Tuareg

‘There he is!’

He held out his binoculars to Sergeant Ajamuk who lifted them in the direction that he was pointing and adjusted their vision in order to make out the rider, who was advancing slowly under a strong morning sun.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘He’s there alright, but I think he’s seen us. He’s stopped and he’s looking over here.’

Lieutenant Razman took the binoculars and peered through the shimmering haze of the saltpan at Gazel Sayah, who was looking across at them on the edge of the sebkha. He was aware that the falcon eyes of a Targui, accustomed to taking in long distances, could see as a far as a normal man could with the help of binoculars.

They looked at each other and even though he could only make out the silhouette of the beast and its rider, shimmering in the haze, he would have loved to have known what he was thinking at that moment, as it dawned on him that he had been caught in the middle of a salt trap from which there was no escape.

‘This was much easier than we’d expected,’ he commented.

‘We haven’t got him yet…’ Ajamuk pointed out.

He turned round to face him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I said,’ the sergeant replied casually. ‘We can’t take our vehicles down onto the saltpan. Even if we found a way to get down, we’d sink into the salt. And we’ll never catch him on foot.’

Lieutenant Razman realised he had a point, stretched out his hand and grabbed the radiotelephone’s microphone.

‘Sergeant!’ he shouted. ‘Sergeant Malik! Can you hear me?’ The apparatus crackled and screeched until finally the voice of Malik-el-Haideri came through loud and clear.

‘I can hear you, lieutenant.’

‘We’re on the west side of the sebkha and we’ve located the fugitive. He’s coming towards us, but unfortunately I think he’s seen us.’

He could almost hear the sergeant cursing the news silently and after a pause he said:

‘I can’t go on any further. I’ve found a way to get down but the saltpan won’t take the weight of the jeep.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do but wait at the edge until he’s dying of thirst and is forced to give himself up.’

‘Give himself up…?’ his voice was a mixture of surprise and disbelief. ‘A Targui who has killed two men will never give himself up.’ Ajamuk nodded his head in agreement. ‘He might stay there and die but he’ll never hand himself in.’

‘Maybe…’ he admitted. ‘But we clearly can’t go after him. We’ll wait.’

‘You’re in charge, lieutenant!’

‘Stay in radio contact. Over and out!’

He flicked the switched off and turned to Ajamuk

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he muttered. ‘Do you suggest we just go down there and run after a Targui just so he can play games with us and take a few pot shots…?’ He paused and then turned to one of his soldiers.

‘Make me a white flag,’ he said.

‘You’re not going to try and negotiate with him?’ said Ajamuk in a tone of surprise. ‘What will you achieve by doing that?’ He shrugged his shoulders: ‘I don’t know. But I’m going to do everything in my power to avoid any further bloodshed.’

‘Let me go,’ the sergeant begged. ‘I’m not a Targui, but I was born here and I know the area well.’

He shook his head decisively. ‘I’m the highest authority south of Sidi-el-Madia,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’ll listen to me.’

He picked up the spade by the handle, to which the soldier had attached a dirty handkerchief, removed his gun and started to climb carefully down the dangerous bank.

‘If anything happens to me, you’re in charge,’ he stressed. ‘Malik must not assume that position under any circumstances. Is that clear?’

‘Don’t worry.’

Lurching forward unsteadily, the lieutenant stumbled down the bank precariously, almost throwing himself into the abyss at one point, before finally reaching the bottom. He looked across nervously at the thin, salt crust and aware that his men were watching him, took a deep breath and started walking towards the distant silhouette of the rider, praying to the heavens that the ground would not open up beneath him.

Once he felt a bit safer he held up the rather pitiful flag in front of him as he walked. The sun started to beat down relentlessly and he soon realised that within the confines of the saltpan, where there was not even a hint of a breeze, the temperature was probably another five degrees higher and it started to scorch his lungs with each new breath.

He watched as the Targui made his camel kneel down and how he remained upright at its side with his rifle at the ready. Half way there he suddenly regretted his decision as the sweat ran off every part of his body, soaking through his uniform and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

That last kilometre was without doubt the longest kilometre of his life and when he had got within ten meters of Gazel, he stopped in order to regain his strength and composure before asking:

‘Have you got any water?’ The other man shook his head, his rifle still pointing directly at Razman’s chest:

‘I need it. You can drink when you go back.’

He nodded his head and ran his tongue over his lips that only tasted of the salt from his sweat

‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I’m an idiot for not bringing my water bottle. How do you cope with this heat?’

‘I’m used to it… Have you come here to talk about the weather?’

‘No, I’ve come to ask you to give yourself up. You cannot escape!’

‘Only Allah will decide that. The desert is a big place.’

‘But the saltpan isn’t. My men have you surrounded.’ He looked over at the nearly empty gerba hanging around the animal’s neck. ‘You haven’t much water left. You won’t last long in here…’ He paused. ‘If you come with me I promise you a fair trial.’

‘Why should I be put on trial,’ Gazel said casually. ‘I killed Mubarrak in a duel, in accordance with the rules of our race and I killed the military man because he was a murderer who had failed to respect the sacred rules of hospitality. According to the

Tuareg laws I have not committed any crime.’

‘Why are you running away then…?’

‘Because I know that neither the Rumi infidels or yourselves, who have adopted their absurd rules, will respect mine, despite the fact that we meet in the desert. To you I’m just a dirty son of the wind who has killed one of your own men, not an inmouchar of the Kel-Talgimus, who only acted according to a law that has been in place for thousands of years; many years before you even dreamed of setting foot in these lands.’

The lieutenant lowered himself down carefully and sat down on the hard salt crust, shaking his head:

‘You’re not a dirty son of the wind to me. You are an Imohag, noble and brave and I understand your reasons.’ He paused. ‘I share them. I would probably have reacted in the same way had someone done that to me.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I am obliged to hand you over to the authorities and avoid any further bloodshed. Please,’ he begged, ‘don’t make things any more difficult than they already are.’

He could have sworn that the other man was laughing at him under his veil as he replied sarcastically:

‘Difficult for whom?’ He shook his head. ‘For a Targui things only start to get really difficult from the moment he loses his freedom. Our lives are hard, but our freedom compensates for this. If we lose our freedom we lose our will to live.’ He paused. ‘What will they do to me? Condemn me to twenty years?’

‘There’s no reason it should be for so long.’

“How many then…five…eight! I have seen your prisons, they have told me how they live there and I know that I would not last a single day.’ He waved his hand aggressively, in a gesture that seemed to dismiss his visitor. ‘If you want to catch me, come and get me…’

Razman stood up clumsily, horrified by the idea that he had to retrace his steps under a sun that beat down more furiously by the minute.

‘I won’t come looking for you. Of that you can be sure,’ he said, before turning his back to him.

Gazel watched him as he moved away slowly, holding himself up with the spade that he had previously used as a flag, unsure of whether he would reach the edge of the sebkha, before dying of exposure.

The Targui stuck his tabuka and his rifle into the hard salt, set up some shade and crawled underneath it, ready to sit out the day’s harshest hours.

He did not sleep and his eyes remained fixed on the vehicles that reflected the sun from their metallic bonnets. He felt the heat of the saltpan getting thicker by the minute as it rose up from the ground and threatened to boil his blood. It was a heat so dense, suffocating and heavy that even his mehari, who was accustomed to the highest of temperatures, had started to complain.

He would not survive for too long out there, in the heart of the saltpan and he knew it. He had enough water left for one day.

Soon delirium would overtake him and then death; the most horrific of all deaths and a way of dying that every Tuareg feared most of all, from the moment he was born: to die of thirst.