On the second day I was interviewed by the district governor. He was a thickly built, light-skinned man who sat behind a vast desk on a raised plinth, with the look of a benevolent autocrat giving audience.
He listened carefully to my plan to travel into Darfur by camel, then laughed, and declared in excellent English, ‘I advise you strongly not to go by camel. By luck you’ve had no trouble so far. But beyond En Nahud the qoz is wild, and in Darfur the tribes are not like those in Kordofan. They are not to be trusted.’
I explained that I accepted the danger, and that I did not consider danger to be a serious excuse for abandoning anything worthwhile. At the same time I allowed myself a smug inward smile at his words about Darfur tribes, in view of what I knew about those in Kordofan.
‘Very well,’ he continued. ‘I won’t forbid you. You English are strange. But you should travel only by day, and spend your nights in villages. Only three months ago a Bederi left here by camel, alone, to visit relatives in Sherrif Kabashi. He camped in a wadi and lit a fire. He did not know that two thieves had followed him. When he was asleep they crept into his camp and loosed his camel. He woke up and drew his dagger but they beat him with clubs and finally stabbed him in the neck. Thanks to God he was a strong man and did not die. He was lucky.’
This spine-chilling story abruptly dispersed my secret sense of superiority. I could see from the way the governor had spoken that he was not exaggerating. ‘I’ll give you a letter to show to the shaykh of each village between here and the provincial border. They will give you shelter. After that I cannot guarantee your safety.’ I thanked him warmly, but as Alfred Mobile and I left the office, the Dinka turned to me and grinned cynically, ‘That letter won’t be much good. None of the shaykhs can read. And it won’t be any protection against a high-powered rifle.’
Amongst the people I remember most clearly from the two days I spent in En Nahud were the two Hamar servants, Yusuf and Siraj.
They were a Laurel-and-Hardy combination, Yusuf short and barrel-chested, while Siraj was tall, stringy, and bird-like. The most pleasant intervals were when I walked with them in the market, touring the arched alleys, exploring the smells of fruit and spices, drinking in the rich scents of new leather, the laughter of the cobblers, the chatter of the spice women, watching camel trains laden with charcoal and gum arabic, and lines of women in colourful robes balancing water tins on their heads. We sat in the leather shops and coffeehouses, and the two Hamar helped to fit me out with new clothing, more suitable for riding camels than the nylon tracksuit I had been wearing. I ordered a Sudanese arangij—a shirt of coarse white cloth, which extended down to the knees—and its complementary sirwel, or baggy trousers, loose-fitting around the thighs but tight around the ankles, and so ideal for riding. I bought an ’imma, the long strip of white cotton which makes up the Sudanese headcloth. At the advice of the Hamar, I increased my stock of saddlery. I bought a large rug of camelhair, a saddlebag of raw goatskin to replace the rucksack, and a new waterskin. The Arabs also advised me strongly to obtain a weapon of some kind. They talked about pistols and shotguns, but since these were officially illegal, I foresaw myself running into problems with any authorities I encountered. I had noticed, however, that some of the Hamar carried long swords, in addition to the traditional dagger, and I asked Siraj about these. At first he scoffed, saying, ‘What use is a sword against an automatic rifle? They can attack you from far away. You’ll never see them.’ Then he thought for a moment, and became less scornful. ‘The Hamar have always carried swords, we call them “white weapons”. The old ones are the best—I’ve got one which was my father’s. It’s a good sword.’
I had always been fascinated by swords: at Stamford School I had been a keen fencer and had twice fenced in international tournaments. The Arabs took me to a shop where several weapons were hanging up. They were all of the same pattern, about three feet long with broad steel blades and cross-hilts bound in leather. I bought one for ten pounds, and asked the leathersmith to make me a scabbard which could be slung from a saddle horn. As we examined the weapon, a small crowd of boys gathered. Yusuf demonstrated the quality of the steel by bending the blade double, and I recalled testing foil blades in the same way. I had seen many tribesmen carrying such blades and I wondered how they would use one. One of the boys took the sword and demonstrated a crushing cut against the wooden prop of the leather shop, which brought a stream of abuse from the owner. Evidently, for the Sudanese the blade was mightier than the point!
My final task in En Nahud was to find, if possible, companions with whom I could travel to Darfur. Unfortunately, in Kordofan camel caravans were no longer used for long distance trade as they were in Darfur: most of them carried gum and charcoal from local villages. I was introduced to some charcoal-burners who had a string of six camels, and were travelling to their encampment a few hours’ journey outside the town. I spoke to the leader, a wild-looking man who wore neither shoes nor headcloth. He told me that people called him Ab’ Gurun, ‘father of horns’, because his hair stuck out at odd angles from his broad head. He and three younger brothers had brought a load and intended to travel to their camp next day. They agreed to let me travel with them, though they pointed out that the journey would be a short one.
In the cool dawn of April 2, I left En Nahud with the charcoal caravan. As we emerged from the thick gum groves which surrounded the town, I felt a new surge of exhilaration, the excitement of being once more unshackled from the chains of the town. The six camels were tied head to tail and each carried an old packsaddle piled with jute sacks which the Arabs had obtained in the market. The animals moved over the soft qoz with a smooth, fluid stride, each seeming in perfect rhythm with the others, a superb, flowing pace which I had never witnessed amongst other creatures. Once again I marvelled at the graceful beauty of these strange animals, and wondered how anyone could find them ugly.
Ab’ Gurun walked at the head of the column, a powerful, almost savage figure, black-skinned and barefooted, clad in yellowed breeches and a folded tobe, a blanket-like garment of soft wool, beneath which his rope-like muscles bulged, his wiry hair sprouting in all directions from his massive head. A dagger the size of a short-sword dangled from his left elbow, and a set of wooden prayer-beads curled around his throat. In his left hand he grasped the headrope of the leading camel, and in his right he carried the wood-hafted axe which was the badge of his calling. His younger brothers had placed themselves at intervals along the caravan. They were smaller versions of Ab’ Gurun, hewn of the same rock, but with the rougher edges honed down to a finer finish. They too were barefoot, but their hair was neatly trimmed, and they wore knee-length shirts over their sirwel. The younger boys also carried axes, and as they walked made clicking noises to encourage the camels. Beside these barefoot Bush Arabs, I felt soft and inadequate, almost ashamed to be riding while they walked.
The country was breathtakingly beautiful on that morning. We descended into deep brakes of forest, where acacias drooped over the track and the air was scented with the perfume of flowers—purple, yellow, and white. We passed over gentle hills of pastel pink sand, and down into valleys where the sunlight hung in golden threads from the thornbush, and the shadows of great baobabs cooled the hot earth.
Occasionally we met people coming in the opposite direction, going in to market: a boy in an immaculate white jellablyya leading his pretty sister, who rode sidesaddle on a black donkey, a whole family of Hamar riding camels of various sizes, each appropriate to the size of its rider; pedestrians in ragged clothes, carrying staves and bundles of possessions, like Dick Whittington.
I would very much have liked to talk to the charcoal-burners, but though I tried each of them in turn, they seemed taciturn and unwilling to engage in conversation. By the end of the morning we had reached their camp east of the village of Dibrin. I was surprised to discover how spartan and comfortless the place was. A line of neatly stacked sacks of charcoal stood in front
of the hut, and beside it, in the shade of a tree, an old oil-drum lay sideways. Inside the shack were a mat and a few blankets. This was their world, and they seemed oblivious to its lack of comfort. As they couched their camels, a young boy appeared out of the bush. He was a youth of about fifteen, I guessed, probably another brother, dressed only in sirwel and carrying an axe and a dagger. He went through the usual profuse greeting with each of the brothers in turn, as if they had been away for months rather than days. Having greeted me last of all, he helped to hobble my camel, then led me into the shade of the shelter and offered me tea. The youth told me that his name was Ishaq, and at once I expected the usual interrogation: Where was my country? Where did I work? Where was I going? How much did my camel cost? Where did I buy him? I had grown so accustomed to receiving these questions from strangers that I could reel off the answers word-perfectly in Arabic. What surprised me was that Ishaq did not seem the least interested in who or what I was, but simply went about making a fire of woodchips upon which he set a blackened kettle. Meanwhile the camels growled and spat outside as the others unloaded them. Then Ab’ Gurun and his brothers joined us, squatting on the sand floor, while the tea was served. The liquid was as black as the charcoal itself, and a rainbow film of oil I assumed from the oil-drum outside floated on its surface. I drank it quickly, and asked for water, which I found to my disappointment to be similarly laced with a scum of oil.
The conversation settled down to a series of politenesses. Unlike the loquacious Osman and ’Ali, these charcoal-cutting Hamar seemed morose and silent, happy it seemed merely to be in each other’s company, as if they had been so long together in lonely places that talk had long ago been exhausted. Getting them into conversation was like pushing a heavily laden wheelbarrow uphill. However, I eventually managed to get Ab’ Gurun talking about his family. Once in gear, he was like a verbal bulldozer, and there was no stopping him.
‘Is your father a charcoal-man?’ I asked.
‘Our father is dead,’ he answered slowly. ‘But he was a Hamar from near En Nahud. He had some camels and cows, then one day some thieves came and stole some of his camels. He and my uncle followed their tracks for days. Then they found a Kawahla camp, and the camels were there. My father asked for the return of the camels, but the Kawahla refused. Then he said he would return with a large party from his family and take them by force. As he walked away, one of them shot him in the leg. My uncle could do nothing, he had only white weapons. It was some time before the leg was treated. He could not ride properly after that. He lost all his animals in the end, and became a charcoal-cutter.’
This seemed an enormous speech for the silent Ab’ Gurun, and when he had finished he took a swig of oily water and spat it out. Then he picked up his axe, threw off his tobe and stalked off into the bush. I wondered if the memory of his father’s misfortune had angered him.
The strange thing was that he had not expressed any hatred for the bandits, merely accepting what had happened as an act of fate. I continued talking to the other boys, asking them if they lived here most of the time.
‘No,’ answered the eldest, Jibril. ‘We cut the wood in one place but we don’t take it all, just the biggest branches. That way there’s always some left for next year.’
I ascertained that the charcoal was made from green wood, buried in a special mud-oven, and left for several days. ‘When we have enough,’ went on another of the brothers, ‘we send it to En Nahud, then we move to another place where the wood is more plentiful.’
At that moment Ab’ Gurun strode back into the camp. He was carrying a newly cut club and advanced on me with such a devilish look in his eyes that I stood up, thinking I was about to be attacked. All he did, however, was place the stick in my hand. ‘Keep this close when you sleep,’ he said. ‘Watch out for thieves. It won’t protect you from bullets, but it might be useful.’ I was touched by this simple but thoughtful present, and wished that somehow I could repay the kindness of these tough, quiet men, who spent most of their lives in the wild bush of Kordofan.
Later, I rode off alone, and after a few hours came to the village of Dibrin, a Hamar settlement dominated by a vast pile of groundnuts which towered over the straw roofs of the village. I couched my camel in a small square between the grass walls, and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of curious Hamar boys, who brought me tea this time without oil. As I sat under a rakuba, I noticed two camels couched in the shade on the opposite side of the square. One was a magnificent pure white bull bearing the circular brand of the Hamar on its rear leg. The other was a buff-coloured animal, a little smaller than the white. Both animals bore expensive riding saddles, surmounted by rich leather cushions, and I began to wonder idly who the owners were, when an old man came up to greet me. He began telling me a long tale about the last Englishman he had seen riding a camel, who, it seemed, was the British governor of En Nahud in the 1940s. I became interested and forgot the two camels.
Not long before sunset, I was continuing west across the open qoz, when I happened to glance behind me. To my surprise, about a quarter of a mile away was a pair of camel-riders, one of whom was mounted upon a brilliant white beast which I took to be the one I had seen in Dibrin. I hoped the men would catch up, thinking that it would be pleasant to spend the rest of the day with company. I was disappointed, however, when they came no nearer, even though I had slowed down slightly. I found it curious, for I had already learned that no Arab will fail to be excited at the prospect of new company. It suddenly struck me that the riders might be following me intentionally, and I recalled with a rush the governor’s horrific story about the lone traveller.
Perhaps these men were thieves, intent on stealing my camel! At once I condemned myself as infantile for this foolish fantasy, but still the idea persisted, lodged securely in my brain by the power of the storyteller. I continued riding on the same trajectory almost till sunset, glancing around occasionally to assure myself that the riders were still following. Meanwhile the day neared its end, the sky filled with a veil of cloud and a fierce wind blew from the north, whipping across the wild claws of the desert scrub. The qoz looked grey, cold, and uninviting, and as the light of the sun faded, the clouds welled up into strange spectral shapes. I had been hoping to come to a village at which I could rest for the night, but had passed none, nor in the gathering dusk could I make out the cosy, welcoming light of any such settlement in the distance. I had the choice of continuing on the offchance of finding a village or of camping down in the bush, with these two men coming up behind me.
I made a sudden impulsive decision. I turned sharply from the western route, and headed straight into a thicket of thornbush over a hundred yards away. I selected a place and couched my camel near a low tree. Then I stripped down to my sirwel, slung my broadsword over my shoulder, and went off to clear the area in the little light that remained, making sure that my camel was not visible and that there were no animal tracks passing close to my camp. I had hardly finished this task when I heard the soft murmur of men’s voices in the veil of the darkness, which was now complete. Quickly I dropped to the ground at the base of a thornbush, hoping that my white face would not give me away. The voices came nearer, but the new thickness of the night, with no moon up, meant that I could not make out the figures of the riders until they were almost upon me. They were going quite slowly, and only about fifteen yards away, they stopped.
‘I think he’s gone off into the bush,’ growled one of the men.
‘No,’ answered the other. ‘He’s gone on, that’s for sure. He would have lit a fire by now.’
‘Where’s he gone to then?’ cut in the first man. ‘There’s no village ahead.’
‘He doesn’t know that, he’s a stranger.’
At that moment I felt certain that my hunch had been correct. I was no longer dealing with exaggerated stories, but with the real thing.
They stood still, silently listening, for what seemed to me an end
less period. I suddenly remembered lying camouflaged on a moor in Wales during an SAS evasion exercise, while two Gurkha trackers came within a few yards and miraculously missed me.
Finally, to my intense relief, one of the men said, ‘Let’s go.’
When I was sure that they had gone, I returned to my camp. On the way, I almost walked into some loose thorn branches that had been left by charcoal-cutters or wood collectors, armed with vicious two-inch spikes. I suddenly had an idea, and began to drag the cruel branches to my tree, arranging them in semicircular defence around myself and my camel. If anyone was going to sneak up on me in the night, I thought, they would find a surprise waiting for them. Then I sat on my rug and ate some sardines, with my sword laid ready nearby. The ridiculous circumstances of my situation suddenly dawned on me. I was only a day’s journey away from a town where there were diesel trucks and electric generators. Yet here I was, dressed like some medieval knight, with my trusty sword at hand, hiding from robbers under a thorn tree. My own place and time seemed suddenly a million light years away.
In the bleary, windswept light of day, however, the events of the previous night took on a different form in my mind, as nocturnal events often do. I wondered if, after all, those men had merely been seeking company, since I had heard that it was the custom for travellers to join together at night. Perhaps I had let the bloodthirsty warnings I had had build up in my mind. The question, however, was never resolved, for I never saw or heard of them again.
In Search of the Forty Days Road Page 7
