Walking the Nile

by Levison Wood

  ‘They’ve all been sold already. It’s mostly females left. And you can’t ride a female. They’re for breeding only. What you need is a strong male, aged four . . .’

  ‘. . . to eight,’ I interrupted. ‘I know. I need one with strong legs, one with experience of the desert. And what I do not want is a Sharaat . . .’

  Bala simply stared, trying to work out where I had got this information.

  ‘Where are you travelling?’

  ‘North,’ I replied. ‘I’m following the Nile to the border with Egypt. It’s going to take sixty days.’

  His ears pricked up as he nodded. ‘A wonderful journey! I used to follow that road as a boy, long before we had trucks. They’ve ruined the old ways . . .’ He paused. ‘Come then! We shall find you your camel. But, for that journey, you will need three camels, not one . . .’

  ‘Three?’ I said, slightly stunned at the prospect of becoming owner to three of the behemoths standing outside.

  ‘You’ll need an extra one for water. You’ll be crossing the Bayuda Desert, won’t you?’

  The Bayuda Desert was technically the most south-east corner of the unending Sahara. From Khartoum, the Nile goes north, before making a great loop westward. The Bayuda sits inside this loop, empty and parched.

  ‘I won’t need water. I’m following the Nile all the way, around the great bend.’

  Bala only laughed. ‘You can try, but you won’t get near the Meroe Dam! You’ll be arrested or shot on site. You’ll have to do a detour through the desert for a week at least . . .’

  I glared at Moez.

  ‘It’s true.’ He shrugged. ‘They built the dam in 2009. Our people opposed it, but it’s the most important piece of strategic land in the country.’

  ‘Strategic how?’

  ‘It’s to do with water, who controls it, who can use it . . . And the dams are under constant threat from the peoples they displaced to build them. We won’t get near it, Lev. They’ll think we’re saboteurs and shoot us. We’ll have to give it – how do you say? – a wide berth . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Bala interrupted, ‘so you’ll need to carry six drums of water. That’s 120 litres at least . . .’

  We returned to the baking souq. One group of females, perhaps forty strong, were all hopping in unison as a new buyer herded them towards a truck. The flat-bed didn’t look like it could possibly take them all, but a pair of Bedouin wranglers somehow managed to shout, whip and shove half of them aboard. The beasts were clearly unimpressed but, after lots of grumbling, they got on and twenty larger-than-life camels were driven off into a haze of dust.

  We meandered through the males. Most, Bala insisted, had already been sold, but here and there some sellers remained with their beasts. At last, stopping every few yards to take a phone call and strike some other deal, Bala led us to a corner where a pair of large, white dromedaries – the Arabian camel, with only one hump – were standing.

  ‘They look strong,’ said Moez, patting the closest on the thigh.

  Remembering Asher’s words, I walked around the first animal, carefully inspecting every cut and graze. It was a handsome beast – and the scars were nothing out of the ordinary. If Asher was right, its long front teeth meant that it was aged five or six – perfect for an expedition.

  ‘Can you make it sit down?’ I asked the owner, who was standing nearby.

  The man proceeded to make the strangest sound I have ever heard, a cross between a snake’s hiss and a gargle. After four or five times, the camel seemed to understand. In an inimitably awkward way, the camel first sank to its front knees and then rocked back until, after some groaning, it was finally down. I was relieved to see that the legs didn’t tremble.

  Without another word, the owner leapt onto the camel’s back and the animal got back to its feet, almost jumping in a display of surprising agility. With the man now on top, the pair trotted around in a large circle. The man smiled, clearly enjoying showing off his riding prowess.

  ‘Well?’ said Bala.

  If Bala had been born in England, he would no doubt have been an excellent used-car salesman; I decided to remain impassive, unimpressed.

  ‘Let’s see some more . . .’

  Three hours later, sun-burnished and tired, I stood at the edge of the souq, staring at three camels – and with a wallet that felt considerably lighter. The first, brown and smaller than the other two, had a quiet serenity about him, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that intimated a definite sense of mischief. I had decided to call him Gordon, after General Charles Gordon, the British officer who had masterminded the year-long defence of Khartoum when it was besieged in 1884 – only to be killed two days before reinforcements arrived. The other two camels, both white, were much grumpier, snorting and snarling the entire time.

  ‘We’ll call those two Burton and Speke,’ I told Moez. ‘Let’s hope they don’t go after each other like those two explorers did . . .’

  In his hut, the negotiations complete, Bala appeared happy with his deal: all three camels sold for the princely sum of 23,000 Sudanese pounds. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘you’ll be needing saddles as well . . .’ He smiled as we handed over yet more money. I only hoped I’d be able to sell them again when we reached the border, and somehow recoup some of my losses.

  ‘You know,’ said Bala as we returned to the camels, ‘it isn’t going to be easy. Your man, does he know camels?’

  Moez was a tour guide, not a camel man. We watched the way the handlers skilfully threaded ropes through holes in the camels’ noses, how they fed them sorghum – a grass rich with nutrients – and massaged their necks to ensure it went down the right hole; how they picked ticks from their eyelids and arseholes. I was under no illusion that I knew what I was doing, and Bala seemed to have sensed it.

  ‘I’d love to go with you,’ he said, ‘but I’m just too busy.’

  I did not need to be a prophet to know what was coming next. I simply waited and watched Bala’s face light up.

  ‘But I know some men who will. How would you like me to make an introduction? It will cost you, of course . . .’

  Two days later, we left Khartoum in our wake.

  The battlefield at Kerreri lies only eleven kilometres north of Omdurman. This desolate wasteland on the very edge of the Sahara is the spot where Lord Kitchener’s army waged the five-hour Battle of Omdurman in 1898 – and, in claiming victory, restored colonial rule to the Sudan. Somewhere amongst these acacia bushes and gravel ridges, a young subaltern named Winston Churchill took part in the last cavalry charge in British military history – all a part of Kitchener’s campaign to avenge the death of General Gordon and destroy the Mahdist forces who had, thirteen years earlier, captured Khartoum.

  General Gordon had originally been commissioned by the British Prime Minister, William Gladstone, to go to Sudan and organise the evacuation of all the Egyptian garrisons there. Since the Anglo-Egyptian war in 1882, Egypt had been a British protectorate in all but name – and, because Egypt had claim to the Sudan, this region also fell under British protection. But, in 1883, a charismatic Muslim leader named Muhammad Ahmad led an uprising against Egyptian rule. Styling himself the Mahdi, the prophesied redeemer of the Islamic world, he had quickly gained a devoted following and threatened the major cities of the Sudan. At last, the British came to a decision: instead of rushing to Sudan’s defence, they would organise the evacuation of all the garrisons there, effectively abandoning Sudan to self-government, and permitting the existence of a Mahdist state. General Gordon was dispatched to organise the evacuation. Yet, on his arrival at Khartoum, Gordon made a startling decision. Rather than do as his prime minister had commanded, he set about organising the city for defence against the Mahdists. Before long, Khartoum was under siege, with Gordon administering the defence.

  It quickly became apparent that the siege would not be broken without the help of British soldiers from outside the city, help that the British parliament was reluctant to provide. It took an entire year bef
ore infantry were dispatched to relieve the city – and when they arrived it was too late. Khartoum had fallen two days before, and General Gordon had been slain.

  It was to be thirteen years before Britain commissioned Kitchener to come and smash the Mahdist forces on the ground on which we now stood. I gazed out over the ancient land. Despite being the stage for such colourful heroism, these days the battlefield looked forlorn, a waste-ground mostly fenced off as part of a Sudanese military barracks. On top of one of the jebels, or mountains, armoured cars and tanks were covered with camouflage netting. Radio masts poked out of the hills and soldiers could be seen patrolling the compounds near to the road.

  At my side, Moez began to pick his way across the battlefield. Behind him, Gordon, Speke and Burton seemed oblivious to it all. The other two men who made up our party were Awad and Ahmad – both camel handlers of some renow – who had joined us at Bala’s behest, and a not inconsiderable pay packet. Awad was the younger man, but even he looked about seventy. Ahmad, or so Awad insisted, was at least a hundred years old – and, from the look of him, it was easy to believe.

  Bala had introduced us to them on the eve of our leaving Khartoum, insisting they were the best camel handlers in all of the Sudan. Bedouin by birth, Ahmad had magnificent whiskers that made him look like an Indian pirate, while Awad took great pleasure in making obscene noises, bursting into raucous laughter whenever one of the camels broke wind. Neither of them had had an education, except for the rearing of camels. ‘I milked my first camel at the age of three!’ Awad had declared when I first met him. Neither of them could write and the only thing they could read were the distance markers on the roadside stones. ‘We learned it,’ Ahmad said with a grin, ‘by playing cards with the blacks at an alcohol den . . .’

  Under Awad and Ahmad’s direction, the camels made swift work of the desert ground, and we quickly found a rhythm, covering almost 40km each day. As the river cut its course north, the land around us grew more flat and featureless, but the monotony of the landscape had a different quality now that Ahmad and Awad were here. In between long bouts of silence, Ahmad’s voice would sometimes flurry up in song. For hours, he’d sing, keeping a perfect harmony with the sound of the camels’ footsteps – and, every time Gordon grew bad-tempered, Ahmad’s songs soothed him. For an old man, he had a beautiful, delicate voice. I only wondered what he was singing about.

  ‘Camels and women, mostly,’ said Moez, trying to control his laughter. ‘This one’s a play on words. You see, we call a woman’s private parts ‘jamal’ – it means camel. So he’s joking about how he wants to screw his camel . . .’

  I looked over my shoulder, to see the glint in Ahmad’s eye.

  For days, we followed the river north, seeing vestiges of the colonial era along the way – not least the old British railway line that followed the course of the river. A relic from the late 19th century, this had been a feat of engineering like no other – connecting Khartoum with Cairo in the far north, and allowing British troops to be deployed into central Africa with alarming speed. Now, modern Chinese bullet trains ply the same routes, and the network is being expanded to reach into Ethiopia and Chad. There’s talk of South Sudan, too, but I suspect that may be several years away.

  In the remote villages we passed, there was often nowhere to stay, so instead, we’d camp on the village outskirts, making our beds out of blankets underneath the stars. On the fifth night, Awad and Ahmad tethered the camels to some nearby bushes so that they could eat, and set about making a fire. Somehow, even in the middle of a desert, these two rogues could always find enough wood. Soon, sweet chai was simmering over the flames. As night hardened, Awad and Ahmad settled down to prayer. Like good Muslims, they prayed five times every day – although, somehow, Awad always seemed to finish his prayers first, and be back drinking coffee long before Ahmad was done.

  ‘My grandfather was an Imam,’ said Ahmad to his cousin, when he was finally finished. ‘I have to set an example to you, you heathen . . .’

  I lay back, to look at the stars plastered across the blackness above. Ahmad and Awad had begun to bicker like boisterous teenagers again, but I barely heard them.

  ‘What is it, Lev?’ asked Moez.

  ‘Do you know what today was?’

  Moez hazarded a guess. ‘Your . . . birthday again?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Today was the day I passed half-way.’ I stood, to take in the sounds and smells of the desert at night. A warm wind gusted sand and grit about my feet. ‘Today, we passed the middle of the Nile. Do you know what it means?’

  Moez shrugged.

  ‘It means,’ I said, ‘that I’m on my way home.’

  ‘But, Lev, there are still more than two thousand miles to walk . . .’

  I knew it, but in that moment those two thousand miles didn’t seem so far. Every step I took from this night on was part of the countdown. After five long months, the expedition’s end seemed a real, tangible thing.

  There was just the small matter of the Sahara Desert to contend with first.

  Three days later, we had passed through Shendi, a sprawling town where traditional trade routes across the desert used to converge, and pushed north into land that was unmistakeably the Sahara. The town itself seemed strangely modern, and as we travelled through its outskirts, our procession of camels and ancient handlers – grimed in dirt, Awad and Ahmad looked like extras from Lawrence of Arabia – garnered strange looks from drivers waiting at the intersections. To the north, what had once been scrubland was transforming into a sea of gold and russet sand. The undulations of dunes marked the horizon. This was the desert as I had imagined it: a parched ocean under an unforgiving sun.

  We had been following the river as closely as possible. Here it began its great sweep west, the Bayuda Desert separated from the rest of the Sahara only by the curve in the river. An hour north of Shendi, however, Moez brought the procession to a halt. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘There’s something every traveller passing this way has to see . . .’

  At Moez’s direction, we left the river behind, blazing a trail across the sand. After a few hard miles, enormous dunes of golden sand, piled up against a backdrop of sandstone mountains, marked the horizon. It was already midday and the sand underfoot was incredibly hot, especially as the dunes got deeper and the sand poured in over my boots. Moez, who was wearing only sandals, gritted his teeth admirably. ‘This way!’ he said, with childish glee. Fuelled by a newfound burst of energy, he steered us towards a steep wall of sand. The dunes grew steeper as we began the ascent. Above, there was an obvious ridge, beyond which the only thing we could see were craggy mountains off to the east.

  Behind me, the camels were grunting in disgust at the steepening slope, snorting as the hot sand inveigled its way into their hoofs. Ahmad began one of his lilting melodies again, and I heard Gordon calm down.

  At last, Moez and I reached the summit of the dune – and I looked down on one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen.

  In the desert below us, scarcely a hundred yards away, a collection of crumbling pyramids and burial chambers protruded from the sand, their brown bricks a sharp contrast to the endless yellow sand. These, Moez told me, were the famous Pyramids of Meroe, the last vestiges of the ancient city that once straddled the river here: Meroe, the capital of the Nubian Kingdom of Kush for hundreds of years.

  The Egyptians were not the only ones to build pyramids to honour their dead and here, before us, was the evidence of a culture every bit as advanced as Ancient Egypt. There were three great clusters of pyramids in what had once been the city of Meroe, totalling more than a hundred in all. What we were looking at was the Southern Cemetery, where nine pyramids housed the remains of Nubian Kings and Queens. Beyond these, another half-kilometre away, lay the real treasure. On a ridge of rock, now swamped in sand dunes, another line of pyramids could be seen – forty-one, according to Moez, all made from the same brown volcanic stone. As we made our way towards them, Awad and Ahmad huffing behind, the
y seemed like headless giants gazing out over the desert. Their decapitations were the work of Giuseppe Ferlini, an Italian who had come here in 1834 in search of treasure. Using dynamite and local hired help, he proceeded to smash the tops off many of the buildings. Spurred on by finding gold jewellery hidden in the apex of his first target, his destructive rampage forever ruined Meroe.

  ‘These were your people then, Moez?’

  Moez beamed, proud of being Nubian himself. ‘Meroe was a mighty place,’ he began. ‘A place of real industry. The city was famous for iron. We’d trade metal to India and China, long before you whites even knew those places existed. And gold . . . Nubia always had its gold. Meroe controlled the Nile valley for a thousand kilometres all around. The whole of Africa came here to trade. We had writing, too. When you were just barbarians, Meroe had its own alphabet and scholars.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Meroe lasted for a thousand years, until 400AD, but nobody really knows what happened here. Some people think it was the rise of other city states in the Sudan. They started competing for trade, and trade was all Meroe had. But the Nubians went on. There were Nubian kingdoms in Sudan and Egypt long after Meroe disappeared . . .’

  For a moment, I lost myself, trying to imagine that ancient time – and how civilisations some of us have barely heard about once played such a big part in the world. What I was looking at, now, was the heartland of a civilisation all but wiped out of history – except, of course, for in its descendants: Moez, and the thousands like him. Because Nubia was once at the heart of the world, and the Romans considered it the gateway to all of Africa’s treasures.

  The Roman Emperor Nero is usually remembered for his despotic rule, murdering his mother, persecuting the first Christians – and, of course, allowing Rome to burn. What is less well known is that he spent much of his reign, from 54–68AD, promoting trade, exploration, and the arts. Egypt had been a part of the Roman Empire since the death of Cleopatra in 30BC, becoming an important centre of produce and trade. To the south, where we now stood, lay the Kingdom of Kush, accessible by the great River Nile, whose headwaters rose in some mythical south. It was the Nubians of Kush who were seen as the keepers of the Nile, guarding all the wealth of inland Africa. Rome knew this well, and often sent armies to raid Nubia and pillage the land of its gold, iron and slaves. In retaliation, the Nubians would often attack the towns of upper Egypt. Nubia and Rome, it seems, both considered themselves the natural inheritors of Egyptian civilisation, and were prepared to go to war over such matters.