The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Wrapped in a towel, I shuffled past them into the blistering steam room. The chamber was illuminated by shafts of natural light, pinpoints of radiance, like a night sky. After being scalded then scrubbed down to the bone with a hunk of pumice, I shuffled out again squeaky clean. As I changed, I found myself pondering how the Occidental world could have lost the tradition of communal bathing – one of the pillars on which the Arab world was born.

  Mohammed spat out another proverb as he took my money: ‘Clean feet leave no footprints,’ he said. Then he directed me to the famous Nawfara Café on the other side of the Umayyed Mosque. He said that if I heard the storyteller there, I would be the happiest man alive, a prospect too good to let go by.

  Out on the street, I made my way through a river of Shi’a pilgrims, most of them women, furled from head to toe in black. There were men, too, beating their chests rhythmically as they went. They come each winter in their thousands from Iran, to pray at the shrine of the daughter of Imam Husain.

  I carried on down the lane.

  Even before I had turned the corner and descended the steps, I smelled the scent of apple shisha on the breeze.

  The Nawfara Café is an institution in Damascus. You get the feeling that entire lives have been swallowed up there, a ritual of conversation, tobacco, and the bitter Arabica blend.

  Inside, a waiter hurried around replenishing the shisha with burning coals. In the middle of the room, propped against the wall was a kind of raised throne. Perched on it sat a grey-haired man. He was wrapped in a black robe, its lapel trimmed with gold. Nestled on his lap was a book filled with tight black handwriting. He was shouting out, waving a sword.

  But no one paid any attention at all.

  The reason for the lack of interest was a widescreen TV on the adjacent wall. Chelsea was playing Arsenal. Everyone in the room, except for me and the storyteller, was glued to the game.

  Throughout history, Damascus has been famed for its hakawatis, storytellers, a tradition that was celebrated until as recently as a decade ago. But the ubiquitous satellite channels and televisions have killed the ancient Arab art of conversation. The result – a world in which storytellers are a dying breed.

  And there is none in the Arab world more respected than Rachid Abu Shadi.

  Silently, he finished the tale, put down the sword and the book, and slipped off his throne. The room was filled with applause, but it was not for the storyteller. No one noticed him leave, because Arsenal had just scored.

  I invited Abu Shadi to join me for a cup of coffee.

  ‘When I was young,’ he said, a glint in his eye, ‘my father used to bring me here and I would listen for hours on end – to the tales of Antar and Abla. You see here at Nawfara there’s a tradition. Only the tales of Antar, the most famous Arab hero, are told.’

  I asked about Alf Layla wa Layla, A Thousand and One Nights. The hakawati lit a Turkish cigarette and drew the smoke through his clenched fist.

  ‘They were told elsewhere,’ he said, ‘you see, each café had its own repertoire, but all that’s now gone. I am the last of my kind.’ He wiped his eye. ‘One day the television will break,’ he said darkly, and then they will remember me, not because of the stories, but because of the silence there will be without me, and without that vile contraption that hangs up there on the wall.’

  The next day I awoke with Lady Jane on my mind.

  I had dreamt of her octagonal parlour and wanted to see Palmyra for myself, where she lived half the year with her beloved sheikh. Standing two hundred kilometres to the north-east of Damascus, Palmyra once boasted a vast community, poised on the caravan routes between Persia and the Mediterranean.

  Travelling there in the 1930s on camel, my Afghan grandfather was astonished by the Classical ruins. He wrote, ‘To set eyes on this remote oasis is to be reminded that, however mighty an empire imagines itself to be, it is as fragile as a child’s toy.’

  The scale of the ruins at Palmyra are truly awe-inspiring. They stand like an ancient movie back-lot, all ruined and bleak like the end of the world. But it is the silence that made the strongest impression on me. I found myself picturing both Lady Jane and my own grandfather listening to it, and to the infrequent blasts of wind ripping across the plains. It was as if the breeze were singing a warning, that civilizations crumble and fall as sure as they take seed and flourish.

  Still known to the Arabs by its pre-Semitic name, Tadmor, Palmyra was once a place of decadence and wealth. Walk the ruins and you get a sense of the power of the culture that shaped it.

  There are vast colonnaded streets, temples and theatres, ceremonial arches and elaborate tombs, replete with exquisite funereal busts. It’s all fashioned from sumptuous honey-yellow stone, built with a confidence that must have defied anyone who questioned such a metropolis could exist in the desert. But then of course, the landscape has changed dramatically in the forty centuries or more since its founding. Palmyra’s name, meaning ‘the City of Palms’, hints at the fertility of the oasis long gone.

  Not quite so certain are the origins of this now-desolate commercial and cultural outpost of antiquity. Its name appears on stone tablets dating to the nineteenth century before the birth of Christ, and is apparently the place mentioned in the Bible’s First Book of Kings, as ‘Tamor’, a city founded by Solomon. More clear is the Roman Empire’s delight at capturing the oasis, which they regarded as almost without equal. When Hadrian visited in 129 AD, he renamed it Palmyra Hadriana, and proclaimed it a free city.

  Sitting among the ruins in the fading light of dusk, the image of Lady Jane Digby was irresistible. I could see her quite clearly in desert robes, strolling in the long shadows thrown by towering colonnades. Like me, I am sure she was taken by the romanticism of it all, and by the desperate beauty that is so alluring as to defy accurate description. By visiting Palmyra, I understood Damascus a little better, reminded that the circle of life stops for no man.

  On arriving back in the capital, I paid Salim the son of Suleiman another visit.

  As before, he was asleep, the tabby kitten curled up on his chest. In the background was the rumble of a generator, the sound drowning out the muezzin’s call to prayer.

  When Salim was awake, and tea had been brewed and served, I brought up the subject of the ceremonial axe. The shopkeeper smiled. ‘You have earned it,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘An object as special as that isn’t for the first day,’ he said, ‘the fact you came back means that the axe was in your dreams. You can have it half the price.’

  FOURTEEN

  Desert Stopover

  MY JOURNEY BEGAN three weeks ago at Tangiers.

  There’s no city like it: a heaving emporium of woollen jelabas and yellow baboush slippers, dark veiled faces, incense and antimony, spices and fruit. It is a place of sheer anticipation, where the ancient and modern mix, the point at which East meets West.

  I was following a childhood dream, a trail southwards venturing from the north-west corner of Africa, south to Timbuktu. My budget was limited and so I opted to travel by local bus. A few miles from this town to that, squashed up at the back with live chickens, spare tyres, and baskets of fish. After all, real travel is not about luxury, but about endurance, and looking on all that passes with fresh eyes.

  The vivid colours of Moroccan life were blinding. Every fruit stall, every kiosk was a blaze of reds and blues, dazzling pinks and sun-ripe yellows. But the colour was eventually traded for the stark desert. Dry terracotta browns, patches of withered maize, parched scrub… and then all of it replaced by a sea of rippled dunes.

  The road became a track no wider than the bus. The sun arched west, and disappeared over the baked sand horizon. Coolness. Then the dark; the moon no more than a sliver of ivory in an ink-black sky. The other passengers and I breathed easy for the first time in as many hours. It was late – ten or eleven. And it was cold. I pulled on my filthy jacket and tried to sleep. We were running hours late, the dilapidated vehicle having overheated in the aft
ernoon just before crossing the border into Mauritania.

  I slipped into sleep, and gradually the discomfort melted away. An hour must have passed.

  Then… BANG!

  A jerk of tremendous force. The sound of glass shattering. The stench of dust and smoke. The bus was on its side. There was screaming and panic in the dark. Instinct took over. I clambered out of what was left of my seat, and crawled from the wreckage. One or two others had managed to do the same. They huddled on the ground, all in shock. Then the petrol tank erupted – a volcano of fire illuminating the night. I thanked fortune for sparing me, and covered my nose. My jacket was drenched in what I assumed at first to be sweat. But I realized it was blood, flowing from a gash on the side of my head.

  It was then that I heard a voice, that of a man. He was calling out to me.

  ‘I am alive,’ I said, breaking into tears. ‘I am alive.’

  The voice spoke again. It was nearer, and a moment later a hand was pressed on my shoulder. I saw the face in the reflection of the inferno. A furrowed brow above and scattered grey bristle below. The man tugged me away from the fire.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I help you.’

  We crossed a low ditch and traipsed over barren fields and sand. I was still dazed, shaking, my ears ringing. It was impossible to make out very much in the dark. The man might have slit my throat right then but I was too confused to care. I walked with my hand as a fist, and tried to prepare myself for danger.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To my home.’

  I must have passed out. Because I can’t remember anything more. Suddenly it was day, bright light, scorching heat. I was lying on a mattress on a cracked mud floor. I could make out the muffled sound of a goat bleating outside, and of a child singing. The singing stopped and the child began to weep. A moment later the old man from the night before was crouching over me. I strained to open my eyes and saw him, a blur of features and yellow teeth. He offered me a tin cup filled with cool water. Struggling, I gulped down the liquid.

  ‘I am Hakim,’ he said.

  ‘Where is my rucksack?’

  ‘Destroyed,’ said the man. ‘The fire. Everything was destroyed.’

  ‘But my passport, my money…?’

  ‘All gone.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  Hakim swept a hand over the stubble on his face.

  ‘Rest, and your fever will go.’

  I lay back and the fever took hold again. It felt as if I was adrift on an ocean of sweat. As I prayed for salvation, my ears filled with the mumbled hum of the muezzin reciting the call to prayer far away.

  Time passed.

  Night, day, night, day, cold interleaved with heat.

  From time to time I would break free from the delirium, just long enough to hear snatches of the world outside. The girl would be singing, or laughing, amidst a backdrop of farmyard sounds. The sounds couched in my desperate thirst.

  It was dark again, and cold, and I was shaking, waiting for the old man or his wife to stumble in and fill my cup. I heard a fruit bat high up in the trees, and a dog worrying the goat. Then the sound of the old man’s voice.

  ‘We must do it,’ he said.

  There was a pause, and the woman replied:

  ‘Let him live a few more days. There’s no need to slaughter him yet.’

  ‘No,’ said Hakim. ‘I will do it tonight.’

  My body was suddenly charged with an almost primeval sense of fear. I was alert. Sweating like a madman, but alert all the same. My mind was racing. I jerked up off the mattress and searched for my clothes. They weren’t there. I scanned the room in which I had been recovering. I hadn’t really noticed it before. It measured about twelve feet by six, the walls made from hand cut planks, and the roof a sheet of crumpled tin. One corner was piled high with sacks of dried maize. There was a single window, glazed with a scrap of polythene, and one doorway. That was the obvious route of escape.

  I moved over to it and listened hard. It led into another room, I supposed the kitchen. I could make out the girl singing softly to herself. There was a sense of peace. Then I made out the sound of the man’s feet entering the kitchen.

  ‘We will kill him tonight,’ said Hakim. ‘It is a matter of honour.’

  The girl did not reply. Instead she broke into tears and seemed to run from the house. I could hear her bare feet darting over the baked mud. The old man must have been standing on the other side of the door. I could feel him there, weight balanced evenly over his feet, thinking, waiting. I felt a wave of fever rolling towards me again, swelling with force as it neared. My eyes watered. I struggled to keep still, and forced myself to think.

  Travel far enough from home and you enter the real world, a realm where life and death are two inseparable facets of the same thing. I had not yet reached my goal, Timbuktu, but I was staring death in the eyes.

  It was very real, cold, clinical.

  Ten seconds later, the Hakim had shuffled outside. Taking my chance, I flung the door open and charged out into the night. I was naked, but for a pair of sweat-drenched boxer shorts, running on bare feet. Which way to go? God knows. It’s all pitch black. I hurtled towards the horizon, into the dark. There were shouts behind me, and the sound of a dog raising the alarm. I charged on, running for all I was worth. Running for my life. The shouting grew more muffled, and I felt the night air pressed on my back. It was cool. Pleasing.

  I ran and ran like never before.

  I hoped I would find a road, but this was wilderness. Thorn trees silhouetted by the full moon. I would have felt pity for myself, but I was too weak, too confused. Eventually I lay down at the foot of a gnarled tree and passed out.

  The dawn touched my face, a blush of pink, gentle, innocent light. I strained to open my eyes, and glanced around fretfully. Lacerated feet, unclothed, lost in a wasteland of nature. The sun soared up overhead, and began to roast me alive. I cursed myself for setting out in search of adventure in the first place. Then I wondered how it might all end. I sat there crouched for most of the morning, unable to decide what to do, or in which direction to trudge.

  Late that afternoon something remarkable happened.

  On the horizon, I saw an object moving. It was low and black, and was too far away to make any noise. I waited and watched, and the object – a vehicle – moved closer. Half and hour passed and it closed in, wheels spinning, churning up the dust. I waved as vigorously as I could. The vehicle, a battered grey Land Rover, rolled to a halt beside the thorn tree under which I had been crouching. I heard the handbrake being pulled on hard.

  A white man clambered out.

  He was tall, young, and almost athletic, dressed in khaki, with an impressively wide canvas hat.

  ‘You’ve got to cover your head in this heat,’ he said, in a clipped English accent.

  ‘Someone was trying to kill me,’ I said feebly.

  The Englishman peered at me, said his name was Rick. He kept a distance, didn’t even step over to shake me by the hand.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘I was in a bus crash. There was an explosion. Then the man who saved me was going to kill me. I managed to escape.’

  I hoped for pity. Rick broke into a grin. His teeth reflected the sunlight. He waved to the car.

  ‘You’d better get in,’ he said.

  I climbed into the passenger seat and, before I could slam the door shut, we were hurtling forward at an alarming pace, jolting up and down and from side to side.

  ‘You’ve gotta be careful out here,’ shouted Rick over the noise of the engine.

  Five minutes later I spotted a group of shacks, tall straight plank walls, roofed in crumpled tin. They were familiar. I felt a pang of fear shoot down my back.

  ‘I can’t go there!’ I shouted. ‘This is where they were keeping me. They were going to kill me.’

  I tried to open the car door, but we were still moving too fast.

  Rick slammed on the brakes, and looked me in the eye.
<
br />   ‘These are my friends,’ he said. ‘They sent their son to find me. He walked for two days to get to me. And he came to me because of you.’

  A moment later, Hakim came rushing out. He looked concerned, confused. I shied away when he neared me.

  ‘I know your plan,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘I heard you… heard you plotting with your wife. Plotting to slit my throat.’

  The old man peered at the dry mud beneath his feet. He didn’t reply at first. His head was drooped in thought. Then I saw the faintest glimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth. A second later it had swept across his face. A moment after that he was roaring in laughter. He said something fast and Rick began to laugh as well.

  I stood there, shirtless, shoeless, sunburned.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Hakim.

  ‘Yes I do,’ I said. ‘You were going to take advantage of me. You were going to kill me.’

  ‘Not you,’ said he replied. ‘We were not going to kill you, but the goat… in honour of you, our guest.’

  That night we feasted on goat stew.

  For me it was a celebration of a kind. I was thankful for having survived my partly self-made ordeal. The next morning, Rick drove me to the next town, gave me a little money, and waited with me for the local bus to arrive. I had changed my plan, a detour to Mauritania’s capital to obtain a new passport. The bus eventually rolled up. Rick, the Englishman, shook my hand hard and wished me luck.

  ‘The less wealth a man has to give,’ he said, as I clambered aboard, ‘the greater the depth of his heart.’

  N.B. This piece is fiction.

  FIFTEEN

  Essaouira, A Portrait

  ON MY FIRST NIGHT IN ESSAOUIRA a man tried to sell me a ghost.

  We were sitting on the ramparts facing the sea, the searing winter wind on our faces, sipping our café noir. The man, a local, with a Portuguese name held a clenched fist in my direction.

  ‘It’s in here,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The ghost.’