Tuareg

‘Abdul-el-Kebir was the architect of our independence, a national hero, the first president of the nation, as a nation. Do you really mean to say that you have never heard of him?’

‘Never.’

‘Where have you been hiding all these years?’

‘In the desert. Nobody came to tell me what had happened.’

‘Don’t you get travellers passing through your settlements?’

‘A few. But we have more important things to talk about. What happened to Abdul-el-Kebir?’

‘The current president overthrew him. He removed him from power, but he respected him and didn’t dare to kill him. They rose to power together and were locked up in a French prison for many years together.’ He shook his head. ‘No, he couldn’t kill him… Neither his conscience nor his heart would have let him.’

‘But he’s in prison isn’t he?’

‘They deported him. To the desert.’

‘Where?’

‘To the desert. Like I said.’

‘The desert is a big place.’

‘But not so big that a fanatical supporters didn’t manage to find him and help him to escape. That was why he turned up at your jaima.’

‘Who was the young boy?’

‘A fanatic.’ He stared into the fire that was burning slowly and seemed momentarily lost in his own thoughts. When he did speak it was half to himself and he did not look at the Targui. ‘A fanatic who wanted to start a civil war. If Abdul had been freed he would have organised the opposition whilst in exile and that would have sparked a blood bath. The French who were actually after his head for some time, now support him.’ He paused. ‘They prefer him to us.’

He lifted his head slowly, taking in the cave around him and finally resting his gaze on Gazel, who was leaning back against a crop of protruding rocks and said in a sincere tone of voice:

‘Do you not understand that you are wasting your time? They will never exchange me for him and I forgive them for that. I’m just a simple governor; a loyal and useful worker, that does his work to the best of his capacity but for whom nobody would risk the possibility of a civil war. Many years will have to pass before Abdul-el-Kebir fades from the people’s memories and his name loses its significance.’

He picked up his glass of tea with difficulty as his hands were tied together and lifted it to his mouth, testing it to make sure it did not burn him. ‘And things haven’t been going too well lately…’ he continued. ‘Mistakes have been made. The kind of mistakes any newly independent nation or new government might make, but a lot of people don’t understand this and they are unhappy. Abdul was good at promising things. Promises that the people now want to see to fulfilled, but that we have not been able to, because they were Utopian ideals.’

He was silent again as he put his glass down on to the sand near to the fire, aware of the Targui staring at him; of his eyes glaring at him above his litham, almost piercing right through him.

‘You are scared of him,’ he finally said. ‘You and your people are very scared of him. Am I not right?’

He nodded.

‘We swore allegiance to him and even though I didn’t take part in the conspiracy and only got involved after it had happened, I did not dare to protest,’ he smiled sadly. ‘They bought my silence by making me the all-powerful governor of an immense territory and I accepted it thankfully. But you are right, deep down I still fear him. We all fear him because at the end of the day we know that he will be back to call us all to account. Abdul always returns.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the desert again.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘I will never tell you.’

The Targui stared at him fixedly, his look stern and his voice full of conviction when he said:

‘If I ask you to tell me then you will,’ he said. ‘My ancestors were famous for the way they tortured their prisoners and even though we no longer use those methods, the old ways have been passed on by word of mouth, as something of a curiosity.’ He picked up the kettle and filled up the two glasses again. ‘Listen!’ he continued. ‘Maybe you don’t understand because you weren’t born here, but I will not be able to sleep at night until I know that this man is free once again, as free as he was the day he appeared at the door of my jaima. If I have to kill to achieve that, or torture, I will do it, even though I don’t like it. I cannot bring the man that you ordered to be killed back to life, but I can give the other man his freedom back.’

‘You can’t.’

His stare had a strange intensity about it.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Entirely. In El-Akab only I know where he is and as much as you torture me I will still not tell you where he is.’

‘You are wrong,’ Gazel said. ‘Somebody else knows.’

‘Who?’

‘Your wife.’

He was pleased to see that he had been right, because Hassan-ben-Koufra’s face suddenly changed and for the first time since they had met, he seemed to lose his composure. He tried to protest feebly but Gazel interrupted him with a swift gesture of his hand.

‘Do not try to deceive me,’ he snapped.

‘I’ve been watching you for fifteen days and I’ve seen you with her. She is one of those women who men tell all their secrets to in absolute confidence. Or am I mistaken?’

He looked at him quizzically.

‘Sometimes I wonder if you are a simple, ignorant Targui, born and bred in the backwater of all deserts, or if you’re hiding someone else behind that veil.’

The Targui smirked:

‘They say that our race even then, in the time of the pharaohs, was an intelligent, cultured and powerful one, back in the days when we inhabited the island of Crete. So intelligent and powerful were they that they tried to invade Egypt, but a woman betrayed them and they lost the great battle. Some of them fled to the east and settled by the sea, to become the so-called Phoenicians that went on to rule the oceans. Others fled west and settled in the sands, becoming rulers of the desert. Thousands of years later you arrived, the barbaric Arabs who Mohammad had just dragged out of the darkest ignorance…’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of that legend that proclaims you to be descendents of the “garamants.” But I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe what you will, but what is quite certain is that we were here long before you were and we were always more intelligent, just less ambitious. We are happy with our lives and do not aspire to anything else. We would rather leave you to think what you will of us. But when we are provoked we will react.’ He hardened his voice: ‘You will tell me where Abdul-el-Kebir is or I will have to ask your wife?’

The governor Hassan-ben-Koufra was reminded of the advice the Minister of the Interior had given him on the eve of his departure to El-Akab:

‘Do not trust the Tuaregs,’ he had said. ‘Do not be fooled by their appearance, because I can tell you that they have the most analytical and cunning brains on the continent. They are a race apart. They could rule us with ease. A Targui would understand what the sea is without ever having seen it, or resolve a philosophical problem that neither you nor I would understand a word of. Their culture is an ancient one and even though as a social group they are in decline, their environment altered and their warrior spirits more subdued, they are still extremely notable individuals. Be wary of them…!’

‘A Targui would never hurt a woman,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t think you are an exception. Respect for women is almost as important for you as your laws of hospitality. Would you break one rule in order to enforce another?’

‘Probably not,’ Gazel admitted.

‘But I would not do her any harm. If she knows that your life depended on it then she would tell me where to find Abdul-el-Kebir.’

Hassan-ben-Koufra thought of Tamat and their thirteen years of marriage and their two children and he knew that the Targui was right. He could not blame her, as he knew that he would do the same. At the end of the day even if he told him where Abdul-el-Kebir was, it did not mean that he would automatically be freed.

‘He’s in the Gerifies fortress,’ he sighed.

Gazel felt confident that he was telling the truth and mentally calculated the distance.

‘I’ll need three days to get there and one more to get camels and provisions.’ He thought for a while and then started to laugh:

‘That means that by the time they’ve set up an ambush for me in the guelta of the Sidi-el-Madia I will already be in Gerifies.’ He drank his tea very slowly, savouring it. ‘They will wait for us for one day; two at most before learning the truth and sending out a message to wait for me there… I have time!’ he said confidently. ‘Yes. I think I have time.’

‘What are you going to do with me,’ the governor asked, his voice trembling slightly.

‘I should kill you but I will leave you enough water and food for ten days. If you have told me the truth, I will send someone to get you. If you have lied and Abdul-el-Kebir is not there then you will die of hunger and thirst, because you will never be able to break free from these camel skin ties.’

‘How do I know for sure that you will send someone to look for me?’

‘You don’t, but I will. Do you have any money?’

The governor Hassan-ben-Koufra pointed with his chin towards his wallet that was in the back pocket of his trousers and the Targui took it out. He removed the biggest notes and split them in half, took one half and left the rest in the wallet, which he put by the fire.’

‘I will find a nomad and give him this money, then I will tell him where he might find the rest of it.’ He smiled under his veil. ‘A Bedouin would travel a month on camelback to get hold of that amount of money. Don’t worry,’ he said, trying to reassure him. ‘They will come for you. Now take off your trousers.’

‘Why?’ he said in a tone of alarm.

‘You’ll be spending ten days in this cave with your feet and hands tied up. If you urinate and then you soil yourself on top, you’ll only get sores.’ He held up his hands. ‘It’s best if you keep your bottom bare.’

His Excellency, the governor Hassan-ben-Koufra, supreme and undisputed authority of an area that was bigger than France was about to protest but then seemed to think better of it, swallowed his pride and anger and started to undo, with difficulty, the belt of his trousers.

Gazel helped him take them off, tied him up carefully and then removed his watch and his ring, which had a large shiny stone set into it.

‘This will pay for the camels and provisions,’ he pointed out. ‘I am poor and I had to kill my mount. He was a beautiful mehari. I will never find another like him.’

He gathered together his things, left his water gerba leaning against a wall and a sack of dried fruit and pointing to them said:

‘Look after these. Above all, the water. And don’t try to free yourself. It’ll only make you sweat and you’ll need to drink more and then you may not have enough water to last you. Try and sleep…that is the best way of saving your energy.’ He left. Outside it was dark and the sky was black and moonless. The stars seemed closer than ever, almost brushing the tops of the peaks that rose above his head and he stood there thinking, maybe trying to orientate himself or mentally tracing the path he would take from there to the far away fortress. He needed above all, mounts, ample provisions and gerbas into which he could put as much water as possible as he was fairly sure that there were no wells around the Tikdabra erg and further south there was only the great “lost lands”, which seemed to have no limits.

He walked all night long with a fast and bounding step, at a pace that would have exhausted most people, but that was normal for a Targui. Dawn crept up on him as the sun rose over the crest of a hill that overlooked a valley where once, many years ago, a river would have ran through. The nomads knew that all they had to do there was plunge an atankor half a meter in and they would get enough water for five camels, which made it an obligatory stop-over for the caravans that came from the south that were headed for the great El-Akab oasis.

He could make out a total of three encampments along the riverbed that, with the first light of day, were starting to revive the fires and gather in their animals from the slopes, as they got ready to set off again.

He watched them closely without being seen himself and once he was totally sure that there were no soldiers in any of them, he walked down to the biggest of the jaimas and stopped in front of it. Inside, four men were sipping their morning tea.

‘Metulem, metulem!’ ‘Aselam aleikum’ they replied in unison. ‘Sit down and have some tea with us. Biscuits?’

He was pleased with the biscuits, the cheese, which was almost rancid, but strong and tasty and the juicy dates, accompanied by a greasy, sweet and sugary tea that warmed up his body and chased away the cold he felt from having spent a dawn in the desert.

The one who seemed to be in charge of the group, a Bedouin with a scraggy beard and sharp eyes, was watching him intently and eventually asked, without the slightest alteration in his tone of voice:

‘Is it you Gazel? Gazel Sayah of the Kel-Talgimus?’ As he nodded, he added: ‘They’re looking for you.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you killed the governor?’

‘No.’

They were looking at him intently and had stopped chewing, probably in an attempt to work out whether he was telling the truth or not.

Finally the Bedouin said casually:

‘Do you need anything?’

‘Four meharis and some food and water.’

He took the watch and the ring out of his red leather bag that was hanging round his neck and showed them: ‘I’ll pay with these.’

A scrawny old man with the long, delicate, hands of a craftsman, took the ring and studied it with the scrutiny of someone who knows what they are doing, while the scraggybearded man looked at the heavy watch.

The craftsman eventually gave the piece of jewellery to his boss:

‘It’s worth at least ten camels,’ he declared. ‘It’s a good stone.’

The other man nodded, holding out the watch to him.

‘Take what you want in exchange for the ring,’ he smiled. ‘You might need this.’

‘I don’t know how to use it.’

‘Neither do I, but when you need to sell it you’ll get a good price for it. It’s made of gold.’

‘They are offering money for your head,’ the craftsman said, almost in passing. ‘A lot of money.’

‘Do you know of anybody who would want it?’

‘None of us do,’ the youngest of the group, who had been transfixed by the Targui, a look of open admiration on his face, piped up. ‘Do you need some help? I could accompany you.’

The chief, who was probably also the boy’s father shook his head disapprovingly:

‘He doesn’t need any help. Your silence is enough,’ he paused. ‘And neither must we get mixed up in this. The military are furious and we’ve already had enough problems with them.’

He turned to Gazel. ‘I am sorry, but I must protect my people.’

Gazel Sayah nodded.

‘I understand. You are doing enough by selling me your camels.’

He looked over at the young boy sympathetically. ‘And you are right, I don’t need help, just silence.’

The boy lowered his head slightly, as if enjoying his deference, then got up.

‘I will choose the best camels for you and whatever else you need. I will also fill up your gerbas.’

He went out quickly, followed by the watchful eye of the others and the chief, who was clearly proud of him.

‘He is brave and spirited and he admires what you are doing,’ he commented. ‘You’re fast becoming the most famous man in the desert.’

‘That is not what I am after,’ he replied, unwaveringly. ‘All I want to do is live in peace with my family.’ He paused. ‘And for them to respect our laws.’

‘You will never be able to live in peace with your family now,’ the craftsman warned him. ‘You will have to leave the country.’

‘There is a border south of the “lost lands,”’ the chief said. ‘And another to the east, some three days from the Huaila mountains.’ He shook his head. ‘The ones in the west are too far, you would never get there. To the north you’ve got the sea and the cities. I have never been there either.’

‘How will I know when I have crossed the border into safety?’ he asked.

They looked at each other, unable to give him an answer. A black man, an Akli son of slaves, who had until that moment remained silent, spoke up:

‘Nobody knows exactly. No one,’ he said confidently.

‘Last year I took a caravan down to the Niger, but we were never able to work out when we had crossed it into the other country, either on the way there or on our return.’

‘How long did it take you to get to the river?’

The Akli thought about his answer for a while. Then, finally and not very convincingly he ventured:

‘Maybe a month…’ He tutted as if trying to get rid of some bad memories. ‘Almost double, on our return. There was a drought and the wells had dried up so we had to go a long way round to avoid Tikdabra. When I was young you used to pass decent wells and grasslands before arriving at the river. But now the wells have been reclaimed by the sand, the last traces of grass have disappeared and the sand is threatenening the banks of the river itself. These are grasslands where the Peuls used to graze their livestock but that now aren’t fit for the hungriest of camels any more. There’s not a trace left of the wells that were once populated in the area either, so there are no longer any places to rest.’ He tutted again. ‘And I am not that old.’

He reiterated his words: ‘No, I am not old. The desert is advancing too quickly.’

‘I do nor care whether the desert is advancing and swallowing up other lands or not,’ Gazel remarked. ‘I am happy here. I worry more about the desert not being big enough for us to be able to live in it peacefully. The more it grows, the better. Maybe one day they’ll just forget about us.’

‘They will never forget,’ the craftsman interjected. ‘They have found oil, which is what the Rumi are most interested in. I know, because I worked in the capital for two years and there, all of the conversations revolved, in one way or another, around oil.’

Gazel looked at the old man with renewed interest. The craftsman, like all artisans, whether they worked with silver or gold as he did, or with leather or stone, were considered by the Tuaregs as an inferior caste, half way between an Imohag and an ingad or serf and even sometimes between an ingad and an Akli slave. But despite this ranking, they also recognised that within their social system, these craftsmen were probably the most cultured of them all, with many of them able to read and write, while some of them had travelled beyond the desert’s borders.

‘I was in a town once.’ he finally said. ‘But it was very small and at that time governed by the French. Have things changed a lot?’

‘A lot,’ he conceded. ‘In those times you had the French on one side and us on the other. Now our brothers are fighting each other, with one wanting one thing and the other another.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘And when the French left, they divided up the territories putting borders in by just drawing a line on the map, which often split up the same tribe or put members of the same family into two different countries. So if the government was communist, they had to be communist; if the government was fascist, they had to be fascist; if the king ruled it was a monarchy…’

He stopped and looking at him questioningly asked:

‘Do you know what it means to be a communist?’

Gazel shook his head.

‘I’ve never heard of them. Are they our sector?’

‘More or less. But not religious. Only political.’

‘Political?’ he replied, not understanding the term.

‘They believe that all men should be equal, with the same rights and tasks and that wealth should be evenly distributed.’

‘They believe that the clever man and the stupid man should be equal. That the Imohag and the slave, the worker and the layabout, the warrior and the coward are all the same?’ he cried out in surprise. ‘Are they mad? If Allah made us all different, why on earth should they try and claim that we are all equal?’ he snorted. ‘Being born a Targui would mean nothing then?’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ he admitted.

‘Well it must be, because that kind of nonsense is not even worth discussion,’ he said, then paused as if bringing the subject to an end, before asking:

‘Have you heard of Abdul-el-Kebir?’

‘We’ve all heard of him,’ the Bedouin chief said, interrupting the craftsman. ‘He was the one that got rid of the French and governed for the first few years.’

‘What kind of a man is he?’

‘A fair man,’ the other conceded. ‘Mistaken, but fair.’

‘Why mistaken?’

‘Whoever places all their trust in others, only to be overthrown by them and imprisoned, has to have been mistaken.’

Gazel turned round to the old man.

‘Is he one of those men that believe that we should all be equal? What are they called?’

‘Communists?’ the craftsman said. ‘No. I don’t believe he was exactly a communist. They say he was a socialist.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Something else.’

‘Similar?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He searched the faces of the other men for an answer, but they just shrugged their shoulders, all as ignorant as each other. He sighed and left the subject behind, aware that he was not going to get very far with any more questions of that nature.

‘I have to go’ he said as he stood up to leave.

‘Aselam aleikum.’

‘Aselam aleikum.’

He walked over to where they were loading up his camels and checked them over with his expert eye, saw that everything was in order, got up onto the fastest of them and after making it stand up, took out a fistful of notes and handed them to the boy.

‘You’ll find the other half in the cave of the Tatalet gorge, half a day’s walk from here. Do you know it?’

‘I know it,’ he confirmed. ‘Is that where you have hidden the governor?’

‘Next to the notes,’ he replied. ‘In one week, on your way back from El-Akab, set him free.’

‘You can trust in me.’

‘Thank you. And remember: in one week, not before.’

‘Take care. May Allah be with you!’ The Targui dug his heels into the mehari’s neck and the animal turned go, followed by the others and they set off together, unhurriedly, disappearing from view behind a cluster of rocks.

The little boy returned alone and sat down at the door of his jaima. His father smiled gently.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said.

‘He’s a Targui and there is no-one in the world that is capable of catching a lone Targui in the desert.’