Tuareg

Ajamuk looked up at the sun to check its height then turned

round to look at the banks of the saltpan. ‘In half an hour the mosquitoes will eat us alive,’ he said. ‘We have to get away from here.’ ‘We could light some fires.’ The sergeant shook his head. ‘No, not a fire nor anything else

for that matter will protect you from this plague,’ he insisted.

‘As soon as they start to attack, the soldiers will run off and I won’t be able to stop them,’ he smiled, ‘because I’ll be running too.’

He went to say something else, but one of the soldiers inter

rupted him, pointing towards the saltpan. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘He’s leaving.’ It was true; the Targui had taken down his ridiculous camp

and was heading off, leading his animal by the halter. He turned around to his assistant pensively: ‘Where will he go?’ Ajamuk shrugged his shoulders: ‘Who knows how a Targui’s mind works. But I don’t like it.’ ‘Neither do I.’ The lieutenant meditated for a few moments, visibly worried. ‘Maybe he’ll try and get out at night,’ he ventured. ‘You go

north with three men. Saud, south… I’ll cover this area and Malik and his people the west…’

He shook his head. ‘If we keep our eyes peeled he won’t get past us.’

The sergeant did not reply and it was clear that he did not share his superior’s optimism. He was a Bedouin and knew the Tuareg well; he also knew his soldiers well, who were mountain people forced to carry out their national service in a desert they did not understand, nor wanted to.

He admired Lieutenant Razman for the efforts he had made to adapt to the desert lands and his stoic determination to become an expert on them, but he also knew that he still had a lot to learn. You could not expect to understand the Sahara and its people in just one year, not even ten and you would never really understand the minds of the people who lived in it; the sons of the wind who appeared to live a simple life but who were, in reality, profoundly complicated people.

He picked up the binoculars that were on the seat and focused them on the man who was getting smaller by the minute, followed by his swaying mount.

He could not fathom what on earth he was doing by going back into that abominable oven, but he knew for certain that he was up to something. If a Targui with only a little water left was on the move and his mount too, then there would have to be a very good reason why.

There was a sudden whizzing noise in his ear and he gave a start.

‘Lets go!’ he shouted. ‘The mosquitoes!’

They jumped into their vehicles, already swiping the insects away from their faces with their hands and sped away as fast as they were able to on the rocky terrain, putting as much distance between themselves and that godforsaken place as was physically possible. Then they split up, each going a different direction.

Lieutenant Razman ordered the men that he had with him to set up camp and prepare the supper, then he got in touch with Sergeant Malik-el-Haideri to inform him of the fugitive’s movements.

‘I’m not sure what he’s up to either,’ admitted Malik. ‘But he’s smart, that’s for sure.’

He paused. ‘Maybe it would be better to go in and look for him…’

‘That’s probably what he’s hoping for,’ he replied. ‘But remember that he’s famous for his marksmanship. With a camel and a rifle in there we’d be at his mercy.’

‘We’ll wait!’

And so they waited all night, thankful of a bright moon, their guns at the ready, alert and prepared to respond to the slightest sound or movement.

But nothing happened and when the sun came up above the horizon they went back to the edge of the saltpan and there, in the middle of the saltpan, they could make out the kneeling camel and a man sleeping peacefully under his shade.

Equidistant from each other and positioned at the four compass points, four pairs of binoculars watched him throughout the day, but the rider and his mount made no perceptible movement whatsoever.

As afternoon fell once again and just before the mosquitoes started up, Lieutenant Razman opened a contact line with all his men.

‘He hasn’t moved,’ he told them.

‘What do you think?’

Sergeant Malik remembered his words: ‘You must live like a stone and not make any movement that uses up water… Even at night you have to move slowly like a chameleon and only then do you become resistant to the heat and the thirst; above all you must overcome any panic and remain calm. Only then will you have the remotest chance of survival.’

‘He’s saving his strength,’ he said.

‘He’s about four hours away from the edge of the sebkha,’ Ajamuk interjected. ‘And it’ll take him another hour to get up in the dark and get to where we are,’ he calculated mentally. ‘We’ll have to be on our guard at around midnight. If he waits any longer he won’t have enough time to get much beyond us, although he may be able to reach us.’

‘The camel will bolt if they try and get out here,’ Saud said, from the extreme south. ‘The mosquitoes form a cloud here. There’s a water opening and if they come near it they’ll drown immediately.’

Lieutenant Razman was quite convinced that the Targui would rather drown in the sands than be caught alive, but he kept his thoughts to himself and continued to give out orders.

‘Four hours of rest,’ he said, ‘but after that everybody must be fully alert.’

They passed another long, tense night under a strong moon that lit up the plains, and by dawn they were all ravaged with tiredness, their eyes red from staring into the darkness and their nerves destroyed.

When they returned to the saltpan that morning he was still there, in the same place and in the same position, as if he had not moved a muscle all night.

The lieutenant’s voice came across the microphone nervously.

‘What do you think is going on…? Is he mad,’ Malik asked bad-temperedly. ‘He can’t have any water left… How is he going to stand another day in that oven?’

Nobody had an answer. Even for them, outside of the basin and with plenty of water in the huge water drums, the idea of staying there under that relentless sun was too much to bear. The Targui, however, seemed quite predisposed to spending another day in there, without moving.

‘It’s suicide…’ the lieutenant muttered to himself. ‘I never thought a Targui would be capable of suicide. He will be condemned for eternity.’

There was never a longer day.

Nor a hotter one.

The salt reflected back the sun’s rays, multiplying its strength, making his small shelter virtually useless, rendering both him and his mehari speechless. The camel was unable to move as he had tied his legs together once he had got the animal to kneel down. He could not bear to hurt him, it was the last thing this beast, who had carried him so loyally across the sands for so many years, deserved.

He said his prayers between dreams and when he was not asleep he remained stock still. He would not even have moved to brush off a fly, had there been any that is, since the insufferable heat meant that there was not one to be seen. He struggled to become a stone, to forget about his body and its needs, aware that there was not even a drop of water left in his gerba. He felt his skin dry up and the strange sensation of his blood thickening in his veins as it began to move more slowly through them.

After midday he lost consciousness and remained there, supported only by the body of the beast, his mouth open, unable to breathe in the air which had become so dense that it almost refused to go down into his lungs.

He was delirious, but made no sound because his mouth and purple tongue were so dry. Then, a movement made by his mehari and a cry that came from the very depths of his being brought him back to the living and he opened his eyes, only to close them immediately as they were dazzled by the brilliant, white light of the saltpan.

Never had a day seemed so long to him, not even when compared with the day that his firstborn had started spitting blood, throwing it up from his lungs as he was devoured by tuberculosis.

Nor one so hot.

Night fell and the earth started to get colder gradually. Finally he began to breathe more easily and was able to open his eyes without feeling as if his retinas were being drilled through. His mehari also emerged out of his stupor and shuffled about anxiously, moaning quietly.

He loved that beast and he lamented its inevitable death. He had seen him born and known from that very first moment that he would be a lively, noble and resilient animal. He had looked after him carefully and taught him to obey his voice and the contact of his heel with his neck — a language that only the two of them understood. He had never, not in all those years, had to hit him. The animal had never tried to attack him or bite him, not even during the rutting season in spring, when the other males would become hysterical and unmanageable, rebelling against their masters, throwing off their loads and the riders from their backs, time and time again. That beast was truly a blessing from Allah, but his time had come and he knew it.

He waited until the moon had appeared on the horizon and its light, reflected on the saltpan turned the night almost back into day, then he took out his sharp dagger and with one strong and deep slash, slit the animal’s white throat.

He said the ritual prayers and collected the blood that was gushing out into his gerba. When they were full, he drank the still warm, almost palpitating liquid slowly and felt himself gradually coming back to life. He waited a few minutes, regained his composure, then gently felt the stomach of the animal, who, having been tied up, had not moved at all when he had died, apart from its head that had flopped down to one side. Once he was sure that he had found the right spot, he cleaned his dagger on the striped rug that hung from his saddle then dug it in hard, deeply, twisting it around again and again in an attempt to make the wound as wide as possible. When he withdrew the weapon, a small spurt of blood escaped, followed by a gush of green, smelly water, which he filled his second gerba with. Then, pinching his nose with one hand and closing his eyes, he put his lips around the wound and drank the repulsive liquid from it directly, knowing that his life depended on it.

He continued drinking until there was nothing left, even though his thirst had long been satisfied and his stomach was full to bursting.

He started to wretch but forced himself to think of something else and forget the smell and the taste of water that had been in the camel’s stomach for five days and it took all his will as a Targui fighting for his life to manage it.

Finally, he fell asleep.