Doulla takes me by the hand and leads me through the bush to a clearing, where a Gerewol is in progress. Young men, pouring sweat under aniseed-red make-up, are rising slowly up and down on their toes to the accompaniment of a long, droning chant. Their arms come forward, raising the long decorated sticks that each man carries and which I’m told are symbols of the warrior, whilst their faces perform a pantomime of grinning, eye-rolling and lippursing.
The girls are brought forward, also dressed and made up, one hand shielding the face in a show of shyness and modesty.
The girls turn to face the row of dancing men, bringing the grimacing and eye-rolling to grotesquely bizarre heights, before coming forward, one by one, and choosing their man by a single touch.
What makes this whole surreal performance rather appealing is the similarity to a lot of things we do ourselves. It is basically a ritualised high-school hop or coming-out dance, the difference here being that the sexual motive is not only acknowledged and accepted but actively encouraged.
Later, in my tent, sweltering my way to sleep, I can hear the Gerewol still going on, and the insistent thrum of the voices gives way to dreams of tall thin pouting men, their make-up running onto sweet, shy girls. More bromide in the tea for me.
Day Fifty-Six
INGAL
Woken early by the sound of donkeys having nightmares and cattle chomping grass inches away from my head. Used to the constant hum of city life, I find these sporadic rural noises quite disconcerting.
Never one of life’s natural campers, I’m still getting used to the absence of personal space. My territory extends as far as the flap of my tent, which is about a foot away; beyond that I share Africa with everyone else. I’m pungently reminded of this when, just before dawn, easing myself out of the tent, clutching a trowel and paper for my morning toilet, I step straight onto a freshly laid cowpat.
(The trowel, by the way, is to enable me to dig my own latrine and cover it up afterwards. If I’m really serious about protecting the Sahara I should also take matches to burn the paper, for nothing much biodegrades out here.)
After everyone has eaten, the camp is dismantled and the families set out to walk the last 45 miles through the bush to Ingal. All they ask from us in return for their hospitality is medicine. Eye disease, malaria and chronic stomach pain from tainted water are endemic complaints. As we turn out our medical bags, it’s sobering to realise just how much pain they must take for granted.
We squeeze Doulla and Perri and a dozen others into our filming vehicles so that they can go ahead and find accommodation. There isn’t much room, so Doulla volunteers to travel on the roof rack. He seems to have all the makings of a saint, but he shrugs off any credit and reminds me that in Africa no vehicle goes anywhere until it’s full, and that means on top as well. This doesn’t prevent me thinking of him being flung around above me as we pitch and toss along the rutted un-made track. I comfort myself with the thought that we’re reducing his journey time from two days to two hours.
There is relief all round when Ingal’s soaring communications mast looms up on the horizon, and a few minutes later we bounce out of the bush and along increasingly busy streets until we emerge onto a huge open area.
At first I can hardly believe my eyes. In the middle of deeply impoverished rural Africa there is a neon-lit showground, screeching distorted announcements, a car park full of gleaming Mercedes, a double-decker tourist bus, women dressed to the nines in sequinned finery, racing camels showing their paces, Touareg chieftains trailing entourages, police and soldiers mingling with ticket-sellers and sharp-eyed boys pushing Coca-Cola sales carts through the crowd. The air is thick with dust and the reek of fuel from humming generators.
‘CURE SALEE 2001,’ announces a billboard. ‘Our Three Themes - SIDA (AIDS), PALU (Malaria), Polio.’ It seems much more than a gathering of nomads - a combination of county show and trade fair, school sports day and political rally, Royal Tournament and Boy Scout Jamboree.
The wind tugs at the white, green and orange horizontals of the national flag, unfurled above a group of government-sponsored stalls offering family planning and veterinary advice. The crowd passes them by, intent on celebration rather than self-improvement. Walking through the throng, their ostrich feather headdresses rising above the crowd, are groups of young Wodaabe men, made up like models on a catwalk, preening and effeminate, white rings around their eyes, blackened lips, slashes of yellow across foreheads and down noses, off to dance their own grimacing, eye-rolling Gerewol, dressed like girls to attract the girls.
Our little Wodaabe group has fallen silent. They look around with quick nervous glances. The natural ebullience of last night seems to have faded, and as they move off to look for somewhere to stay they seem uneasy and out of place.
As the heat of the day declines the energy levels rise. More and more people mill around, seeing and being seen, greeting and parading. I find myself introduced to an impressive man in white robes, the mayor of Tamanrasset in Algeria, who shouts over the noise that he is hoping we will come and see him on our way north. A moment later someone grasps my hand, a Frenchman who is trying to save the ostrich population of the nearby Air Mountains, which is now down to two. He’s trying to get them to mate. I don’t hear how, as a red-capped policeman on a camel, ghetto-blaster strapped to his thigh, rides between us.
We set up camp at the far end of the flat, gritty strip, but even here, half a mile from the celebrations, I’m kept awake at night by the sounds of amplified announcements, music and the stabbing beams of fast cars roaring away. Where they’re going to I’ve absolutely no idea.
It’s all part of the bracing confusion of Cure Salee, the party in the middle of nowhere.
Day Fifty-Seven
INGAL
Doulla, Perri and the advance guard of Wodaabe have found some accommodation in town. They’ve rented two houses with interlocking walled compounds from some Hausa boys. The Hausa, from the south of the country, make up over half the population. Urbanised and opportunistic, they largely control the commercial life of Niger.
Two of them lounge in the shade of the doorway, eyes following us with self-assured curiosity. They’re dressed in T-shirts and jeans and wear big watches, and I have the feeling that they can’t understand why we should be so interested in a bunch of nomads.
I recall Celine telling me back at the camp that the Hausa-led central government does not have much time for the Wodaabe, being suspicious and hostile, as governments often are, towards those who have no fixed address. So it’s not a great surprise to find Doulla and Perri somewhat subdued. They don’t like renting and they don’t like houses.
Not that this one impresses with its permanence. The mud that binds the building together looks to have been mixed from the contents of a rubbish tip. Shreds of plastic bag, silver paper, bottle caps, glass, fabric and even leather shoe straps protrude from the walls. On the other hand, I can see it’s Turner Prize potential. A house made of everyday life.
Accompany Doulla and Perri to buy provisions. In the market, shopkeepers sit cross-legged beneath grass-thatch awnings. Beside them are bowls of sugar, blocks of salt, sacks of tobacco and dried chillies and boxes of green china tea. Staples like millet and kola nuts lie out in the open, piled high on plastic sheeting. After buying the basics, Doulla and Perri get down to what they really enjoy, looking at clothes. They show me the intricate differences in the thread of the indigo-blue turban material and the finer points to look out for when buying the loose robe and leggings that form the basic nomad’s outfit.