‘What happened to him?’
‘They killed him in the end. He stayed a rebel and attacked the Mahdi’s army. By that time, the Mahdi himself was dead, and in his place was the Khalifa Abdallahi. Abdallahi hated Salih and sent an army to capture him, led by a man called Jarayjir. Jarayjir was from the Bani Jarrar and there was a blood feud between him and Salih. Salih had killed his father and his cousin.’
‘How did he die?’
‘They fought him at Umm Badr and chased him into the desert again. Then they killed most of his family. In the end, he had no wish to carry on living. He just spread his sheepskin on the ground and waited for death. The enemy surrounded him and said, “Come with us to the Khalifa!” “I will die here!” he answered. Then Jarayjir came forward and cut his head off! By Almighty God, what men they were in those days! They put his head on a spike in Omdurman. It was there for thirty days!’
‘But if the secret of the drums died with Salih,’ I asked, ‘how did they come to be here?’
‘Hah, that is a story of its own,’ the old man answered. ‘You must ask Sheikh Musa about it, for I will tell you no more!’ Try as I might, I could get nothing further out of him.
Part 3
The Trek to Egypt
_____10._____
Interlude in the Damar
They are nomads as their fathers and their
fathers’ fathers, and the nomad has
changed but little since Joseph watered
the flocks of Laban at Harran.
Sir Harold MacMichael,
Tribes of Northern and Central Kordofan, 1912
I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN THE war with the Zayadiyya, but in the dikka, it was still on everyone’s lips. In January, a boy from the ’Awajda was shot dead as he herded his family’s flocks near Umm Qozayn, and the Zayadiyya were suspected. Not long afterwards, three camels were stolen from the nuggara herd, and the bouncy little Arab we had met at Shigil, Ali at Tom Wad al Murr, led a pursuit party into Zayadiyya country. Eleven of the twelve Kababish who had been arrested for the murder of Tahir were still languishing in a Darfur prison; the twelfth had died of an illness contracted there.
In February, I visited Sheikh Hassan in Omdurman. He lay bedridden in the house of the Kababish guarantor, Sheikh Jami’, paralysed on the left side of his body. It was distressing to see him in this state when I remembered how, the year before, I had ridden with him in the ranges of the Bahr. This was to be our last meeting.
The dikka was pitched at Umm Qozayn so that the goats and sheep could be watered at the pool there. It was a cold winter, and the sense of depression I had sensed during the summer had returned. For the Nurab in particular, it had been a desolate year. Al Murr was dead and Hassan was dying. The royal family was in mourning, and the herds had returned from the north earlier than ever. Many cows had died already, and more animals would die if the conditions did not improve. The dar was wasting away, as if an evil spirit had moved across it, withering the trees and the grasses, blighting the sheep and the cattle.
At Tom had taken over the effective leadership of the tribe. He was a strong character, but young and inexperienced. The local government was pressing for a solution to the continuing hostilities with the Zayadiyya, and in February, the sheikhs of the tribe gathered to meet the chiefs of their rivals in the Darfur town of Umm Kaddada.
Meanwhile, I stayed in the dikka in Umm Qozayn, and in Umm Sunta, when it was moved back there. I saw much of Salim Wad Musa and his friend Ibrahim Wad Hassan, a very dignified young man, who was one of the small corps of educated Kababish. The nazir’s people were very hospitable and generous, yet now the dikka seemed as formal as a royal palace in contrast to the austerity of the desert. I yearned for the bittersweet life I had tasted amongst the ’Atawiyya and the Sarajab, and my thoughts turned constantly to the desert.
I wanted to complete the journey I had set out to make with the Rizayqat, the journey to Egypt. It was the longest of the nomadic treks—almost a thousand miles—taking camel herds to be sold in the Cairo market; with my Rizayqat I had covered only two-thirds of the route. I was certain that with my powerful friends amongst the Kababish, I should now be able to find someone willing to take me the whole way. Salim told me that there were several Kababish merchants in the area gathering camels for export, and that he would keep an eye out for any herds that might be leaving in the near future.
The days went by with featureless calm. I spent my time walking around the market in the village, talking with the traders and the nomads who rode in from the surrounding deserts to obtain their few needs. One thing that became clear was that the traditional economy of the nomads was dying. Despite their antipathy, nomads and farmers had always lived in symbiosis. To the Kababish, grain was essential. Without it, the families could not separate for part of the year. The farmers relied on the nomads for meat and for draft animals, which they could not produce in large enough numbers. In 1979, a sack of sorghum flour had cost only £S10, while a camel might fetch £S300. Now, three years later, the price of sorghum had risen to £S50, and livestock prices were falling. This meant that the Kababish were obliged to sell more animals than previously in order to maintain the same standard of living. They were reluctant to sell, for tradition dictated that they keep as large a herd as possible. This made sense, for their herds were their capital, and it was logical to preserve that capital and live only on the interest. If they were forced to sell their livestock faster than the animals could reproduce, it meant the eventual loss of their herds and flocks. Without them, the nomads had nothing.
In the past, the Kababish had bought grain from the farming tribes in Central Kordofan and had transported it themselves by camel. Now, almost all of their supplies came from Omdurman by lorry. If the farmers had been able to keep grain prices down, the Omdurman supplies might eventually have been cheaper, but rising prices were added to by transport and fuel costs. A clique of truck owners had grown fat as middlemen in the trade. It seemed, as so often before, that new technology was interfering with the traditional ways, concentrating power in few hands.
Often, I visited the borewell in Umm Sunta, sitting in the shade of the two black iron water-towers and looking out across the mounds of bone-dry ordure that surrounded the iron troughs. The Kababish herds were being watered here every sixteen days, and every day, men and women came to fill waterskins and plastic containers. Some of them were professional water carriers, while others
drew water for their families only. The well supervisor was Sheikh Hassan’s brother-in-law Mohammid Reyd, and I frequently chatted to him as I sat there. Here, too, I saw the same pattern of decline, brought about partly by reliance on modern technology. The borewell used to work efficiently,’ he told me. ‘But lately, the fuel has been so expensive and difficult to get that the pumps are idle. Then the herds have to wait for days, or to go back to Hamrat ash Sheikh, where there are deep wells. It was better in the old days. There were fewer camels and sheep, but the Arabs watered in the hand-dug wells and did not rely on fuel.’
One of the water carriers, a Nurabi called Ismael, became a particular friend. He was never in a hurry to fill his great double-sided waterskin and was quite ready to talk about his life. ‘When I was young, our condition was fine,’ he told me. ‘My father had plenty of livestock and I was the only adult son. We were happy. Then he got married to a second wife and moved to Omdurman. We never saw
him after that. He had many children, and when he died, the animals were divided. Over the years, we ate what was left of them. Now I only have a few goats, such as the poor have, but God knows, animals can be devils anyway! Take my uncle; he had plenty of cattle. Last year, he sold ten bullocks to a merchant for 350 each. Then, just as he went to get on his donkey, my uncle regretted it. “Here, keep your money!” he said. “My cattle are too good to sell!” The same year, he was hit by disease and nine of the ten died. Stupidity, you see! Animals can drive you mad, by God!’
In the evenings, I sometimes sat in
the room of the schoolhouse with Salim, Ibrahim, and an old Arab called Marghani. We would sit around a smoky oil lamp, and someone would bring a bowl of seasoning and some round, flat loaves. Marghani was another of the few educated Arabs. He had been a pupil of the famous Hassan Najila, the tutor of Sir Ali at Tom’s children, and the first teacher to work in the dar. I had read Najila’s account of his work and experiences, Memories of the Desert, and was fascinated to meet one of his students. I asked the old man about the changes he had seen in the area. ‘The Kababish were rich once,’ he told me. ‘They were the richest tribe in the Sudan. A Kabbashi would look down on a farmer not because he was a slave but because he was poor. The nomads had everything. Now, we have no future as nomads. We must make livestock breeding more commercial, even if it means cutting down on the numbers and improving the strain. We need to buy lorries and start trading. If the Arabs cannot adapt to the new conditions, they will die, by God!’
There was much in what he said, but I could not forget that Marghani belonged to the elite of the tribe. The nazir’s people were in every way atypical. They were a tiny minority amongst the Kababish—less than a hundred households. Outside this clan, few Arabs could even read or write. I remembered how Mohammid Wad Fadlal Mula had scorned the idea of living in a city, and how the other Sarajab in the Wadi al Milik had scoffed at the notion that they had any duty to the government. There were several schools in the dar, but their pupils were mainly from the Nurab. This was not intentional policy; when they had first been opened, there had been a proportional number of places set aside for each tribe, but the Arabs of the desert would have nothing to do with them.
I slowly built up a picture of this land as it had been in previous years. I started to see and understand the matrix of factors that was already crushing the life from these people. Much of the grazing had simply disappeared. Over twenty species of grass had gone from their normal places in the previous ten years, and several species of trees no longer grew. With them had gone the wildlife that once flourished here. If conditions did not improve, the nomads would have no choice but to move south. I asked one old man of the Nurab if he would move to the city. ‘What should I do in the city?’ he asked me. ‘I went to the city once. So much noise and such smells and people I didn’t know. No one invited me, by God! One day was enough for me! The next ten years will see the end!’
As I was buying cloth in the market one day, a decrepit old Arab touched me on the arm. He was bowed and wizened and wore a dirty, dishevelled jibba and a headcloth that was full of holes. ‘You are a nasrani!’ he said. ‘You are like the nasrani I went with in the desert!’
I could hardly make out what he was saying. Though I knew that nasrani meant ‘Christian’, it was a word not normally used by the Arabs, who referred to Europeans as ’Ajam. ‘I went with the nasrani looking for Zarzura,’ he continued. ‘It was beyond Al Ga’a and beyond Nukheila. We were riding for days and we thought we should die. Then the nasrani took us to an oasis. It wasn’t Zarzura. It was Selima. From there, we went to the river!’
Just then, Salim came up and hustled the old man away, saying, ‘He is half crazy! Don’t listen to his talk!’
If I had done more research into the early exploration of the area then, I should have realised at once that the old man was by no means mad. He was referring to the expedition completed by Douglas Newbold and William Shaw in the south Libyan desert in 1928. One of their objects had been to locate the site of the lost oasis of Zarzura.
I was diverted, however, by Salim’s news. He told me that a herd raised by an Arab of the Barara, Abdal Karim Wad al Ghaybish, was due to leave for Egypt shortly. I decided to collect Wad at Tafashan from the borewell at Umm Sunta the following day, when the nuggara camels were being watered, and ride to Abdal Karim’s camp.
But before I left, I was determined to hear the conclusion of the story of the Kababish drums. Salim told me that his father, Sheikh Musa, was the leading authority on tribal history and advised me to ask him. His tent was the last in the straggling cluster of the dikka. As I approached it, a pack of snarling dogs broke from under its eaves, baring their yellow fangs as they dashed towards me. At the crucial moment, the Sheikh appeared in the door gap and shouted to them, halting them in their tracks. ‘You should always carry a stick with you!’ he told me. ‘These animals are dangerous!’
Inside his tent, there were two rope beds, and the ground was covered by a thick, woven carpet. A number of decorated saddlebags hung on the wall. The Sheikh’s servant brought me tea, and as I drank, he said, ‘Salim tells me you are interested in the nahas.’
I explained that I should like to know how the lost drums came to be found.
‘You know that Salih al Bey was killed by the Khalifa’s men,’ Sheikh Musa said. ‘And that afterwards, no one knew where the nahas was buried. They searched for it in Jabal Aw Dun, but it was not found. In those days, there was some pasture in the mountain, and the Ghilayan used to graze their camels there. Often, on windy nights, they would hear a great drum booming in the hills. They said it was the jinn who live in the wild places. The Arabs always blame the jinn! Others said that it was the lost drums of Salih al Bey. One day, a Ghilayani called Abdallah Dugushayn was riding along the foot of the mountain, when he saw something big and shiny in a thorn tree. It was a copper vessel with handles. He did not know what it was, so he took it to his sheikh. The sheikh knew it at once. “Almighty God!” he said. “It is the ‘Bull’—one of the lost drums of Salih al Bey.” He advised Abdallah to take it to the nazir, who was my father, Ali Wad at Tom. The dikka was at Haraz then. He was a tricky one, that Abdallah. Before he gave the drum to my father, he said, “Sheikh Ali, I have brought you the ‘Bull’—what will you give me in return?” My father asked him what reward he wished, and Abdallah said, “I want freedom from taxes!” My father said, ‘That I cannot grant you, for taxes belong to the government, not to me. But you will have your reward.” Then the “Bull” was brought in and there was a great celebration in the dikka. They slaughtered an ox, and there was dancing and singing. Soon, they reskinned the drum and its voice was heard for miles. All the Arabs around Haraz heard it and hurried to the dikka. They said, “The ‘Bull’ has returned. Now, Ali Wad at Tom is really chief of the Kababish!” They said the nahas would bring them luck, and it did, for the nazirate of my’ father was the best time of all for the Kababish!’
‘What about the other drums?’ I asked him. ‘I saw five in Hamrat ash Sheikh.’
‘My father asked the government to supply him with three smaller drums to make up the set. There were always four nahas amongst the Kababish.’
‘What about the fifth?’
‘Aah! That is my part of the story. The fifth drum is the one called “Cow”. I found it being used by some Ghilayan to water their goats. It was in 1952 in Marikh, exactly fifty years after the “Bull” returned. It was filthy and green with age. The Arabs did not know where it had come from, but I knew it was the “Cow”. I took it to the camp of my brother, Mohammid al Murr, and the old men remembered it. We reskinned it and put it with the rest. But it brought us no luck. The fortunes of the Kababish died with my father. Now look at us! If the rains don’t get better, we will be finished!’
That evening I wished farewell to my friends amongst the nazir’s people. At Tom told me that he had concluded a truce with the Zayadiyya, and that blood money would be paid by both sides. ‘The Arabs who were in prison will be released,’ he told me. ‘But it will not make much difference. The feelings between the tribes run too deep.’ Ali at Tom had just returned from his foray into Darfur. ‘We got the camels back,’ he said. ‘It was a lucky chance though. We followed the trail until we were in Mellit. There was a wedding feast for one of the rich Zayadiyya, so of course, we joined in with the eating and drinking. A Saudi Arabian minister was guest of honour. Right in the middle of the feasting, I saw a “Son of the Forbidden” riding one of my camels! I grabbed hold of the rope and told him, “If you come down I
will break your head open!” Then we dragged him down and took him to the police. He soon told us where the other camels were. It caused a stir all right! You should have seen the look on the Saudi’s face! That was the best thing of all, by God!’
I told Salim Wad Musa that I should return later in the year. He warned me, ‘Watch out for the Egyptian border police. They are not very hospitable!’ Then we shook hands and embraced. ‘Go in peace,’ Salim said.
I was at the borewell very early. It was a bright morning, and the camels were already crowding around the troughs when I arrived, a legion of reflecting shapes against the silver-grey background of the well field. Many of the nazir’s people were there, standing like a picket of generals about to review a parade. Amongst them were Mohammid Dudayn, Ibrahim Wad Hassan, and Salim Wad Hassan. The herdsmen drove the camels into the troughs, rank after towering rank; they were now sixteen days without water. The animals shoved and squeezed their way to where the liquid flowed from the funnels, warm and clear. After some time, I spotted Wad at Tafashan. He recognised me as I approached him and shuffled away, perhaps remembering the torture of the journey to El ’Atrun. He had become a little fatter in the two months since I had seen him, and his winter coat had grown, giving him a bluish colour. One of the men bridled him and I led him away to prepare for the journey.
As I rode off towards Umm Batatikha, I was glad to be alone, to have a short breathing space; so many impressions crowded into my mind, and I had not yet been able to get them into perspective. As the temperature rose, the sun baked the pale sand beneath the graveyards of the trees. I passed through the old site of the dikka where I had spent the last hot month of summer with Sheikh Hassan. I saw the frame of the tent where I had first got to know his family. I was again beset by a feeling of sadness as I looked at the ruins of the camp, the skeletons of the tents now bleak and desolate, where there had once been life. It was the sense of transitoriness that affected me—a townsman’s emotion, which had little place in the lives of the nomads, whose sense of home was built around people rather than places.
A Desert Dies Page 24
