I came down from my saddle, in some distress because of the novelty of the experience.
Holmes looked every inch a Tuareg. His sharp features and commanding presence had already marked him as a natural leader and everyone crowded around him for no particular reason. His ability to tie the veil perfectly also helped.
“Not a pleasant experience, Watson,” he observed. “We have passed a few hours but I understand we are already delayed because of the unexpected desert wind that we encountered. I do not know if the Guardians are behind us. I rule nothing out. It is unfair to expose our Tuareg friends to dangers, but they are our only guarantee of safety.”
“How will we know if the Guardians are behind us, Holmes?”
“I think the idea is to have Mehdi send another small caravan slightly ahead of the Guardians once it becomes clear that they are chasing us. The situation is grave and unpredictable. Travelling across the Sahara in peak summer is a foolhardy adventure for men like you and me. If we are in such a terrible condition after just a few hours, I cannot imagine our fate for the next twenty five days! And then again from Taghaza to Timbuktu for about the same number of days! Tut! We must find strength in our heads first! I shall count on you to keep me mentally engaged, my good fellow!”
I drank some water while the animals were also given some, though not too much. We began again at about four o’clock.
The dunes along the way became more pronounced. The wind had dropped but sand still shifted gently everywhere. For a long stretch, I saw not a single date palm, not even some miserable acacia shrubs that the camels are so fond of. And on that stretch, along the way, we saw the skeletons of two camels. Someone ahead of us pointed to the east and when we looked carefully, after shielding our eyes, we could see the bleached skeleton of a man at the edge of a sand dune. How he must have suffered in the heat, with thirst, sand, and flies, poor man!
“By the looks of it, a recent fatality, Watson,” said Holmes, turning back toward me. “What might have been his story? A confused search for water is what I would guess. A deeply regrettable matter.
“That reminds me, Watson, you were to entertain me by talking of our adventures in an altogether more convivial past.”
And so I recounted, for Holmes’ amusement, many of the adventures we had been on together. We had a good laugh over the absurdity of the Brittany cottage mystery. We were annoyed again by how we had been tricked by the Czar’s cousin in Munich. We regretted the boat tragedy in Copenhagen, an entirely avoidable eventuality; if only the Duke of Manchester had bothered to read Holmes’ letter a day earlier! We talked about the shocking cases of the Speckled Band and the Red Headed League. And the Scandal in Bohemia, of course!
“The machinations of man, Watson, are beyond the realm of imagination.” Holmes’ muffled voice was heard from behind his indigo tagelmust. “Even now, we are working hard to thwart diabolical plans. We are completely cut off from civilization, moving slowly through the endless Sahara desert, with no guarantee that we will reach our destination and get our hands on the manuscript. We have only each other, Watson, to remind us of a different life, when we smoked quietly in the evenings at Baker Street.”
“What of Professor Moriarty, Holmes?” I asked.
“I have no doubt he has guessed that we have taken a caravan across the Sahara to Timbuktu. We are safe only because of remoteness. Danger actually escalates as we near Timbuktu. Will someone be lying in wait for us? I understand that the region is extremely volatile in any case.”
He raised an eyebrow. “By the way, Watson, what of the readers of your tales?”
“You are sorely missed, Holmes. The atmosphere was positively funereal across the country after the Reichenbach episode.”
Holmes laughed scornfully. “Bah! A hysterical group of barely literate lemmings, Watson! Easily excited by tales of bloodshed and the application of common sense. The insanity of modern civilization, Watson—people thirsting for violence and horror but only on the pages of a book or newspaper! They think, I am sure, that you and I are perpetually engulfed in a miasma of crime and punishment. This is entirely your fault, Watson, for allowing your sensibilities to be compromised by the need to pander to a immature mob. I would be quite happy with just my violin. Now I am sure you plan to write about this very episode, am I right?”
“Of course, Holmes! Why ever not? Surely this remarkable tale must be known to the civilized world! But you do me a grave injustice by claiming that my work is read by common men with limited intelligence! These men and women positively adore you and wish you well, Holmes!”
“I disagree, Watson. However, I am now obliged to make this story as exciting as possible so that every page of your forthcoming book reeks of gore, illegality, blackmail, murder, and diplomatic intrigue. Most vexing indeed, most vexing! A profoundly juvenile citizenry! These are the times when the private preferences of my brother Mycroft seem so attractive. Imagine the pleasures of sitting quietly at the Diogenes Club, not having to worry about public opinion! Well, I have made my bed and have to lie in it. Meanwhile, I can watch your amusing literary efforts, filled with astonishing exaggerations!”
By and by, the soporific effect of the movement of the camel combined with the intense heat, the swirling sands and the monotonous landscape caused us to cease talking. We were barely awake, but the ingenious saddles kept us secure.
The baking heat was beyond belief. It hit us relentlessly from all sides. For someone like me, who had seen action in Afghanistan and still had a Jezail bullet throbbing within, pain and suffering were no strangers. Yet the tropical heat I experienced in the land of the Balochs and in Sind was nothing compared to the unrelenting waves of hot air, the pinpricks of heated sand, and the uncomfortable jerking sway of my camel taking its toll on my back.
I have only a bare recollection of how the day ended. I was barely conscious. Somehow, the sun set slowly in the west, and the head of the caravan finally stopped at a tiny oasis. Holmes and Hasso came up to my camel and made it sit down so that they could help me. My distress was acute and obvious.
The Tuaregs collected dry fronds of date palms and added some charcoal. Soon a roaring fire took form in the middle of the oasis. Some in the group began cooking. Others went from camel to camel, brushing and cleaning them first and then feeding and watering them. They examined the hooves of all of them, searching for sores or anything else that might cause them discomfort. They did all this before they themselves ate.
Many Tuaregs came to see me and offered suggestions on how I could massage my legs to bring back some comfort. I felt better after walking about the oasis for a while. I washed my face in the brackish water at a spring there and felt a new man.
The sun had set and, as if by magic, the heat vanished, to be replaced by a steadily increasing cold. The Tuaregs passed around their taguella bread with a heavy sauce, millet porridge, and goat cheese. Then a few of them took out tambours, their traditional instruments, and began singing. The entire group sang and clapped their hands. I must confess that I thoroughly enjoyed their energetic music though I did not understand a word.16 The atmosphere was most cordial and cheerful.
Hasso Ag Akotey asked Holmes if he would play the violin for them. I had quite forgotten that he was carrying it with him. It occurred to me that the sensitive violin must have endured heat it was not accustomed to. But on the contrary, when Holmes applied bow to string, the sounds that emerged were of the highest timbre. Holmes, with his keen ear, had already picked up a few Tuareg melodies, and he played a vigorous fiddle while our friends accompanied him with clapping and their own instruments. Holmes had again demonstrated his ability to assimilate into any group with ease. Admiration for him in the group increased even more. I was proud of him.
Who could have imagined that Sherlock Holmes, still considered dearly departed, and I, Dr. John Watson, would be part of a tribal entertainment event in the middle of the Sahara des
ert, miles from civilization, enjoying music under a wonderful clear sky with thousands of stars, and camels, peacefully chewing the cud, looking on?
The cold of the desert had increased quickly. The same tagelmust and other garments that were necessary to keep away heat and sand during the day were equally effective in keeping us warm at night. We slept in the open under the night sky, with thick blankets. I was exhausted. I had no idea when I slept.
At this point, I must pause to remind the reader of something important. I am a chronicler of the activities of my esteemed friend, Sherlock Holmes.
When the Strand took it upon themselves to start publishing my reminiscences, they very successfully created a set of loyal readers who developed a piercing respect for Holmes. But alas, due to the whims of the editors, my original work was often tampered with. Many details and recollections were struck out because of the belief that readers only sought vivid descriptions of crimes and how Holmes foiled the designs of unpleasant men. As a result of such conditioning, readers forgot that Holmes himself was quite contemptuous of the modern citizen’s vicarious delight in bloodshed and mayhem. He was the finest gentleman, preferring to untangle rather than brutally excise. If not for his skill in communicating with many wayward young men in a certain strata, London would today have been a wilderness with a reputation for excessive crime. To expect Holmes and myself to be forever immersed in the fog of crime and provide the morbid citizenry with an endless stream of stories celebrating blood and depravity is unfair. Attention must be drawn to his scholarship, his love for music, and his unfortunate interest in cocaine. Perhaps it is a fruitless hope.
Nevertheless, I have spent time including the details of a memorable trip through the Sahara. I decline, as a matter of principle, to simply blank out the journey and string together an absurd collection of events specific to crime. Should you find this position to be not of your liking, I may suggest the following options:
1.Destroy the book in a suitable manner,
2.Return the book to your bookseller and request a refund, or
3.Write to the editor of Poisoned Pen Press expressing your anguish about the deplorable lowering in standards that you have been forced to endure in the course of your perusal of the book.
If you are, as I am certain, an individual of high intelligence, I seek your indulgence, and request you to continue your voyage within the confines of these pages.
I now return to my main narrative.
***
When I awoke, I noticed the quiet bustle about me. The Tuaregs had been readying for the journey and had most courteously allowed me to sleep a little more, out of consideration for my condition.
Hasso suggested that I keep a packet of kola nuts with me for the journey. They were, he said, useful to ward off sleep and to concentrate. I kept some in one of the folds of my dress. I had already started developing a facility for putting on the tagelmust in an efficient way, and soon, our caravan was on its way in the darkness.
Holmes and I discussed the situation of which our friends were not entirely aware.
“The Tuaregs are in conflict with the French, Watson. The possibility of a confrontation can never be ruled out. If two Englishmen are found in a Tuareg group, everyone will be in trouble. We must extricate ourselves from their company after we finish our task at the Sankore Mosque. While I have told them I propose to return with them, it would be wiser to find some other means. After studying the map, a new plan has occurred to me. I shall discuss it with you at some point.”
“Is the manuscript safe, Holmes?”
“Oh yes, Watson.” Holmes smiled sardonically.
I did not inquire further.
And so the days passed, with the caravan covering set distances according to a plan. The heat was oppressive but after a couple of days, I was able to adjust. I became quite addicted to the kola nuts, which Holmes too found useful, given that he had no recourse to his other, far more lethal cocaine addiction.
I lost count of the days. At one of the oases, when I sought to ask Hasso how much further we had to travel to get to Taghaza, he merely replied “soon.” Then he smiled and observed, “It is not Tangier.”
Along the way, a couple of the Tuaregs suffered from heat-related maladies including bad stomachs. I had followed Holmes’ suggestion and was well equipped with medicines. The Tuaregs had their own traditional medicine, of course, but were curious about what I had to offer. As it happened, Epsom salts and Bicarbonate of soda worked very well and the ill travellers were very grateful for my attentions.
The quality of water at a particular oasis was a matter of some concern, and we were advised to avoid drinking it. Further along from that oasis, we saw evidence of the effect of a lack of water and the most searing heat. A caravan of four camels had come to an unfortunate end recently. The bleached bones of the camels and the skeletons of the two unfortunate travellers caused me great distress. Such scenes were apparently quite common along the path.
“This happens when you become trop confiant—overconfident,” said one of the Tuaregs, who knew a little French. “You cannot master the desert. A grain of sand is more powerful than your strongest camel.”
“How do you suppose they died?” I asked him.
“By overloading the camels or not taking enough water. Or not planning the journey. Who can say?” he shrugged, adjusting his tagelmust.
Twenty-five days passed in a haze of intense heat, biting cold, music, sandstorms and disorientation. Occasionally, I lost all sensitivity to the passage of time. It was just a never ending sway, the grunts of camels, the occasional cry from one of the caravan drivers. Stopping, eating, restarting: one day merged into another. I found it difficult to believe that we were on one of the most important trade paths in the history of human endeavour, where tons of goods had travelled north to south, and south to north.
We finally reached Taghaza.
We dismounted at one of the traditional points and looked around. It seemed a most uninspiring town, with just a handful of buildings and a few palm trees.
“We shall stay here for about three days,” announced Hasso Ag Akotey, after conferring with his men. “The conditions have been very harsh and the animals need rest. As do the men.”
“How far is Timbuktu from here?” inquired Holmes.
“Perhaps a few days less than the journey thus far. Who can say?” He was in no hurry. He had travelled on this route more than one hundred times, he said, but each journey was different. The desert dictates our speed, he said, and no emergency would make him travel faster than what the desert permitted. The price to pay for violating the rules was unacceptable.
At Taghaza, we met many more Tuaregs. Some were travelling north, back to Sijilmasa. Others were like us, halting for a few days before continuing to Timbuktu. We observed that there were certain differences in the way they tied their tagelmusts. This had to do with their tribal affiliations, we were informed.
At this crossroads, it was possible to go in the direction of Iwatlan in Mauritania or to Timbuktu, which was our destination. Ghana’s reputation for gold was known, but our objective was something presumably of greater value, a mysterious half-manuscript hidden somewhere in the ancient Sankore Mosque.
Taghaza was a disappointment, even if it was an important transit point. Commerce was still driven by salt mines, though much less so, and we saw a few camels carrying large slabs of salt from the salt mines and from a larger mine at a place called Taoudenni. Since it was peak summer, activity was not as intense. Sadly, we saw many slaves as well. Slavery was common and accepted, by both master and the slave, and no one thought much about it. Our British values would not have found application and resonance here and we wisely kept our counsel. The slaves worked the mines under deplorable conditions and invariably died young, we gathered. I saw two of them pass by. They happened to glance at me and we looked at each other for seve
ral moments. Perhaps he saw freedom in my eyes. And I saw a man who was more or less dead, simply lurching from day to day in absolute dull hopelessness, with death being the only relief he could look forward to. I do not think he craved freedom, which to him was an unimaginable prospect. I averted my eyes.
The buildings were constructed with large slabs of salt and some were covered with the skins of camels, goats, and gazelles. The whole experience was unsettling. A town full of travellers. Salt mines. Slaves. Brackish water. And, to add to our misery, endless swarms of flies! Nothing had perhaps changed since Ibn Batuta had travelled here and made a note of all this in the Rihla.
The Tuaregs replenished their supplies, rested their camels and freshened them. We noticed that there was now a greater variety in dates and fruits available. Already, the faint suggestions of the lush tropics were visible, brought to Taghaza by caravans from the south.
One evening, Holmes shared with me his daring plan. I was stupefied.
***
We continued from Taghaza. The journey to Timbuktu was expected to take about three weeks and the conditions were slightly better, we were informed by travellers from the south.
This was true to a certain extent. The effect of the Niger River, still very far away, was gradually seen, and the sands merged into a darker, brown soil. The flora changed too, with the occasional acacia and mimosa tree. The availability of water remained unpredictable except where we saw baobab trees, which were always a sign of fresh water.
On a particular day, as we set out, Hasso asked us to be extremely careful and keep awake. “Eat more kola nuts today,” he said. “There are Djinn here and they find persons in caravans who are sleepy and take over their thoughts. Such men lose their minds. They see things in the desert that do not exist and no one can convince them otherwise. This is the most dangerous part of our journey. It is not the heat that worries me. It is the Djinn.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 14
