveiled and worshipped equally with their men. Women even held power in the Tuareg councils and, in certain tribes, rode with their men to war.
But the blue warriors left the caravan as swiftly and as suddenly as they had joined it, disappearing back into the desert long before our camels began to sniff the water of al-Khufra. After they had gone, a prune-skinned handsome old man in a huge white turban considered old-fashioned even by his contemporaries, Achmet al-Imteyas, began to speak of a Tuareg, al-Khadbani, the raging one, who for years was the terror of the Sahara from Fezzan to Timbuktu and only in old age was revealed to be a woman, the mother, she boasted, of five sons, the ‘husband’ of a considerable number of wives and concubines. It was her sons who claimed the Sahara in her name and whose secret city lay somewhere within the Takalakouzet Massif in French West Africa. The Tuareg figured largely in al-Imteyas’s tales, usually in some fabulous way and frequently as the personification of supernatural evil, to be feared, avoided and, very occasionally, tricked into releasing some legendary wise-guy (the same Ali Baba who had for instance managed to get a rabbi in Benghazi to pay for a new mosque).
I was doubtless the only one to appreciate al-Imteyas’s sole critic, a pale Kurdish deserter from the Imperial Army in Astrakhan who, with a miscellaneous bunch of self-elected outriders, made himself useful to the caravan. Not one of them had a horse worthy of the name. The Kurd spoke mostly in Arabic. Sometimes, when moved to strong emotion and believing everyone but himself ignorant of the language, he would curse or disagree in Russian. ‘The Tuareg,’ he said in that language, ‘like the Turk, controls his empire thanks to the Arab’s own profound suspicion of change.’
I wish it had been safe to speak. I would have suggested his scepticism and resentment made him a suitable candidate for the Red Army. I would have suggested he return at once to his homeland, where his fellow-cynics would welcome him! Given his sympathies it was hard to understand why he had left his country to join the hundreds and thousands of Russian subjects scattered across Europe, Asia and America, even down into Africa, even to Australia, in a diaspora of previously unimagined scale. Kurds were always dissatisfied grumblers, like Armenians, but it was pleasant to listen to my native tongue, no matter how barbarously pronounced, and it helped me find further inner peace. Kolya, at this stage, insisted, in his rôle of Syrian renegade, on speaking only French and Arabic. It was important to convince, he said, the Italians.
The greatest comfort of my almost timeless existence was a developing appreciation of our camels, especially Kolya’s lovely pale gold doe. Sadly, my affection was never reciprocated. For some reason no camel in the world will ever do anything more than tolerate me. Most hate me on sight. Twice, when wandering in the vicinity of one of the herds, I would be warned by a shout from the dr
ivers and turn to see a beast, its neck stretched out before it, its great yellow teeth bared, its nostrils flaring and eyes glaring, galloping down on me, enraged and infuriated by the very fact of my existence.
As I picked up my ragged gelabea and dashed over the rocky ground towards the main party I would see them whooping and ululating, some cheering for me, some for the camel, providing them with enough amusement to keep them in gales of laughter for days. To them my discomfort was almost as funny as the old woman, one of those miscellaneous creatures providing us all with general services, who caught fire and could not be doused. The inept antics of those like myself, who made some attempt to help her, were the chief source of their merriment. Yet they were good-hearted in their own way and one of the Russian deserter’s comrades was given a few coins to despatch the hag with a bullet from his Martini. They would have done the same for any creature without hope of survival in the desert. They valued life as readily as men of the civilised world, but the desert has no room for sentimentalists, nor for morbid introspection.
At length the wide shallow valley of Khufra came in sight, a sprawl of townships surrounding a marvellous stretch of blue water. The shuddering greens of the palms, the glittering whitewash of the mosques and houses, the shining oasis itself, were at first almost blinding. I was awed by it but Kolya said the oasis struck him as vulgar, though he admitted it was a scene which a few months earlier he would have gasped at. Even the fine palm-shaded houses and gardens of the wealthy failed to impress. He had cultivated those ascetic desert disciplines which produced the spare beauty of Al-Hambra; he had grown to prefer deeper colours, the textures of red stone and tawny sands, repeated in an infinity of subtle variation like some classical Egyptian melody. The settlements of Zurruk, Talalib and Toilet were spread out across the valley, their myriad shaded stalls selling the bounty of Africa and the Mediterranean, the detritus of Northern Europe and America. Above all this brooded the eroded Libyan mesas, while here and there the orange, white and green banners of Italy flew upon the few bastions of Western civilisation. From these our latter-day Romans, unsupported by the rest of Christendom, attempted to control the growing threat of Carthage which their ancestral blood recognised, respected and feared. Kolya and I avoided the whirling dust of the Italian half-tracks and lorries, their staff cars and their motorbikes. To Kolya their presence was an offence—as if a rowdy party were taking place in a sanctuary. Realising I was a little unnerved by the size of the garrison, Kolya became warily amused. ‘They presumably plan to claim the whole of Central Africa for their Empire. Will they raise the new Byzantium in the Congo, do you think, Dimka dear?’
Even then, still lacking most kinds of discrimination, I thought Kolya’s remarks in doubtful taste, but he was distracted. His friends had failed to meet him near the Toom road. Approaching the centre of Khufra across from the largest mosque and a comfortable distance from the nearest army post, an agitated Kolya left me in charge of the camels while he went about his business. He was clearly familiar with the town and its satellites. I sat down in the shade of a shrine and whenever anyone addressed me I simply grinned at them and screeched, flapping my arms, ‘al Sakhr! al Sakhr!’ while our camels, chiefly from habit, made desultory nips at my person. Kolya returned with a spring in his step, evidently much relieved. ‘Stavisky’s people went on. By now they’ve already crossed the Red Sea and are into the Hadjiz. They were carrying too much contraband to risk waiting for me. That’s excellent news, Dimka dear.’ His smile was wonderful. ‘They’ll hear rumours of my death. It won’t be in anyone’s interest to pursue me. Stavisky will write off his losses and forget all about me. Even if he finds out eventually that I’m alive, we’ll have disposed of any unwelcome evidence.’
I pointed out, sotto voce, to Kolya that we might well be overheard. He shrugged and said, in English, ‘We’ll ride with the caravan as far as al-Jawf, but we can’t risk being recognised by any more of Stavisky’s people coming up from Benghazi so we’ll have to head further over and get to Tunis, perhaps. I’m going to need a buyer. We’ll steer clear of Tripoli and Tangier because someone’s bound to spot one of us. That means selling to a local dealer up here, which means going to Zazara, I suppose. Another oasis the authorities deny exists!’ He was satisfied with his plan. ‘From there, if need be, we can make our way south, following the tropic of Capricorn all the way across the Sahra al-aksa!’ Even I had heard that such a route was a myth, frequently searched for and never found. Kolya shook his head at this, laughing. ‘Everyone knows Zazara and the Darb al-Haramiya here, though they wouldn’t admit it to the Rumi. The Darb al-Haramiya is the old Thieves’ Road. It’s the secret slavers’ route out of Chad and French West across the top of the world. The Arabs insist it is the most dangerous trail in the whole Sahara. The Berbers, who are its undisputed masters, call it the Road of Courage.’ His smile continued to broaden. ‘Isn’t it strange, Dimka! It has a thousand names yet appears on no map. That’s why it’s safe for us. The British and French, for instance, have officially declared its non-existence. The Italians claim to have destroyed it. Are these the responses of men who have failed to control something, I wonder? Sour grapes, as Achmet al-Imteyas might point out.’
I ventured that not one of those names made it sound in any way attractive. I had no further curiosity about any other aspects of the slave-trade. So far we had travelled in easy-going, amicable company. But I had seen the blue-veiled warriors. Such as these would doubtless be our company on the Thieves’ Road. How would they receive us?
‘They will recognise men of courage,’ Kolya informed me with cheerful insouciance. ‘After all, there is no route mapped to Zazara. Men must find it for themselves. With a map and a compass.’ He held up an old leather case attached to his belt. I admired my friend in so many ways but I must admit I had no great faith in his scout-craft. I believe now he was more desperate than he admitted. He was, I gathered, in the process of stealing a commodity of huge value. Stavisky had a hold over Kolya and had been blackmailing my friend in Paris, perhaps threatening to give him up to the Chekists, now about half the city’s émigré population. There had been some trouble, too, over an Apache girl. I did not judge. I, too, have had moments when I have been unable to act like an absolute saint. Il fallait être idiot ou hypnotisé pour périr dans ces fameux camps. Chacun a toujours être maître de son destin.
Our journey, which would end, we hoped, in Tangier, had hardly begun. All we knew was that it would not be the leisurely and predictable trek we had so far enjoyed. By now, however, I had learned to respect the desert and never to trust it—the only attitude permitting survival. As yet we had hardly experienced the ‘real’ desert, that ‘abomination of desolation’ as Leonard Woolworth had it, although he was referring, I think, to Ur.
Egypt conquered Phoenicia but made the mistake of letting her people settle in Canaan. They had a theory that the ‘Philistines’ would control the Jews. And of course reckoned without Samson.
Paradoxically relieved to leave the lonely citadel of Christendom behind us, we took up with a party of tall white-robed Sheul making a trading circuit which would bring them back to Chad as wealthy men. They spoke thickly accented Arabic and bad French. But the blacks were cheerful company for the two weeks it took us to reach al-Jawf, a typical oasis with the usual assemblage of clay hovels, ramshackle places of worship, ragged awnings and rickety stalls, but boasting a collection of Jew merchants who, judging by their relatively rich clothing, possessed the only wealth in the place and with whom Kolya did some discreet business. He disposed of our oldest and weakest camel at a price which surprised and delighted him. When he showed me the purse of gold, my heart sank. Now the Tuareg were bound to attack us. I had been listening to some of the drivers and suggested we follow one of the other routes down as far as Djarba and from there make our way to Tunis, but he said it would be too dangerous. We must be sure never to live in fear once we returned to Europe. Also we could not risk the French and Italian patrols who nowad
ays habitually covered those roads. The only sensible route for us was the one he had chosen.
I asked him if he was absolutely certain the Darb al-Haramiya existed. He laughed loudly at my question but did not offer a direct reply. He said I should prepare myself. In less than a week we would be making our way into the Sand Sea, en route for ‘the Lost Oasis’. ‘We’ll be the first white men ever to see it!’
With good riding-camels and three of our pack animals exchanged for two fresh sturdy beasts we had traded with the Tebu who had brought them to al-Jawf to sell, we allowed the momentum of the next caravan to carry us from the oasis while our prayers were still echoing amongst the eroded hills. Kolya had insisted we needed cover so we were carrying fabrics and clothing, much of it in colours favoured by the Berbers. We now claimed to be Palestinian haberdashers from Haifa. As I had guessed, the Zazara Oasis was not marked on any map, and most believed it a myth, but Kolya’s information came, he said, from an Arab slaver in al-Jawf who travelled that way regularly. It lay far into the Sand Sea, a place of lush vegetation and sweet water, hidden by a great rocky overhang so that it could be seen neither from the air nor from the ground. ‘He swore it gives the purest water in the world.’
Everyone on the caravan guessed we were planning to go south-west to trade with the Tuareg and to a man declared us both mad. One Sudanese spice-merchant told Kolya he now realised he was ‘as foolish as your brother. You are clearly of one blood!’ He begged Kolya as a friend not to choose certain death. This caused me to sink into a peculiar, expectant calm from which it was almost impossible to arouse myself. Having failed to convince us to avoid the Thieves’ Road, he shrugged and left us to the Will of God, but continued to behave as if he had persuaded us to stay with them and give up all thoughts of the Darb al-Haramiya. This was a form their courtesy took.
Jerusalem Commands Page 44
