Breakfast this morning is the remains of the mutton, reinforced with rice and macaroni. Heavy and almost indigestible, but as the next meal may not be for ten hours there’s no question of not eating it.
By mid-morning, having completed shots of departure from camp, the crew and gear are taken on in vehicles to the next stopping place. I could go with them, but I’ve not walked much with the camels in the heat of the day and I feel I must try it. I fill my water bottle, and take another litre, which Omar insists on carrying for me. We set off, twenty-eight camels, eight cameleers, me, Omar, one sheep and a small black goat. No-one is striding out. The overriding consideration in this climate is to conserve energy, and I fall happily into the steady even pace. The only sound, apart from the soft rustle of moving camels and the flip-flopping of Omar’s sandals on the ground, is an occasional burst of song from Izambar, which rises, hangs in the air and blows away into silence. All that matters is the present. The past and future cease to exist.
Omar and I fall to talking about the health of camels and what threats they face out here. He says parasites, insects and particularly spines in their feet can easily cause infection (which is ironic, having seen them crunch 2-inch thorns in their mouths without blinking). One esoteric piece of information is that if a camel eats a praying mantis it will die. The camel, that is, not the praying mantis.
I stop to jot down this little gem, and by the time I’ve put my notebook back in my bag, Omar has moved ahead, his well-worn light blue robe billowing out to reveal deep-blue cotton leggings beneath. Several camels have passed me. I’ve lost Ashid and am alongside a camel I don’t recognise. I look up to see Akide lying flat out on top of it. He grins down at me. I hope he’s impressed that I’ve opted to walk with them, but I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m completely mad.
A tiny lizard, shockingly naked and white, pops its head out from a stunted clump of grass, takes one look at us and darts back in again.
The wind changes direction and starts to blow grains of sand directly towards me. I glance sideways up at the camels, but they seem completely unaffected, long lashes down, protecting their eyes from whatever is thrown at them.
I take a swig of water, trying not to break step as I do so. Omar is even further away now, and I’m almost halfway down the camel train, alongside Izambar, who returns my smile but, for once, says nothing.
I look down. The desert floor has changed yet again and is now covered in a series of crusty flakes, like fragments of eggshell. Like dew, dried and hardened.
I look back at my footprints. They’re quite deep, much deeper than the camel prints beside them. Their broad feet work like snowshoes, distributing their weight and leaving barely a mark.
The classic description of a camel is a horse designed by committee, but it’s not quite fair. I see it more as a horse designed by rival universities, all of whom got a grant for different parts. Technologically, it is far more interesting than a horse; it’s just that the whole lot could do with some co-ordinating hand.
Time for some more water. I’ve almost drained my water bottle, but I notice none of the cameleers has taken a drop. We’re walking along a wadi and Omar is up on top of a low dune, scanning the land ahead. As we draw level I raise my bottle and he comes down towards me and fills it up again.
Then he leads us out of the wadi and onto the dune, beautiful to look at but murderous underfoot. My feet slip down into the sand and for the first time on the walk I feel faint alarm. By the time we’re at the top of the dune I can hear my heart thudding. I slither down the other side and find myself in a long curving bowl between two ridges, dotted with tussocks of krim-krim grass and the bleached white branches of dead trees.
Elias Abrokas, swathed in a multicoloured scarf, draws water from a green plastic container into a stainless-steel bowl and walks up the line with it. No-one seems to take more than a couple of gulps, and the camels don’t stop.
The sight makes me thirsty and I take out my bottle. It’s nearly empty again, and by now I’m level with the last three camels. Tuck my bottle back in my bag, put my head down and concentrate on catching up. Mercifully, there is harder sand down here and my boots can get some grip.
After a few minutes of concentrated effort I look up and see Omar as far ahead as ever. I redouble my efforts, setting myself a target to pass three camels in five minutes, but make no headway at all. I’ve lost the rhythm, the beat, whatever it is that moves camels so easily across the sand. If I pause for a breather I know I shall only slip further back. To shout for help seems pathetic. I look ahead of me. The camel train moves on remorselessly. Akide is still lying peacefully across his camel’s back; Izambar has nodded off. Omar is taking the same small, regular paces as when we started. So how have I got down here?
The last camel comes level and passes me. My mouth is dry but I’ve no more water. The stories I’ve heard around the campfire spring, unwelcome, into my mind. Of vehicles breaking down and guides dying of thirst as they went for help; of the stranded French couple who gave their six-month-old baby their own blood to drink and still perished.
In only two hours, the joy of solitariness and contemplation has become the fear of isolation and abandonment. Marine metaphors come constantly to mind. I’m out of my depth.
Like a man overboard shouting after a receding ship.
Then Omar turns and motions that there is something up ahead. I wave my bottle as high as I can, neck downwards. He doesn’t move but watches the camels pass until I reach him. He hands me what’s left of the water and enquires, wordlessly, how I am.
‘Tres bon, merci, Omar,’ I lie.
There, in the distance, is a tree, and, below it, a ring of four-wheel drives and Pete cleaning the camera and, almost certainly, Mohammed Ixa lying on his back, listening to the radio.
Day Sixty-Six
THE TENERE DESERT
A new arrival at the camp this morning. A baby gazelle, no more than a day old, has been found abandoned by its mother, possibly frightened by the arrival of the camel train. It is a tiny, spindly, shivering thing, with its coat all mussed up; confused, lost and breathing hard. Its legs are as thin as matchsticks, its eyes big, black and searching, its ears as long as a rabbit’s. The news that Amadou is to take care of it worries me initially. He is, after all, our chef. But I’m assured that this delicate little beauty will not end up in the pot like the two sheep and the goat, now one sheep and a goat, which accompany the caravan. Later, I see the gazelle being held in the massive hands of El Haj, whilst Amadou tries to get her to take milk from the end of his finger.
The camel train moves into spectacular desert today. ‘Desert absolu’, as my Guide Bleu describes it. The krim-krim grass, acacia scrub, even the ubiquitous desert melon bushes, whose fruit is tempting but inedible, have all disappeared. This is landscape reduced to its barest essentials, a rippling, rolling, shadeless surface purged of every living thing.
The immense emptiness quietens everyone. Progress is slow and steady, although such is the lack of distinctive landmarks it sometimes feels as if we’re walking on the spot.
In the middle of the morning, several hours out from the camp, there’s a sudden commotion up front, voices raised, a quite un-desert-like sense of urgency and emergency. The camels have come to a halt, so it must be serious. I hurry up the line to find Moussa and Amadou skipping round, shouting and pointing down at the sand, as Izambar runs in with a stone and proceeds to beat at something in the sand. There’s great excitement, halfway between fear and fun. Eventually, to gasps of mock horror, Izambar raises above his head a small, white, and, by now, entirely lifeless snake, about 18 inches long. He moves it sharply towards me and I duck back involuntarily. Encouraged by the response, he pretends to eat it, provoking howls of delighted disgust.