Sahara (2002)

by Michael Palin

  His people consist of a group of families, his own and those of four or five blood relatives. Given that Doulla alone has three wives and, as he puts it, ‘another on the way’, as well as six children, the total adds up to that of a small village. They’re on their way to Cure Salee but have decided against setting up camp too close to Ingal, as there is a rumour that the water there is tainted. Water seems to be the only thing these people fight over.

  ‘Arabs control most of the wells,’ says Doulla, ‘and sometimes they don’t want anyone else to have them.’

  I ask him what they fight with. Knives, guns?

  He smiles, indeed almost laughs out loud at the thought.

  ‘No, no, with these,’ he says, raising his fists like a boxer.

  The thought of this frail ascetic figure trading blows with anyone defies the imagination.

  They are trying to raise money to buy a well of their own, which, as Doulla says, would change their lives. They could leave some of their people here throughout the summer, especially the old and infirm, and the children, who remain uneducated because they’re never in one place long enough.

  They make camp close to a line of trees which rise above the scrubby bushes, denoting the presence of a water course. I ask Doulla how long they will stay here.

  It depends on the amount of grazing land, he says.

  ‘When there’s enough, we stay for four to seven days.’

  They have no huts or tents, but they do have impressively large beds, which the women raise up on four funnel-shaped supports, a foot or so off the ground. They spread them with rugs and kilims in vivid, showy colours. Sticks are cut and stuck in the ground at the corners of the bed and thin cotton cloth slung over them to create some privacy. The sun goes down over a huddle of four-posters, making the bush look like a bedding department.

  We pitch our more modest collection of lightweight, bed-less tents on a patch of bare sand nearby.

  Night falls. As we sit down to a bowl of soup and a plate of something and rice, the sound of celebrations carries across from the Wodaabe camp, and soon Doulla emerges from the gloom, along with Perri, the head of the well-buying association who, at all times of day or night, wears a huge pair of Austrian dark glasses.

  Doulla invites me to join their dance. It is the Wodaabe way of welcoming us into their group. I’m pretty exhausted, and was looking forward to climbing into my tent and crashing out, but to refuse would clearly be a serious breach of etiquette.

  I’m led into the centre of a circle of Wodaabe men, clapping and chanting responses and moving round in a slow, rhythmic shuffle. Then the circle closes in, moving tight around me. I can smell sweat and the sweet earth smell of their clothes, but the smiles and the sound of the voices are reassuring. It may look like a war dance, but it’s more like a ritual embrace, a binding together against a hostile world. Not for the first time, I sense that the Wodaabe are decent, tolerant people, inclined to peacefulness and probably easily exploited. Doulla translates their song for me:

  ‘Oh lovely girl with eyes like gazelle,

  White teeth and face like the moon,

  Which shines like the sun,

  You are as beautiful as milk.’

  They’re not the only ones out dancing tonight. Nigel has rigged up a powerful lamp to shoot the sequence and in its beam is a huge swarm of insects, turning, twisting, cavorting and careering around each other. Decide against sleeping under the stars.

  Day Fifty-Five

  NEAR INGAL

  Because of the great heat of the day, the comparatively cool hours around dawn are valuable and much gets done. We are up at first light, just before six, but the Wodaabe women have been at work for an hour or more. The thorn bushes are hung with washing. The children are up and dressed and their mothers are out finding wood for the fire. After this they still have to prepare the food, milk the cows and fetch water from the creek.

  As the bed forms the centrepiece of each family’s living area, it doesn’t surprise me to hear that the Wodaabe can’t marry until they can afford one of their own. If they had mortgages, young Wodaabe couples would put them down on a bed. Another much-respected sign of wealth and status is the number and quality of your calabashes, the hollowed-out pumpkins, often painted and decorated, which are indispensable for cooking and eating.

  Breakfast, and indeed every other meal, consists basically of milk and millet. The long, repetitive process of pounding the millet, usually entrusted to the young girls, is already underway, producing the soft, thudding rhythm that is the heartbeat of so many West African communities. After an hour, sometimes longer, the millet is ready to be mixed with water into the unappetising grey paste that will provide their nourishment for the day.

  Celine, who for one summer, at least, has left the lush farmlands of Aquitaine to live with the Wodaabe, tells me that on occasions there is not even enough millet to go round.

  ‘Sometimes they eat only milk.’

  She has much admiration for their resilience and her insights into the character of the Wodaabe strike a chord with my own.

  ‘They will not ask anything about you, or take anything from you.’

  They have, she says, a free and open attitude to relationships - which can cause problems - but they are not afraid to express shame and regret and accept that life requires patience and tolerance.

  This stoic attitude doesn’t always do them much good. One of the women has had her fingers broken when a cow stepped on her hand. By the time Pete, who has been on the BBC medical course, gets to examine her, it’s clear that the wound is two or three days old and in imminent danger of turning gangrenous. He cleans and binds it as best he can, but it’s obvious she needs stronger antibiotics and possibly surgery. We offer to take her to a doctor in Ingal, but she shakes her head very definitely. She will wait until she can walk in with the others. Though she may lose her hand, there is no changing her mind.

  Despite hard lives and harsh conditions, the Wodaabe are by no means grey or ground down. Celebration, dance and the pursuit of beauty are important parts of their everyday life and all three come together in the Gerewol, an extraordinary Fulani ritual that will be part of their Cure Salee celebrations. The young, unmarried men spend hours making themselves look beautiful, painting their faces red, highlighting their eyes with white lines and their lips with black powder. The effect is to make them look feminine and prematurely aged at the same time. The display is combined with a formal dance, at which these richly adorned men vie with each other for the favours of the young girls. The girls make the choice. It’s free and open, and whilst it does not have to end in marriage, it does have to end in a night together.

  Doulla takes me by the hand and leads me through the bush to a clearing, where a Gerewol is in progress. Young men, pouring sweat under aniseed-red make-up, are rising slowly up and down on their toes to the accompaniment of a long, droning chant. Their arms come forward, raising the long decorated sticks that each man carries and which I’m told are symbols of the warrior, whilst their faces perform a pantomime of grinning, eye-rolling and lippursing.

  The girls are brought forward, also dressed and made up, one hand shielding the face in a show of shyness and modesty.

  The girls turn to face the row of dancing men, bringing the grimacing and eye-rolling to grotesquely bizarre heights, before coming forward, one by one, and choosing their man by a single touch.

  What makes this whole surreal performance rather appealing is the similarity to a lot of things we do ourselves. It is basically a ritualised high-school hop or coming-out dance, the difference here being that the sexual motive is not only acknowledged and accepted but actively encouraged.

  Later, in my tent, sweltering my way to sleep, I can hear the Gerewol still going on, and the insistent thrum of the voices gives way to dreams of tall thin pouting men, their make-up running onto sweet, shy girls. More bromide in the tea for me.

  Day Fifty-Six

  INGAL

  Woken ea
rly by the sound of donkeys having nightmares and cattle chomping grass inches away from my head. Used to the constant hum of city life, I find these sporadic rural noises quite disconcerting.

  Never one of life’s natural campers, I’m still getting used to the absence of personal space. My territory extends as far as the flap of my tent, which is about a foot away; beyond that I share Africa with everyone else. I’m pungently reminded of this when, just before dawn, easing myself out of the tent, clutching a trowel and paper for my morning toilet, I step straight onto a freshly laid cowpat.

  (The trowel, by the way, is to enable me to dig my own latrine and cover it up afterwards. If I’m really serious about protecting the Sahara I should also take matches to burn the paper, for nothing much biodegrades out here.)

  After everyone has eaten, the camp is dismantled and the families set out to walk the last 45 miles through the bush to Ingal. All they ask from us in return for their hospitality is medicine. Eye disease, malaria and chronic stomach pain from tainted water are endemic complaints. As we turn out our medical bags, it’s sobering to realise just how much pain they must take for granted.

  We squeeze Doulla and Perri and a dozen others into our filming vehicles so that they can go ahead and find accommodation. There isn’t much room, so Doulla volunteers to travel on the roof rack. He seems to have all the makings of a saint, but he shrugs off any credit and reminds me that in Africa no vehicle goes anywhere until it’s full, and that means on top as well. This doesn’t prevent me thinking of him being flung around above me as we pitch and toss along the rutted un-made track. I comfort myself with the thought that we’re reducing his journey time from two days to two hours.

  There is relief all round when Ingal’s soaring communications mast looms up on the horizon, and a few minutes later we bounce out of the bush and along increasingly busy streets until we emerge onto a huge open area.

  At first I can hardly believe my eyes. In the middle of deeply impoverished rural Africa there is a neon-lit showground, screeching distorted announcements, a car park full of gleaming Mercedes, a double-decker tourist bus, women dressed to the nines in sequinned finery, racing camels showing their paces, Touareg chieftains trailing entourages, police and soldiers mingling with ticket-sellers and sharp-eyed boys pushing Coca-Cola sales carts through the crowd. The air is thick with dust and the reek of fuel from humming generators.

  ‘CURE SALEE 2001,’ announces a billboard. ‘Our Three Themes - SIDA (AIDS), PALU (Malaria), Polio.’ It seems much more than a gathering of nomads - a combination of county show and trade fair, school sports day and political rally, Royal Tournament and Boy Scout Jamboree.

  The wind tugs at the white, green and orange horizontals of the national flag, unfurled above a group of government-sponsored stalls offering family planning and veterinary advice. The crowd passes them by, intent on celebration rather than self-improvement. Walking through the throng, their ostrich feather headdresses rising above the crowd, are groups of young Wodaabe men, made up like models on a catwalk, preening and effeminate, white rings around their eyes, blackened lips, slashes of yellow across foreheads and down noses, off to dance their own grimacing, eye-rolling Gerewol, dressed like girls to attract the girls.

  Our little Wodaabe group has fallen silent. They look around with quick nervous glances. The natural ebullience of last night seems to have faded, and as they move off to look for somewhere to stay they seem uneasy and out of place.

  As the heat of the day declines the energy levels rise. More and more people mill around, seeing and being seen, greeting and parading. I find myself introduced to an impressive man in white robes, the mayor of Tamanrasset in Algeria, who shouts over the noise that he is hoping we will come and see him on our way north. A moment later someone grasps my hand, a Frenchman who is trying to save the ostrich population of the nearby Air Mountains, which is now down to two. He’s trying to get them to mate. I don’t hear how, as a red-capped policeman on a camel, ghetto-blaster strapped to his thigh, rides between us.

  We set up camp at the far end of the flat, gritty strip, but even here, half a mile from the celebrations, I’m kept awake at night by the sounds of amplified announcements, music and the stabbing beams of fast cars roaring away. Where they’re going to I’ve absolutely no idea.

  It’s all part of the bracing confusion of Cure Salee, the party in the middle of nowhere.

  Day Fifty-Seven

  INGAL

  Doulla, Perri and the advance guard of Wodaabe have found some accommodation in town. They’ve rented two houses with interlocking walled compounds from some Hausa boys. The Hausa, from the south of the country, make up over half the population. Urbanised and opportunistic, they largely control the commercial life of Niger.

  Two of them lounge in the shade of the doorway, eyes following us with self-assured curiosity. They’re dressed in T-shirts and jeans and wear big watches, and I have the feeling that they can’t understand why we should be so interested in a bunch of nomads.

  I recall Celine telling me back at the camp that the Hausa-led central government does not have much time for the Wodaabe, being suspicious and hostile, as governments often are, towards those who have no fixed address. So it’s not a great surprise to find Doulla and Perri somewhat subdued. They don’t like renting and they don’t like houses.

  Not that this one impresses with its permanence. The mud that binds the building together looks to have been mixed from the contents of a rubbish tip. Shreds of plastic bag, silver paper, bottle caps, glass, fabric and even leather shoe straps protrude from the walls. On the other hand, I can see it’s Turner Prize potential. A house made of everyday life.

  Accompany Doulla and Perri to buy provisions. In the market, shopkeepers sit cross-legged beneath grass-thatch awnings. Beside them are bowls of sugar, blocks of salt, sacks of tobacco and dried chillies and boxes of green china tea. Staples like millet and kola nuts lie out in the open, piled high on plastic sheeting. After buying the basics, Doulla and Perri get down to what they really enjoy, looking at clothes. They show me the intricate differences in the thread of the indigo-blue turban material and the finer points to look out for when buying the loose robe and leggings that form the basic nomad’s outfit.

  Later, bearing bags of millet, sugar and mint, but with no money left over for new outfits, Doulla and Perri return to their lodgings to prepare for the big night, the first public performance of their Gerewol.

  We return to our camp site, passing the various shops and stalls on the edge of the showground. One is run by the Niger Post Office, which proves to be boldly internationalist, with colour-soaked special issues devoted to such typically African heroes as Raphael, Rembrandt and Princess Di. Another booth boasts a pair of skis and a snowboard. A dashingly elegant Touareg appreciates my curiosity and tries to sell me a course of sand-skiing lessons. On some of the higher dunes, he says, when the sand is cold and crisp, it can be just like the Alps. He may be right, but the name on his card doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

  ‘Danger,’ it reads. ‘Abdul Khadir Danger.’

  It’s late in the afternoon when we return to the Wodaabe compound. Hairdressing and make-up is already underway as they prepare themselves for their first night at Cure Salee. Doulla is having his hair dressed by one of the women. Almost unrecognisable without his headcloth, he has, like most of the Wodaabe, and unlike the Hausa, a surprisingly luxuriant growth, which is being carefully plaited until tresses hang down by his ears like those of a Hasidic Jew.

  Other young men sit in a line, holding up plastic-framed vanity mirrors, which no self-respecting Wodaabe youth would be seen without. Each one has a sandal on the ground in front of him, which he uses as a palette for the colours. The predominantly yellow base is powder from a stone called macara, which they find out in the bush. The black lipstick is from another mineral, called stibnite.

  Those already made up are scrambling into leather leggings and exchanging their everyday sandals for elabo
rate, decorated versions, which they slip on lovingly. Then they tie each other’s white turbans, onto which are fixed headdresses of cowrie shells, precious stones and, to cap it all, ostrich feathers.

  Once this long and painstaking process is complete, they leave their temporary home and walk the mile or so to the showground. Despite the confidence of their display, they still seem pitifully self-conscious. Country cousins in the big city.

  The thudding music grows louder and the red and white Coca-Cola umbrellas draw closer. Our friends sing, not very convincingly, more to keep their spirits up, as their eyes search the crowd for fellow Wodaabe, like new arrivals at an old school reunion. Suddenly I feel that our presence is superfluous. The best way we can repay their hospitality is probably to stay out of the way. It’s their show now.

  Day Fifty-Eight

  AGADEZ

  I’m standing on the small roof terrace of the Pensione Tellit in Agadez. A hot and hazy sunset is over and night is wrapping itself around the mud-brown walls of this old trading town. Orange lights mark out the network of narrow streets that connect a spread of rounded walls and flat, rectangular roofs. There’s only one tall building in town and that’s the minaret of the Grande Mosquee, a pyramid of mud, stones and projecting wood beams which rises high above the surrounding town. Anywhere else in the world it might barely be noticed, but this one is the tallest building for a thousand miles and, along with the mosques at Djenne and Timbuktu, it has almost mythic status in Islamic Sahara. I’m staring at it now, as my wife, on the other end of a satellite phone, is describing the almost unbelievable destruction of two other iconic towers, 6000 miles away, in New York.

  The news that greeted us all on our arrival at this modest comfortable little whitewashed hotel seems incomprehensibly unreal, but friends and family, contacted by satellite phone, confirm that the attacks not only happened but were seen to happen and are being replayed constantly to those who might have missed them.