by Peter Tonkin
‘Come on,’ she snapped, bustling past him, ‘Stop gawping like a haddock. There’s a handbag and leathergoods shop I want to look in over here.’
And so they worked their way through the raucous, heaving bustle, grateful that the desert wind had dropped but still glad of the ice-cold air-conditioned breezes that wafted from the open doors behind the tall racks of goods which all but blocked the pavement. The sounds, like the smells, were overwhelming: the cries of the vendors and restaurant owners praising their wares. The conversations of excited tourists, calling directions and suggestions to each other in a dizzying range of languages and accents. The snapping of still cameras. The whirring of videos. The grumbling of camels that wandered, seemingly masterless, through the throng. The honking of car horns as drivers tried to ease their way through those streets that were not pedestrian only.
The leather shop was succeeded by a hat shop which stood beside a perfume shop, then there was a bazaar selling gold and jewellery, and watches that pretended to be by Breitling, Tag Heur, Omega, Seiko, Rolex. Next in line was a textile shop selling everything from scarves with labels suggesting they were from Gucci, Prada, Armani, Lauren and a host of others to carpets purporting to be genuine Arbadil, Bakhtiari, Isfahan and Kashanl, which stood beside a shop selling a range of tourist memorabilia including model camels, pharaonic crockery, hookahs, camel-skin lampshades and statues of the ancient Egyptian gods. After that there was a wall illustrated with pictures of Cleopatra, which did the legendary queen, her fashion sense, followers, accoutrements and barges very little justice. And that in turn stood beside a spice shop which doubled as an apothecary – for every spice, essence or tincture they sold was not only a matter of odour and colour but also, according to the notices in the window, of health and well-being.
Even the signs were bewildering. Amici, Al Kazzan, El Gezira Vodafone. HD Bank and ATM. Hammad Sports. But the brightest sign of all was the one comprised of tall letters spelling out EL KHADIWY that stood just beneath the low, bright moon at the crest of the cliff they were hurrying towards. Even as they approached through all the distracting bustle of street entertainers who congregated here at the heart of the market, swallowing swords, juggling with fire, performing incredible feats with ropes or beds of nails and charming cobras just like the one that had so nearly killed Nahom, so the colours of the big letters changed, from blue to green, to yellow, to red.
Side by side they ran up the carpeted stone steps past the black and gold statues of Anubis that guarded their way and up on to the bare rock balcony that led back into the cliff itself, where the rock roof closed claustrophobically lower and lower while the shadows grew darker and darker. Just when Richard thought he was going to have to fold himself in half or smack his head on the ceiling, they arrived at the innermost table. It was lit by a beautifully coloured lamp made of camel skin – like many of the lamps in the market outside. The dim, multicoloured light showed that the only occupant of a table for four was a grey-bearded man wearing a plain white turban in place of the more general keffiyah. He rose to greet them, just able to stand erect beneath the sloping red rock roof, for he was physically identical to his cousin, Husan. As he did so, Richard noted that he was wearing the almost universal white cotton dishdasha robe, identical to those worn by the men in the video clip of Nahom’s kidnapped sister. Seeing that there were only four settings at the table, Richard glanced around as their host was courteously clearing his throat. And was surprised to realize that, somewhere along the recently trodden way, Mahmood and Ahmed had vanished.
‘You are welcome, Mister Richard and Mistress Robin,’ said the white-robed man in sonorous English. ‘I am Saiid, cousin to Husan. I understand you wish to know about matters in the interior and even up in the Red Zone. Please be seated.’ Saiid gestured, and, looking down, Richard realized that they were to sit cross-legged on carpets and cushions in the Bedouin style, which at least explained why a table could be placed so far back in the restaurant. But Saiid continued, smoothly, as he crossed his legs and sank to the floor, ‘I have ordered food. And as we eat, we will talk.’
FIVE
Sahaari
Saiid leaned forward. In the weird light from the camel-skin lamp his eyes looked strange, seemingly glassy. And, thought Richard, their colour was unusual too: pale, almost hazel, with flecks of blue and darker brown like agates, their colour enhanced by the dark skin of his cheekbones, the heaviness of his eyelids and the granite grey sweep of his eyebrows. His beard, too, was unusual. It was of medium length and straight-haired, almost bristling. On the sides of his face in front of his ears and down along the line of his jaw it was white, but beneath the beak of his nose and on the breadth of his chin it was as grey as his eyebrows. And it was parted. There was a vertical parting running straight down from his nose to a cleft in his chin which matched his clean-shaven cousin Husan’s. Beard and moustache had both been brushed to the right on the right side of his face and to the left on the left side. The effect was arresting, especially as the moustache was long enough to have upward-curling points at each end. The whole effect was almost as striking as those strange, light eyes and the way they twinkled amid a maze of wrinkles as Saiid smiled, seeing Richard and Robin studying him with such interest. ‘Is this then the first time you have met a true rajul bin sahaari, a man of the desert?’
Both Richard and Robin sat back, embarrassed. Saiid’s smile grew wider. ‘Do not be concerned,’ he said gently. ‘You are here to learn. And if I am to teach you, you must begin by learning to trust me.’
‘Of course we trust you,’ said Richard. ‘We have Husan’s word on that. And the question of trust is not crucial at the moment. We really just want to know about the Bedouin, the interior, and anything you think would be relevant in the current situation. Who might be holding this young woman Tsibekti, Bisrat and the others. Where they might be being held at the moment. How accessible such a place might be – and what chances the authorities might have of getting there to rescue the hostages. Anything you might know about the local tribesmen’s secret smugglers’ pathways to this place and away from it. I’ve promised Husan that I have no intention of actually trying to go in and rescue Tsibekti or Bisrat, so we won’t be relying on your information in any life-or-death situations. But we are … I am fascinated to know about what really has gone – still goes – on up in the heart of the Sinai. In the Amber and Red Zones as defined by the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of glasses of hibiscus tea, mint tea and Hayat sparkling water. ‘I have taken the liberty of ordering for all of us,’ said Saiid. ‘Perhaps you will come to trust my taste in food and drink as well as in matters concerning the interior. In fact, you might say that you will trust me to guide you through the saharri desert and the gebel mountains which stand behind it along the wadi – dry river valleys that run between them after I have guided you through the courses of the meal I have selected for you.’
As they sipped their drinks, the first courses began to appear. Richard had no idea where the restaurant kitchens were, but the food arrived piping hot and in mouth-watering variety. The first courses were small but intensely full-flavoured. Saiid introduced each of them, switching from talk of the desert to culinary explanations mid-sentence. There was a sayyadiah of local prawns in a piquant spicy tomato sauce sprinkled with cumin seeds, poppy seeds and finely chopped coriander leaves, served on a fried flatbread, which was succeeded by little cups without handles filled with half-a-dozen sips of sorba ads, a thick, spicy lentil soup. With the first of these courses there was a silver filigree bowl filled with freshly made breads. Saiid said, ‘We call bread aysh, which means life.’ But succeeding the soup, another solid silver basin arrived piled with freshly fried crispy falafel that were light as clouds and tasted of broad beans and chick peas, fresh parsley and coriander leaves, ground coriander seeds and cumin. They were sprinkled with sesame seeds and served with thick, buttery sesame-flavoured tahini dip.
‘So,’ intoned Saiid as they nibbled and sipped their way through this prelude to the feast, ‘you want to know if there is a secret location somewhere in the interior where unfortunate people such as your friend’s sister can be held for ransom. That is the heart of the matter, is it not? The routes towards such a place and the pathways north from it towards the borders with Gaza, Israel, Jordan and Saudi are incidental at the moment. Whether or not such secret pathways exist is of limited interest beside the knowledge of whether the woman you are seeking can be held securely there, who would be holding her and where such a prison could be.’
‘We have heard of such places in Saudi,’ said Richard, putting down his empty cup of sorba ads and reaching for a little more of the bread of life. ‘There have been programmes on British television as well as on Sky and Al Jazeera, among others. Some of them are still up on YouTube. But is it possible that the same sort of thing could be happening here?’
‘Wherever there are smugglers and traffickers, such things are possible,’ answered Saiid. ‘No. More than possible: likely. Perhaps even inevitable. We are not dealing here with the sort of smugglers popular in children’s stories of times long past and romantic adventures.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Richard said thoughtfully, reaching for a falafel. ‘We really live in a much more cynical, ruthless and violent world.’
After a pause to allow more general conversation and further sharpening of their appetites, a basin full of rice arrived as a precursor to the courses of their main meal. This was kosheree: steamed white rice mixed with green and black lentils, topped with dark threads of fried rice noodle and garnished with crispy deep-fried onion. Together with the rice, the waiter brought a bowl of spicy tomato sauce. Hard on his heels came colleagues carrying lamb fattah: tender, full-flavoured shanks braised in onions, butter and a glaze of honey. Alongside the fattah came Red Sea snapper. ‘This is how we prepare Nile perch,’ Saiid explained. ‘But the Nile is a long way from here and it works equally as well with the snapper. The fish have been marinated in lemon and lime, coriander and dill, cumin and nutmeg, then barbecued until the skin is dark and crispy but the flesh is soft and fragrant. The spiced mixed vegetables that accompany them complete the main course. I have ordered these dishes because they overlap in many ways. It does not matter which combination you choose to explore, the effect will still be authentic and delicious.’
He was right, and conversation came and went during the next half hour or so as each of them tried different combinations of rice, sauce, lamb, fish, vegetables and breads. But soon enough they got back down to business and the conversation started properly again as the empty plates, platters, basins and bowls were removed. ‘The Bedouin are lords of this desert as the Berber, the Riff and the Tuareg are lords of the great deserts west of the Nile, the Reg desert mountains and the Erg great sand sea. All of them have been forced to adapt their traditional ways by the changing conditions of the new centuries. They have always traded – and smuggled, if you will. But as the modern world has caught up with them, increasing numbers have been forced off the land which they grazed and herded over but never owned. At least, not according to the laws passed in Cairo. The past few decades have been difficult for the Bedouin. Even the establishment of the new resorts such as Sharm and Dahab has brought new troubles. They were moved off land they thought was theirs. They were forced to face the destruction of their traditional values as well as of their livelihoods. Bedouins living in the Sinai didn’t benefit much from employment in the new holiday destinations. Sudanese and Egyptian workers were brought here as construction labourers instead. When the tourist industry started to boom, local Bedouins increasingly moved into new service positions such as cab drivers, tour guides, campground or cafe managers. However, the competition is very high, and many Sinai Bedouins are still unemployed. Since there are not enough employment opportunities, Tarabin Bedouins as well as other Bedouin tribes living along the border between Egypt and Israel are involved in inter-border smuggling of drugs and weapons, as well as the infiltration of prostitutes and African labour workers, such as Tsibekti’s companion Bisrat hoped to be. All this is common knowledge. Any Bedouins who held desirable coastal property have lost control of their land as it was sold by the government to hotel operators all along the coast between Taba and Sharm. The successive governments in Cairo did not see the land as belonging to Bedouin tribes, who, as I said, only had grazing and herding rights over it, but rather as a state property. In the summer 1999, the army bulldozed the only Bedouin-run tourist areas north of Nuweiba and replaced them with the system that had been so successful in Sharm.
‘On the other hand, the political problems of the last few years promised to bring more freedom to the Sinai Bedouins. But since they were deeply involved in weapon smuggling into Gaza after a number of terror attacks on the Egypt–Israel border, and increasingly against the police and soldiers trying to keep control in the dangerous northern areas, the government has started much more active military operations in the Red Zone of North Sinai. Underground tunnels leading from Egypt to Gaza that were used as smuggling channels and gave profit to the Bedouin families on the Egyptian side, as well as the Palestinians on the other side of the border, have been closed by both our government and the Israelis, especially during the conflict of 2014. The army in the Red Zone has delivered a threatening message to the Bedouin: cooperate with state troops and officials or face our full force. And that is also the message of the even more powerfully armed and equipped Israelis if you smuggle arms into Gaza. But some of the hardiest and most desperate see no alternative. They are too proud to serve, to drive taxis, to wander the tourist beaches offering rides on their camels. They know the old trade routes and the secret places – knowledge passed down from generation to generation. The non-Bedouins, even those in the Sinai, have no such knowledge. Al sahaari – the desert, is a hard mistress but she can offer much to those who know her and are willing to take risks. And that is the situation as it stands at the moment. Many Bedouin live in the cities, earning their living in service positions. Much like in England, eh? Where your economy depends on service industries?’ Saiid gave a knowing wink, then continued, ‘But there is still a minority who use their ancient skills and knowledge. Not to herd sheep or goats, or horses and camels, but to smuggle people, weapons and anything else that will turn a profit and keep their families from starving.’
The intense conversation about the Bedouin, lords of the sahaari, was interrupted by dessert. ‘Mahalbiya – milk pudding, is something of an acquired taste,’ said Saiid. ‘Though they do a particularly fine one here flavoured with rosewater and cardamom seeds, sprinkled with pistachios and sultanas. I thought, however, you would prefer ataif – sweet pancakes stuffed with mixed nuts and coconut deep fried and dipped in honey. And the chef’s masterpiece, omm ali. To call omm ali bread and butter pudding, as I have seen in even the best hotels, does it a great disservice. The sweet bread is prepared with fresh cream, full milk, sultanas and walnuts. It is topped with puff pastry pieces and served with yet more cream. If your hearts can stand it, your tongues will think they have attained ferdoos – paradise.’
After all their tongues had visited paradise, the waiters brought them cups of thick, foamy coffee flavoured with cardamom. As they sipped this, Saiid continued his explanation. ‘The pathways into the mountains are not dictated by whim or by chance, of course. They are dictated by water, as is almost everything here. I say almost, because there are routes also dictated by history, by commerce, by religion.
‘There are ways across the Sinai that have existed since the pharaohs ruled Egypt. They lead to mines where men have dug for gold, copper and turquoise since before recorded time. One of the earliest names for this place is Land of Turquoise. According to the Christian Bible and the Jewish Torah as well as the Holy Qur’an, there are routes followed by the children of Israel as they escaped from the pharaohs. Routes that led the prophet Musa, blessings be upon him, whom you
call Moses, to converse with the one true God. There are routes that lead the faithful on their Hajj and have done so for more than a thousand years. There are hidden roads that have led defensive armies to long-deserted fortresses where they could stand against rapacious crusaders.
‘All these, as well as those which follow the waterways, are known to the Bedouin. But as your friend Nahom has learned, following paths to water is not easy. The uninitiated might suppose it is simply a question of going from one oasis to another, or following a course dictated by the wadis. This is not so. To begin with, there are very few oases, and where they exist, townships tend to have grown up around them. And smugglers, of course, wish to avoid towns. But they are few and far between, particularly in the mountains of the interior. Mountains that are often all but impassable. And that, too, is important because, although there is sand desert along the coast, which we may cross these days with a range of vehicles from four-by-fours to quad bikes, the mountains are closed against such modes of transport.
