Sahara (2002)

by Michael Palin

Donkey bearing radishes. No motor vehicles are allowed in.

  The nearest thing to a supermarket.

  Abdelfettah in his workshop, carving designs in white plaster.

  Worshippers wash before prayer at the Kairouyine Mosque in Fez. Founded in 859, it is one of the largest and finest mosques in North Africa, accommodating 20,000 people. Alongside it is one of the oldest universities in the world (founded in 850), and the incomparably rich Kairouyine Library.

  Paintbox effect at the medieval tanneries in Fez. Skins are treated and dyed in stone vats, as they have been for hundreds of years, by individual human effort. There were once 200 tanneries like this.

  Man strikes oil in the main square. Other attractions include acrobats, transvestites, snake charmers and dentists.

  Haggling for a pair of backless slippers they call ‘babouches’. The sign of quality is the number of stitches round each one. The yellow pair had 350 on each slipper.

  Ait Benhaddou. Impressive and elegant towers below, thanks to Hollywood and UNESCO, but the neglected old fortification at the top of the hill is half reduced to ruin by rain and wind.

  Southern Morocco. Bedouin tribesmen secure their camels in the teeth of a gale. Many now depend for their livelihood on the demand for camel safaris from increasingly adventurous tourists.

  ALGERIA

  Smara Camp, Algeria. For the last twenty-five years it has been home to 40,000 Saharawi refugees, who left their Western Saharan homeland rather than accept Moroccan domination.

  ALGERIA

  Saharawi women outside a weaving school. Women virtually run the camps. They cook, build, administrate and run the children, whilst many of the men are in the army.

  Metou, the partly Welsh-educated woman who showed me round the camp, sporting her traditional melepha and less traditional jeans and Doc Martens.

  Abstract patterns are important, as Islam discourages figurative art. Here just a glimpse on a melepha and tent covering behind.

  Bachir, Krikiba and the children.

  Sweet tea is the national drink of the Sahara. Everything stops for its preparation, which must never be hurried.

  In Western Sahara: camel stew with the drivers.

  Tyremarks on the surface of a typical reg, the flat gravel or coarse sand plains which are a driver’s delight.

  WESTERN SAHARA

  Inspecting Polisario troops near the wall. Their problem is partly lack of equipment, partly motivation after an eleven-year ceasefire. The flag of the Saharawi Arab Democratic Republic flies at the right.

  WESTERN SAHARA

  Nothing is wasted in the desert. Empty ammunition cans help solve the housing shortage.

  The team that brought us safely through our first test in tough desert travel. Mohammed Salim is on my right, and next to him is the gentle Khalihena, who looked after me at my lowest ebb.

  Street art in Zouerat. The bold telephone sign not only looks good, but is also vital in a place where many cannot read.

  The portrait of Saddam that we’re not allowed to film.

  MAURITANIA

  Worker at the iron ore mines, wrapped up against the howling wind. The world’s longest train is loading in the background.

  MAURITANIA

  The reason why ironmongery is Zouerat’s growth industry. Drought has brought great demand for shelter as nomads come in from the desert.

  Rush hour at Arret TFM. Fight for seats on one of the Sahara’s only trains. Those in Iron Ore class are already in position.

  Englishman makes the mistake of saying ‘After you’.

  Jumping the queue, Mauritanian-style.

  Breaking the silence. The first of 115 motorbikes slides and slithers through the sand dunes south of Atar.

  The First World flies in for the day. Atar airport becomes media city as the Dakar Rally hits town.

  Tougadh village. Western wealth makes little impression on the locals. The adverts are all for the television coverage.

  With the owner of a one-room library in Chinguetti. In his case the family silver is the written word.

  Writing was a work of art for Islamic scholars. The calligraphy in the books in Chinguetti’s libraries is up to 1000 years old.

  With a little help from my friends, I’m never short of advice in my struggle against the Grand Master of Chinguetti.

  Three of my champion crottes.

  Yes! The turds have it! England 1, Mauritania 0.

  Nouakchott beach, where the Sahara meets the Atlantic. A mile of fish market with a backdrop of wrecked freighters.

  Never a shortage of helpers to bring the boats in. A boy waits with his plastic tray to carry fish up to be weighed. But the best of the catch is trawled by foreign factory ships out beyond the horizon.

  The southern Saharan look. A woman, more Negro than Arab, chews on an acacia stick, the Saharan equivalent of toothbrush and toothpaste combined.

  Fabrics for sale in Nouakchott market. Bold colours and patterns are one of the great delights of the southern Sahara.

  SENEGAL

  At the end of the island on which St-Louis, first French foothold in Africa, was founded, a museum and cultural centre rises beside the waters of the Senegal.

  Main picture: Fishwives in St-Louis. The fires burn all day long at this massive smokery on the banks of the River Senegal.

  Life in St-Louis.

  Outside a shop with a tall, dashing salesman and short plaster figures of the colon, the caricature of the French colonialist in Africa.

  Life in St-Louis.

  Women return from the market, heads full.

  Life in St-Louis.

  At lunch with artist Jacob Yakouba and his soapstar wife, Marie-Madeleine.

  All needs catered for on the streets of Dakar.

  Pre-Tabaski sheep-fattening grips Dakar.

  Wrestling is the second biggest sport in Senegal.

  At a local contest in a Dakar suburb, the boys show how it should be done.

  My failed attempt to leave without the cheerleader noticing.

  A sweet potato changes hands at Kayes station. The mud-stained coach bears the logo of Chemins de Fer de Mali.

  At Mehani in Mali, the local train we’ve waited two hours for pulls in, and becomes an instant shopping mall.

  MALI

  Architectural star of the Sahara. The Great Mosque at Djenne, the largest mud-brick building in the world. The projecting wooden posts are for the masons to stand on during the yearly re-mudding of the mosque.

  Bamako, Mali. First sight of the River Niger. The terrace of the Hotel Mande, on which I eat the best breakfast of the entire trip, pokes into view from behind the bougainvillea.

  Laundry on the Niger. Dominating the Bamako skyline in the background is the bridge over the Niger and the ‘mud skyscraper’, actually a bank headquarters.

  Kora masterclass with Toumani Diabate.

  With Amadou (Pigmy to his friends) outside one of Djenne’s unique mud mansions.

  Thousands at prayer on Tabaski morning, in their best outfits. Dress code: be different from the person next to you.

  Tabaski snapshots.

  Young boys, given the sheep’s testicles after Tabaski, use the scrotums as whoopee cushions.

  The first sacrifices stain the streets of Djenne.

  Carpet salesmen at the Mopti dockside, picking their way through indescribable things left behind by the receding river.

  Going nowhere. One of the big Niger ferry boats becalmed at Mopti.

  Mural of Dogon Country. A sneak preview of my next destination on a hotel wall.

  Baobab Avenue, Tirelli. The lower bark of the tree is stripped to provide fibre for rope, whilst the leaves are crushed to make a sauce to liven up the unvarying diet of millet.

  With Amadou, my guide, and assorted family members in the headman’s compound. Thatched-roofed granaries in the background.

  The hottest meal of my life. Temperatures of 53degC/131deg F roast my head, whilst my fingers are scalded by a red-hot mixture of mille
t and baobab sauce. The tasselled hats are typically Dogon; the straw and leather wide-brim, worn by the headman, is Fulani.

  Watching the tingetange, stilt dancers, at a celebration of the dead. Four or five feet off the ground, with masks, cowrieshell bodices and horsetails, the dancers require exceptional skills and long training.

  A Dogon boy’s drawing of a dancer’s mask, which can be anything up to 18 feet long.

  Children wave as we pass the small town of Quadagga, proud possessor of a gem of a mosque, which I first thought was a mirage of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge.

  The newly restored walls of the 680-year-old Djingareiber Mosque in Timbuktu - the oldest mosque in continuous use in West Africa. It was built by El Saheli, the man credited with inventing this style of mud-brick architecture.

  Getting in some camel practice. I make my first acquaintance with the Touareg, the ‘veiled men’ of the desert who founded Timbuktu 800 years ago.

  Fresh bread from the street ovens is one of the pleasures of Timbuktu.

  A Touareg cross. One thing I did buy outside the hotel.

  Looking out of the upstairs window of the house which gave brief protection to Alexander Gordon Laing, the Scottish explorer who rediscovered Timbuktu in 1826 and was killed on his way home, aged thirtythree.

  NIGER

  The yellow base used on the faces of these Gerewol is made from a local stone. Cowrie shells and ostrich feathers are essential ingredients in the art of seduction.

  NIGER

  Camel-driven irrigation system at the oasis of Tabelot.

  NIGER

  Tabelot. At home with Omar (centre), his four wives and some of their fifteen children.

  For the young Wodaabe, eye-rolling means sex appeal. The lips and eyes are accentuated with kohl, made from ground stibnite.

  Life with the camels. Lunchtime.

  In the foreground, they graze the acacia trees, their heavy-duty tongues stripping thorns as sharp as nails to get to the leaves.

  A loosening of the turban to get some air to the brain.

  A trans-Saharan camion carries workers and all their worldly goods, from Libya back south.

  Another Tamahaq language class with Izambar.

  A baby gazelle, deserted by its mother, was found near the camp one morning. Gazelles are able to survive in the desert as they never need water, drawing all the moisture they require from plants.

  Divided loyalties. Izambar, in indigo robe at far right of picture, and Omar, next to him, watch as I try to tear myself away from the team. A sad and happy leave-taking, after almost a week together.

  Which way is Algeria?

  ALGERIA

  Back of beyond. The Niger-Algeria border posts.

  ALGERIA

  On the road to Tamanrasset we pass what’s known as the ‘Cemetery’, a graveyard of hopes that driving across the Sahara was easy.

  ALGERIA

  Whatever happened here? One probably turned without indicating.

  Sahara sunset on the way north through Algeria.

  With Tom Sheppard, doyen of the desert.

  In the heart of the Hoggar Mountains. The peaks are the cores of old volcanoes.

  With Brother Edward of Les Petits Freres de Jesus, successor of Charles de Foucauld at the remote refuge at Assakrem, over 9000 feet above the Sahara.

  Algeria’s Aladdin’s Cave. Oil pipes and flares foul the desert near Hassi-Messaoud but, along with natural gas, the fields provide 90 per cent of the country’s foreign earnings.

  Salah Benyoub at the CNDG at Hassi-R’Mel. Natural gas that will cook lunches from Milan to Mannheim to Madrid is prepared here and despatched along sub-Mediterranean pipelines.

  The scale of Hassi-R’Mel shows the hidden potential of the Sahara. Soon the first ever trans-Saharan pipeline will bring natural gas here from northern Nigeria.

  Main picture: The Libyan frontier near In Amenas is marked by a single tree. This spare, uncluttered, beautiful spot was one of my favourite places in the Sahara.

  LIBYA

  With Ray Ellis in the cemetery - all ranks and nationalities have exactly the same size gravestones.

  LIBYA

  Preparing for the last ceremony of the day: the floating of a wreath on the waters of the harbour that the Rats defended for so long.

  LIBYA

  With the Australian memorial rising behind them, Lady Randell comforts relatives of Australian and Maori war dead.

  The Rats of Tobruk, sixty years on. ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ in the Second World War taunted in his propaganda broadcasts: ‘Come out of your holes you rats!’ And they did. Left to right: Francis Cload, Douglas Waller, Leslie Meek, Frank Plant, Peter Vaux, Frank Harrison, Harry Day, James Pearce, Stephen Dawson, Ray Ellis.

  At Acroma-Knightsbridge Cemetery, Mohamed Haneish and his wife keep the place immaculate, working wonders with limited resources. Water is scarce and, because they’re close to the sea, it’s brackish and salty. Mohamed, whose father taught him the job, calls the dead ‘my boys’.

  Apollonia. Remains of a 2000-year-old mosaic flooring, showing palm trees and wild animals.

  Abdul Gerawi, our chief Libyan guide (in the well-cut Western-style clothes worn by most professional Libyans), watches filming in the magical Roman theatre at Apollonia, rediscovered only forty years ago.

  Sweeping gaze. Plenty of brushes, but where are all the people?

  Benghazi schoolchildren stop to watch the filming.

  Inside the Great Manmade River Project. This is the size of the pipes, of which 1000 miles are already laid, as part of Colonel Gaddafi’s ambitious plan to water his country by tapping underground reservoirs deep in the desert.

  Camel delivery service stops to offer assistance.

  More old ruins at Leptis Magna. Well, I had been filming for three months.

  TUNISIA

  Like rows of open oyster shells, sunbathers flank the pool of one of the big hotels on the lotuseating Isle of Djerba. In Tunisia, tourist revenue makes up for the lack of oil earnings with which neighbours Libya and Algeria have been blessed. Or cursed.

  TUNISIA

  Greek amphorae stacked on the harbourside at Houmt Souk. They’re not for sale; they’re for catching octopuses.

  TUNISIA

  There Must Be Easier Ways to Make A Living, Number 24: wrestling freshly caught octopus.

  Return to the crucifixion scene. Walking round a troglodyte home in El Haddej. Both Life of Brian and Star Wars were filmed in this unique, moon-like landscape.

  Taking tea with Bilgessou and his wife and daughter. Refusing to move from the cave he’s lived in all his life, he makes money by providing accommodation for curious travellers.

  The Roman amphitheatre at El Jem was the third biggest they ever built; I walk the underground chambers where both the gladiators and the lions were kept before a fight. They still have a deeply unsettling atmosphere.

  Nostalgic return to the Ribat at Monastir, a ninth-century Arab fortress, in which the tolerant Tunisians let us film Life of Brian, twenty-four years ago. Aficionados will recognise the tower from which Brian leapt only to be rescued by a flying saucer.

  ALGERIA

  Every home a balcony, decreed Napoleon III. The apartment blocks of Algiers, with louvered shutters and neo-classical details, are a reminder that for more than 100 years, until independence in 1962, Algiers was as much a part of France as the Lyons or Marseilles it resembles.

  ALGERIA

  On the roof of the Villa Suzini. Behind me, sunlight across the city explains why the French called it Alger La Blanche, the White City. In the cellars of this pretty Moorish villa Algerians who resisted French rule were beaten, tortured and often killed during the independence struggle in the 1950s.

  On the road to Djerba, Tunisia. Standing left to right: Basil Pao, John Paul Davidson, Peter Meakin, Claire Houdret. Sitting: Pritchard, Meakin, Mohammed (driver), Man With Grin.

  A wall in Belcourt is covered with football slogans. The English contribution, thoug
h misspelt, is not forgotten.

  In the casbah, Algiers. This is the oldest part of town and dates from long before the French arrived. It’s also the heart of antigovernment feeling. The houses are squeezed tight along narrow alleyways, making it easy to defend and very difficult to attack.