Emily Taylor - Abducted

by Vi Grim

  It was funny but although Emily was glad that Annie had escaped, she wished that she could be here doing this.

  In the desert everyday was special. It was tough but Emily felt lucky to be there. Her body had never ached so much, been so hot or cold, so hungry or so thirsty. She had never been so excited, so lonely or sad, or scared. Her senses that were dulled by the boredom and safety of life in England had awakened and become sharp.

  She felt like she’d been a brain dead zombie until that day she was tipped screaming and stinking from her sack.

  She was scared about what would happen to her, the terrible things that happen to boys and girls that adults or newspapers never talk about. Like the little girl that went missing when she was on holiday. Her picture was in the papers and on tele and they started blaming everyone, even her mum and dad. They never said what happened to her. Emily hoped she was okay.

  Did she cross the desert? wondered Emily. Are they taking me to the same place? I’ll cross the Sahara then escape before anything nasty can happen to me.

  One evening Zula and Emily climbed up a tall sand dune and sat on the top enjoying the stars and watching the crescent of the new moon setting over a sea of dunes.

  Zula tapped her on the shoulder and pointed, ‘Shhh.’

  In the starlight she could just make out a desert fox hunting. He was upwind of them so they could smell him, but he hadn’t noticed them; he was too busy pouncing on bugs and scorpions and eating them. Suddenly a snake erupted out of the sand and lunged at him. The fox sidestepped and pounced on the snake, grabbing it by the neck. The two rolled and wrestled in the sand, the snake coiling around the fox, which refused to let go its grip. Suddenly they were free again and snarling and hissing at each other. The fox slowly backed away and vanished into the night.

  Emily was holding Zula’s hand. She gave it a squeeze and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Emily. ‘I just couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Surf’s up!’ he replied.

  Grabbing their road signs, Timbuktu 1196km and Taoudenni 608km, they surfed down to the camp.

  ‘Where’s Taoudenni?’ asked Emily, when they were getting underway the next morning.

  ‘Taoudenni is where we’re heading now. In your country they joke about Timbuktu being remote. That’s because they haven’t heard of Taoudenni. Timbuktu is the city of the desert; it’s a happy city, near a big river. People come from all over the world to see it. Taoudenni is remote. I’m surprised there’s a road sign because there’s no road. It’s where the salt mines are. There’s nothing there, just holes in the ground.’

  ‘The back of beyond,’ added Emily. ‘The boonies.’

  ‘The boonies,’ repeated Zula, savouring a new word. ‘There’s no trees and no houses; just salt miners who dream of one day returning to the bright lights of Timbuktu. They dig up the slabs of salt which we deliver to Timbuktu.’

  The footprints in the sand fascinated Emily. She rarely saw animals, yet the sand was crisscrossed with tracks. Everything that passed left its mark, a telltale saying who he was and which way he was going, there for all to see until wiped clean by the wind, who left his own mark, saying which way he was blowing and how strong he was. While all of the Tuareg were good at reading footprints, Ijju was the best. Although she was young, she had a gift for it. She got down and inspected the tracks closely then stood back and looked at them from a distance.

  ‘Goats, in a hurry,’ she said, or, ‘Lynx, pregnant with a limp.’

  Sometimes Emily rode with Ijju. Ijju never said much but pointed things out; things that Emily would never notice; vultures circling so high up that you could barely see them; a snake slithering down a dune, or a crocodile in a pond, just its eyes showing above the surface. If Emily caught her eye, Ijju smiled shyly and looked away. At least Emily got a smile now.

 

  12.

  Taoudenni was disappointing. Even after what Zula had said, Emily expected there to be something, like it had a name, so there should have been a street or a corner store, or a stand selling barbecued guinea pigs or something, but there was nothing there, just a few prickly shrubs and piles of dirt thrown up by the salt miners. There were a few battered canvas tents but most of the hundred miners who lived there slept out in the open. The miners were tough, wiry and weather beaten. Now that winter was approaching the daytime temperature had dropped to the high thirties. Zula said that it reached fifty degrees in the summer heat. That’s hot. Hot like climb inside the oven and see how long you can hack it!

  The miners dug rectangular holes down through fifteen feet of mud and gravel to reach the salt then burrowed sideways, cutting out large slabs of salt with crude adzes. The piles of dirt throw up by their digging looked like giant molehills.

  The miners hadn’t seen anyone for months. Saleem’s caravan was the first of the season, so the men got to pick the best slabs of salt. They didn’t pay for them, no money changed hands, for every four they carried, three would be for the caravan and one would be delivered to the miner’s house in Timbuktu.

  It was a desolate place surrounded by the skeletons of dead camels. The only sounds were the mournful squawks of vultures and the tap, tap, tapping of the miners working underground.

  ‘What a bleak place,’ Emily said to Saleem. ‘It must be miserable living here.’

  Saleem thought for a moment then said, ‘I was planning to head off tomorrow but let’s spend the day here.’

  He went across and spoke with some miners. There was shouting and the tap, tap, tapping stopped. A meeting was held and the caravan and miners spent the rest of the day cleaning up. Taoudenni was given a facelift; carcasses and rubbish were tipped into old mine holes and covered up; Zula’s surfboard sign was nailed to one of the bushes just in case anyone forgot where they were, and a green, yellow and red Mali flag was hoisted up on a pole and flew proudly in the breeze.

  They all slept in the next morning, not something that happens very often in the desert. Delicious taguella bread was cooked up on camel dung fires for breakfast and washed down with lashings of hot tea. It was sports day, a friendly competition between the miners and the Tuareg.

  Ijju rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a little pot. Opening it and sticking her finger into the gooey white stuff inside, she said, ‘Hold still,’ and traced little circles on Emily’s face. When she’d finished she held up a tiny mirror so Emily could see.

  Handing Emily the pot, she said, ‘Now me.’

  Emily painted the same circles on Ijju’s face, then put a dot inside one or two of them and added some tiny spirals; as little as she could do, on her cheeks. The white looked good against Ijju’s dark skin, much better than on her piggy pink flesh.

  Next they painted the boys; diagonal Indian battle stripes under the eyes for Zula and Zam, vertical zebra stripes for Yuba.

  The first event was a camel dung throwing competition. Since the afternoon before, Emily’s poo bag had been raided. Camel dung throwing was something to be taken seriously and there was an art to it. Fresh dung was moulded round a small stone then rolled in the sand. Layers of dung mixed with grass and camel hair were added, then it was coated with more sand and dried, making a dung ball the size and weigh as a cricket ball.

  Each contestant had three throws, starting with the worst first, Emily. In England Emily used to do girly underarm lobs. Not anymore; walking at the back of the caravan, Zula and her spent lots of time throwing stones, trying to hit rocks and lizards. Now she could throw good and accurate but not nearly as well as the desert people. She won the booby prize of a large ball of fresh camel poo. It was awarded immediately after her throws; as if there was no way that anyone could be worse than her at throwing. Even a grizzled old cripple with miner’s elbow threw further.

  They lined up and threw their dung balls to cheers and boos from the crowd. The men jostled and fought over the beat-up red bucket that was used to mark the furthest throw, pulling it thi
s way and that before placing it down miles from where the dung balls landed.

  The competition heated up with bigger and better throws pushing the bucket further and further away. It was a battle between the strength of the miners and the skill of the nomads. In the end, Abdul, a huge smiley miner from Nigeria, won. His name and the length of the throw were carved on a stick, which Saleem hammered into the ground so no one would forget.

  Next was the camel race. It was the specialty of the nomads so to even things up the miners were given the best camels. A square course was set up, making sure it was clear of the mine pits, and battered old oil drums were used to mark the corners. After some lively discussion, riders were chosen and the camels lined up at the start with the miners’ entries at the front. Drumming on oil drums and wailing from the women built up to the starter’s rifle shot. The race was off. Emily couldn’t see anything for all the dust but amidst the yelling and screaming the race finally finished. It was not a Tuareg, but Amnay, a Desert Rider who won. As for the other placings, Emily wasn’t sure if it was which camel came in first or who yelled the loudest that counted.

  After a long siesta, to see them through the heat of the day, the main event started. A soccer pitch was marked out using pebbles and stones for the sidelines and sticks to mark the corners. The old oil drums were rolled into place for the goals. As a ball couldn’t be found, a green ten litre plastic jerry can was used. Saleem was referee. There weren’t many rules; Emily didn’t think he knew what they were anyway. As a whistle could never be heard over the cheering and yelling of the crowd, he fired his pistol in the air to start the game and whenever a goal was scored. There was continuous substitution so that everyone could get to play. At full time, with the score at 2-2, they decided to play on because everyone was having so much fun.

  Zam scored a goal, kicking it back over his head like a South American. Playing at full back, Emily stopped a couple of sure goals from being scored, but one or two did sneak through and when play was finally stopped because it was too dark to see, the miners led 5-4.

  Dinner was gazelle, spit-roasted over a dung ball fire. Emily stoked it up and fanned it with an old fry pan to get it really roaring. With a sharp crack the stones in the dung balls exploded, sending her diving for cover as flying embers shot in all directions, setting some prickle bushes alight, orange flames jumping high into the night air.

  The gazelle meat was carved straight off the bone as it cooked and was washed down with ladles full of eghajira, made from pounding millet and dates and mixing it with goats’ cheese and water. The miners, whose only well was full of yucky brackish water with things living in it, were happy to be offered water from the caravan’s supply which was fresh and sweet, if slightly rubbery from being carried in old inner tubes.

  There was music, dancing and singing. Emily, Zula and the rest of the Scorpions climbed up a large dune and spent all night up there, catching snatches of music and laughter carried up by the night breezes. They lay there on their backs watching for shooting stars, chatting and snoozing.

 

  13.

  In the morning they jumped and rolled down the steep dune to the camp and set about loading salt tablets onto the camels and preparing to get underway. The miners all came out to see them on their way and a challenge was made for a rematch next time the caravan passed. Saleem had heard that another caravan was due to arrive and wanted to make a quick trip to be the first of the season to reach Timbuktu and get a good price for the salt. Now winter was approaching they changed their routine for the twelve hundred kilometre, three-week trek. Starting at dawn they went non-stop until dark, with the main meal of the day being eaten under the stars.

  Emily wished she could get some photos of the caravan as it headed southwards across a totally red landscape towards Timbuktu. Then when she escaped, she would show them to her mum and dad and Annie, so they could see just what it was like in the desert. They’d be so jealous.

  The camels carried the large rectangular slabs of salt tied one on each side. Emily counted one hundred and ninety eight camels, walking along with their slow gait, standing tall above the Tuareg who walked alongside, leaving sandal prints in the sand.

  The air became heavy on the first night out, and the animals restless. Having gone to sleep to the occasional distant flash of lightning, Emily awoke to pandemonium. She nearly jumped out of her skin as thunder cracked directly overhead. It rained cats and dogs, absolutely bucketed down. Seeing only in the flashes of lightning, she was helping to move their things when a flash flood swept through the camp. It was up to her ankles, then her knees. The angry water pulled her down and dragged her away. She bounced off camels and rocks, as she was swirled round and round like in a washing machine. Occasionally she got a foothold and pushed her head up to grab a breath of air.

  Then she was stuck, caught up in a bush with the water rushing past.

  Strong hands grabbed her and she was plucked from the water and was up on a horse splashing through the torrent. In a flash of lightning she saw the smiling face of the Desert Rider as he dropped her gently on the sand and galloped off into the dark.

  She threw up and lay there coughing and shaking in the pouring rain. Then it was over as quickly as it started, the moon and the stars came out and the billowing silver cloud flashed and rumbled its way into the distance.

  In the morning, while the men rounded up the camels, Emily helped collect the bits and pieces that were swept away. Tents and blankets were caught up in bushes, and kettles and saucepans lay half buried in the wet sand. It was like a treasure hunt. They lay everything out to dry then swam in the pools left by the flood.

  When the sun had dried out her clothes she felt so clean, cleaner than she had ever been before. That’s the good thing about getting dirty; you appreciate being clean.

  The air was crisp and clean too.

  She half expected the desert to explode with flowers, like you see all speeded up on those nature programs on tele, but nothing quite so dramatic happened. One or two scrubby plants burst into flower and a few other plants popped up from nowhere, but that was all. It was funny but Emily felt cheated. That’s the trouble with tele; it spoils the magic of things for a real adventurer like her.

 

  14.

  As they headed south, Zula made Emily practice Arabic and Tamasheq. He had her counting up, counting down, adding and subtracting, multiplying and dividing, changing language as they went. Emily wondered if he was normal, like who in their right mind walks across a desert playing with prime numbers in Arabic? Azulay does.

  Nutter!

  When it was all too much and she got brain freeze, she walked along behind singing to herself.

  Then his love of words and numbers rubbed off on her and she was back with him trying to say Tamasheq tongue twisters.

  ‘Aliyad inkar, arkad, inkad alkad, ikad e mak,’ she said over and over, struggling to get her tongue around the words.

  Zulu laughed at her. He shouldn’t have, she was trying her hardest.

  ‘It’s war then,’ she declared and had her revenge.

  ‘She sells sea shells by the sea shore,’ she said, switching to English.

  ‘She sells she sells by the she shore,’ he said.

  ‘Ha, got you!’

  ‘Which witch wished which wicked wish?’

  ‘Which witch washed which which which.’

  ‘You’re there, you speak Engleesh perfectly.’ Emily said sarcastically, then before he had chance to gather his wits, she fired another one at him, saying it as quick as she could, ‘How many chucks could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?’

  After tripping up halfway through, he fought back in Arabic, ‘Al mesh’mash dah mish mien meshmeshkum wikamah al mesh’mesh dah mish mien mesh mesh nah.’

  Emily didn’t even try, ‘No way!’ she said, stuffing some camel poo down his back and running.

  Now she had a pretty good grip of Arabic, Emily asked Zula about the ca
ravan, ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘We used to live in Niger,’ said Zula. ‘But there was uranium in the ground. It didn’t cause us any problem, like we didn’t glow in the dark and there weren’t any two-headed donkeys running around. The French wanted it, so the government started hassling us, hoping we would go away. They moved in and started ripping the land apart; they stole all our water and made everything radioactive. Now there’s no water for the animals and people get sick and die.’

  ‘Sounds horrible.’

  ‘Dad’s real name is Asharif. He was the leader, fighting them. He killed lots of men, but they started killing the women and children and burning the villages. There was a price on his head, dead or alive, and they were looking everywhere for him. Mum said he had to stop. She wanted to grow old with him. She wanted us to be safe.

  ‘We pretended he got killed and had a funeral before we left. It was such fun; it was our going away party. He came along dressed as an old lady, wearing a dress with flowers all over it and stuffed with pillows to make him really fat. He had big dangly earrings and spoke with a squeaky voice.’

  Imagining Saleem dressed up as an old lady, Emily laughed then had a thought, I could escape by disguising myself!

  ‘So we moved,’ said Zula. ‘We packed up all we could carry and headed off in search of a new home. We found land on the Algerian coast. I like being by the sea; the air smells of seaweed and when it’s windy, you can hear the waves. If we can buy it, we’ll have grazing for the camels and land to grow fruit and vegetables. There’s a school, I don’t want to go but the elders say we’ll have to; because the world is changing, we need to change too. With the roads across the desert, trucks and air travel, the camels could be out of a job, so they’re looking at other ways we can make money. The caravans from Timbuktu take tourists. They make more money from them than the salt but it’s not cool to carry tourists.’

  Emily didn’t like the sound of tourists riding with the caravan. It wasn’t what it’s all about. It would be like inviting them into your home, standing there with their cameras talking photos of you having a TV dinner; sitting on the couch with your hair in curlers, eating baked beans on toast and watching Coronation Street.