We reached the elusive ‘Tam’ in darkness after twelve hours of driving interrupted only by short breaks to cool the engine. For nearly two days we’d travelled three hundred miles at an average of sixteen miles an hour and considered this to be good-going considering the difficulties we’d had. It had been the distance between Edinburgh and London’s northern suburbs, but without motorways, petrol stations, shops, houses, or anything more than a few dried-up blades of grass. We’d met a gazelle and some nomads on the second day and just a handful of drivers over the whole distance.
The rambling town offered wide dimly-lit streets and an assortment of low mud buildings with small windows. Dust was a part of desert existence and shrouded everything, but here was life! Another dose of civilisation would be welcome and seeing a roughly-marked sign we limped into a café for a cold drink. The chance to enjoy some company beckoned.
Chergui Sliman, the café owner, gave us a warm welcome with handshakes in the French fashion and gestured for us to sit outside. The undefined space outside the coarse walls of the café merged with the street, and we sat down on a bench beside a rough wooden table above which hung a paraffin lamp. A rough covering of woven palm leaves had been erected to keep the worst of the sun’s rays off daytime customers. He served us hot mint tea in small glasses and came to join us bringing the teapot for refills. I had to revive my translation skills to work both ways between him and Ross and struggled to keep up after the exigencies of the day. Long days on the road had dulled my senses and I found it frustrating not to find the right words. Although I joined in from time to time, translation was proving enough of a challenge without trying to make conversation as well. The other two were determined to communicate. My inadequacies while fumbling through a pocket dictionary encouraged other ways to exchange information which they soon discovered and managed with gestures. My tea glass was not allowed to empty and on finding that Ross preferred coffee, a jar of instant appeared with a bowl of sugar, a ready-punctured tin of evaporated milk and a cup. Finger marks circled the rim of the sugar bowl, and the ingrained cup had seen better days. The table had been given a cursory wipe with a grey dishcloth to aggravate a multitude of flies briefly before they continued their nuisance. Happily unaware of the low standard he had set Chergui talked with animation and seemed genuinely delighted to be entertaining us travellers. He invited us to have a meal with him and two of his friends the following evening. It would be at a nearby house, and couscous, the national dish, was on the menu.
Conversation flowed at a lively pace and we asked if he served meals. Soon a basic omelette and chips appeared on scruffy plates. It made a change from sandwiches and we felt recovery seeping through our bodies with the simple nourishment. Ross paid, we shook hands again with a promise to return and Chergui went to serve other customers. We tried to remember the last time we had eaten a hot meal and realised that it was two weeks earlier at our farewell supper in London.
It was that evening when we’d sat down with my parents and grandmother for a celebration farewell dinner. After a glass of Cyprus sherry something very British was called for. So we tucked into steak and kidney pie with potatoes, fresh runner beans and carrots, followed by apple crumble and custard, with a jug of cream for the special occasion. By the time the pudding was over, my grandmother could not contain her feelings any longer. She stood up with a pile of dishes, and set them down again with a bang.
For the last two weeks she’d said nothing untoward to us about our plans. We’d been out of the house for most of the time when they would have had plenty of opportunities to air concerns and anxieties between the three of them, but we’d been too busy to worry about anyone other than ourselves. The build-up of frustration made her explode with anger and Ross was the main target.
‘We thought all our troubles were over when you got married, but now you are taking Sara to darkest Africa, and subjecting her to all that danger.’
We shifted in our seats and everyone looked uncomfortable as she paused for breath, looking at me sternly before glaring at Ross.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this dangerous journey through the unknown. There will be black men waiting behind trees to jump out and get her …’
All the bad stories related to her by cousins in Rhodesia came tumbling out. On and on she went, and soon turned to me for more scolding, venting her fury until she ran out of steam. We had, of course, reached the point of no return, so there was nothing to do about her diatribe except feebly try to defend ourselves, but she never really forgave Ross for taking me to Africa along this dangerous route. We all went to bed on a low note.
24th October
Drinking tea again in the café Chergui introduced us to Yousef, a garage mechanic having his breakfast. We joined him and arranged to have the wheel rim fixed. The car also needed to be thoroughly checked over after the hammering it got on our way here. This would all take several hours so we drifted around town for a while and posted some letters.
Ever since we entered Algeria and crossed into an extreme Moslem world we had not spoken to a woman without her being shrouded in a haik. Being a convent girl I was well versed in female modesty, and was unfazed by nun-like habits. Facial covering was another matter, and it seemed to me akin to obliteration, a denial of existence. We saw these shrouded figures in towns, following at a respectable distance behind a man, or themselves followed by a child. All of our contact with Algerians was with men, in garages, shops, and markets. A woman’s touch was sadly lacking and I missed that softening of surroundings to make for comfort.
‘When in Rome do as the Romans,’ I thought, but short of donning a haik this wasn’t feasible. I therefore tried to keep a low profile and let Ross deal with things as much as possible.
I discovered recently the story about an Assyrian king who decreed centuries ago that all women should be veiled except for slaves and prostitutes who would be punished for doing so. Peasant women didn’t follow the rule either, so wearing the veil became a status symbol because no self-respecting woman wanted to look like one of the lower orders.
We found Tamanrasset to be a friendly place but two invitations on the same day proved very different experiences.
Showers were available at le camping so we ventured off to have a look before committing ourselves. On the way there a small angular man came out of his house, greeted us with a handshake in the French manner, and invited us in to have some tea, which we did, not wanting to give offence. His French was hard for me to understand and we weren’t at ease in his bachelor house sitting stiffly on wooden chairs and trying to think of conversation, but he seemed to mean well. His name was Hassan and he offered us a shower, a bed and an evening meal.
The shower was very tempting but with only one room we didn’t like the idea of spending the night. We decided to go back and ask our new friends whether to accept, and to get soap and towels from the car. Chergui did not know the man and said it was up to us to decide. We took a chance and went back, desperate to rid ourselves of gritty sand which had found its way into every crevice of our bodies.
Hassan welcomed us again and ushered us back into the stark room while he attended to heating up the water. Stilted conversation ensued but soon the water was hot enough and Ross decided to go in the shower first. As soon as he left the room Hassan drew his chair closer to mine. He said something I didn’t understand and then mimed a kiss. Ross had just had time to lather himself with soap when I called out
‘You won’t be too long will you?’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘It’s okay but things aren’t going too well.’
He immediately stopped the shower and still wet and lathered with soap put his clothes straight on. I hadn’t meant to panic him this much and had felt really uncomfortable rather than threatened. I explained what had happened when Ross returned to join us, and he glowered at Hassan.
‘What shall we do now?’ I asked.
The atmosphere in the room had become really uncomfortable and I wanted to escape.
‘There’s no reason why you can’t still take a shower now that we’re here. I’ll keep an eye on Hassan.’
I found the cubicle and checked for privacy before undressing and stepping into curtain-free coolness of the bare concrete surrounds. The luxury of a shower in the desert was not the enjoyable experience it should have been after what had happened and I wanted to leave as soon as we could. I towelled off and did the best I could to tidy my wet hair without a mirror then re-entered the silent room. Ross was giving off body language that echoed around the walls. He sat straight-backed with his arms folded, his knees apart and feet planted firmly on the floor. Hassan sat fixed in this stare in his own house looking abashed, his head bowed.
‘Merci pour la douche.’ I mumbled.
And he nodded smiling sheepishly. We left him in his empty house and stepped into the daytime dazzle. Soapy remains glinted through Ross’s hair.
The huge cultural divide between the accepted customs of Moslems and Christians with regard to their women had caught us all out. We still couldn’t believe his behaviour and Hassan probably couldn’t believe ours either. None of us attempted to explain ourselves or lay the blame, there wasn’t any point.
I was at least clean, dry and refreshed but Ross made me suffer with him as he bemoaned his incomplete wash. We headed for the camp-site to do laundry, each busy with our thoughts. Here we found a thigh-challenging hole-in-the ground toilet with a violent flush. The absence of body contact with anything is supposed to be more hygienic, but the experience feels the opposite since it is impossible to avoid odoriferous fumes in that position, especially as a woman. Unless you are quick on your feet after pulling the chain you end up with wet shoes and when wearing flip-flops it isn’t pleasant. There were also a couple of showers here but as the place was communal and there were no doors or curtains to the lavatory or showers, we preferred our usual arrangements for finding privacy. The camp-site was deserted and we assumed it to be off-season. We did our washing in a deep concrete tub and took it back to drape over some small bushes near the car. Most of it dried in twenty minutes.
Late in the afternoon we met Omar, Chergui’s cousin, and found ourselves with another invitation. This man didn’t engender doubts in our minds, so undeterred by our recent experience we went with him.
He lived in a much grander house compared to others we’d seen in the town, boasting ten rooms. We entered to a smell of beeswax and his charming wife Khalida, without a veil, welcomed us with big smiles to put us at ease, but she didn’t speak. She was pretty with thick curly black hair, and brought us mint tea and plain biscuits on a metal tray. This the second private house we’d been in on our journey made a comforting change from the masculine world of garages, shops, and bachelor rooms for that matter. Ross played dominoes and draughts with Khalida’s father who owned the house, while I enjoyed the comfort of the large room and translated from time to time. Small windows kept out the sun’s glare to give a shady coolness. A large French dresser stood against one wall and we sat on comfortable upholstered chairs with wooden occasional tables alongside each chair. I supposed that the dresser at least must have been transported here by lorry, being too bulky for a camel’s load. A thick striped runner ran the length of the room between the hall and kitchen doors. I found reassurance in this civilised house in the middle of the Sahara, and felt safer within its confines than I had since entering North Africa. Perhaps this was how most women felt and why they only ventured out when the necessity arose.
We pitched up at Chergui’s café at seven o’clock in the evening to admonishments. He’d expected us back sooner and being worried had been roaming the countryside in his Land Rover thinking we might be lost. Touched by his solicitousness we apologised for our thoughtlessness and soon he became his cheery self again. He reminded us of the meal he had promised.
We entered a dimly lit room where Gabir and Yousef were already seated at the table. They stood to shake our hands firmly. Yousef was the garage mechanic who we’d already met, being one of a predominant breed on our journey. Gabir had a small business in town and the three of them clearly enjoyed the company of strangers.
We gathered around a large table for lentil soup with noodles followed by couscous with camel stew. The latter was heavily spiced and we were apprehensive. The others could hardly wait to tuck in, so under their watchful eyes we loaded our plates and pretended to eat with relish in an effort to show appreciation.
‘What would you like to drink?’ asked Chergui.
‘Just water would be fine, thank you,’ we replied not wanting to stretch his generosity further. He assured us that it was eau potable when he saw us scrutinising the fingered jug in which it arrived. Ross had reached for the bottle of water purifying tablets and was about to administer some to the water in our glasses. Chergui looked indignant.
‘This is artesian water purified through metres and metres of sand. It is the purest water in the Sahara. It doesn’t need further treatment.’ He proclaimed.
We had made it our policy since we embarked at Calais not to drink any water unless we treated it for ourselves. It would have been insulting to contradict Chergui’s assertions, so we drank it as it came.
The men talked, and I translated as well as I could. The conversation moved to travel and we spoke of our difficulties with the piste and with soft sand. We asked about the next section we planned to cross. They didn’t mince their words. The 560 miles to Agadez would be almost impossible in our car since wind- blown sand accumulated on the road at this time of year. They advised that the only safe way to do the journey would be to travel in front of a truck. If we got into difficulty the lorry crew would help us out. Even for sturdier vehicles than ours it was normal practice to travel in convoy from Tamanrasset to Agadez, the next town. Chergui expected his brother Sassi Sliman to be passing through Tam the next day in his truck so we could go with him.
Still digesting this information, we left them late to find a private spot out of town. Omar had invited us to spend the night at their house. The comfort of a bed and prospect of lying flat between sheets sounded like luxury. It was a tempting invitation and would probably have been fine but we’d politely refused after our earlier experience and fears of misunderstandings.
25th October
Rising at dawn we found that everyone else had already been up for at least half an hour. The time to be active in the desert is in the cool of the morning or the evening, and there was a bustle about the town not evident during the day. The burgeoning heat that would soon be evident had to be managed at a slow pace. This gives newly arrived and less-informed visitors the false impression of the inhabitants being lethargic and lazy.
We embarked on our business of changing a traveller’s cheque at the Douanes and collecting the wheel from the garage. Sand-ladders and a shovel were our next quest.
‘Salut,’ said Pierre, a young Frenchman who was also waiting at the customs. ‘What is your nationality?’
‘Scottish’ Ross replied.
Pierre and Gaston had teemed up with Claire, an American girl who had been sick for the last three days since they arrived in Tam and looked miserable. They were waiting to hitch a lift in the same lorry that we hoped would accompany us into Niger over the next stretch.
I didn’t feel very well myself so Ross and I went for a stroll to see if I could shake it off.
Twenty minutes later it hit me full force. We’d arrived at the end of a residential street and I had to stop. The sun’s heat had risen to a simmer and shade was elusive. My head spun. Water flooded my mouth. My body heaved. Relief came as I was violently and uncontrollably sick in the dust of the street. Mortified at this display we sought somewhere a bit more discreet under a tree, and then it hit me again. I stopped caring. This time it was even more shameful as I lost control of my bladder at the same time. My paroxysms had taken me past concern for what others thought. Ross had to bear the brunt of that, and a fleeting doubt went through my mind. Helpless and weak I moaned to him
‘Don’t leave me!’
And stalwart that he is, he stood by me, administering a hankie. It couldn’t have been worse, the only redeeming feature being that the sun was getting higher in the sky and most people were in the shelter of their homes out of the heat. What would they think of me now, a brazen young woman flaunting her hair and face, not to mention arms and ankles, then putting on this display? I wished for the anonymity of a haik.
We concluded that l’eau potable we had drunk with the meal at the café may have been from an artesian well but its purity was questionable. It was likely to be the source of Claire’s similar problem. We should have tactfully insisted on using our tablets or asked for lemonade. Everyone sympathised and I made it somehow through the rest of the day.
A lorry had arrived and was leaving in two days for Agadez so we went with Chergui to meet Farid the driver. He agreed to keep an eye on us for a small fee and looked happy for us to tag along.
26th October
A Tuareg was standing by the car when we woke. A traditional five-metre veil was wrapped around his face, indigo-blue dye had stained his skin in patches and I wondered if all his body was affected by matching robes. Tuaregs in this area had put up fierce resistance to French colonialisation, but their broadswords were no match for superior French weaponry and after massacres on both sides they admitted defeat. Their nomadic existence was being compromised and this one was looking to tourism for an alternative livelihood.
He must have been waiting for us to open our eyes and bleary with sleep we had a short stilted conversation with him. Getting my head around speaking French first thing in the morning was not appealing and he got no encouragement. In spite of long silences he just stood there watching us with his head in the window. He handed us an embroidered kettle holder crafted by a Tuareg woman which we accepted, and gave him some cigarettes in exchange. We made our excuses and left.
It wasn’t the first time our privacy had been invaded. Before Madrid and further south than we had been before, we’d parked under oak trees to spend our second night in the car. We awoke startled. My heart thumped. I’d been dreaming about the Spanish civil war and the scenario outside made me struggle between dream and reality as men passed close by the car shouting and whistling with shot-guns slung over their shoulders. Torches flashed onto us dazzling our sleep-sodden eyes, and curious faces bent close to look. A large van was parked in front, a smaller one behind us, and two men revved their engines in their search for spaces. Four hounds sniffed the ground with frantic noses and their ears dangling. The camouflaged torch bearers called them to heel and they set off down a forest path. My watch said five fifteen, long before the first glimmer of dawn would break through the dark trees in our hitherto peaceful spot. The men disappeared into the trees for their day of hunting, voices fading into the surrounding pine trees. As they tramped along the path past evergreen oaks, sheltering birds awoke startled and whistled warnings. Peace returned allowing us to drop our heads back on to the headrests and slide into dreamless sleep for another hour before sunrise. We thought we’d chosen a good stopping place.
Word must have got round because later another Tuareg approached us wanting to exchange a silver pendant for one of our blankets. This was not what we considered a fair exchange! The blanket was a wedding present from my grandmother, pure wool and the colour would go well with traditional Tuareg blue robes. It was at the top of our pile of belongings on the back seat and we relied on its warmth for the cold desert nights.
By late morning I still felt wretched and craved a quiet room to hide in. Even in the shade the car would be like an oven, so I blindly followed Ross’s lead and we went in search of a doctor. The surgery’s door was locked and the doctor out of town. We were sent to a convent for assistance; a safe haven for sickness in an emergency. Sitting under a fan in the cool room Sister Marie-Louise treated me with a kindness that was a therapy in itself. She gave me a single pill with instructions to sip water regularly and avoid all solid food until I felt better.
‘What would you like to buy?’ asked the postman Mustafa.
‘Tomatoes and fruit,’ Ross replied. He still had to eat even if I wasn’t interested. I felt a little stronger and had agreed to accompany him to the market, preferring that to being left alone in a hot car. A shovel and sand-ladders were still on our shopping list too, but continued to elude us. The market-trader couldn’t understand us and Mustafa, seeing our difficulties, had come to our rescue. He helped us to negotiate for a bag of tomatoes and a pasteque or watermelon.
‘This is the best fruit for quenching thirst,’ advised Omar. ‘But you must not eat too much of it or you will get belly ache!’ He held his middle to demonstrate.
My body told me to have nothing to do with it, but at any other time I’d have relished the succulent fruit. It was so big and heavy that Ross bought a quarter section, and still wondered if he would manage to get through it. We had only come across yellow Honeydew melons up until then.
Omar invited us to his house again for tea later, but discovering I hadn’t been well insisted we went there immediately so that I could rest. This was an offer made in heaven and I felt almost human again after lying down in cool airy surroundings for an hour giving the little white pill a chance to take effect. I awoke in a room darkened by the shutters and looked around at the furnishings. Rugs decorated the polished concrete floor, and a few pieces of wooden furniture had been placed around the room. A woven rug decorated one wall, and framed pictures hung on the others showing scenes of waterfalls and towns. The woman’s touch I’d been pining for was obvious and soon Khalida tiptoed in carrying a tray with a glass of water which she had specially boiled for me. ‘Merci,’ I croaked my throat dry with sleep. Although she only spoke Arabic she nodded and smiled. I got up and followed her down a polished corridor over more rugs and past an antique wooden chest into the room where Ross was sitting. The remains of a chess game lay on a low table between him and Khalida’s father. We stayed until an hour after sunset, talking and listening to the radio that the elderly man had brought in. Khalida didn’t sit with us, but came in to offer drinks and biscuits. She looked self-conscious in front of the men, perhaps because she wasn’t wearing a veil and Ross was a stranger.
Omar tuned the radio to BBC world service for our benefit. The news was being broadcast and much of it concerned Zambia and President Kaunda, who was chairman of the Organisation of African Unity at the time and bringing in major reforms.We had a glimpse of what to expect over the next three years.
I felt revived when we left and headed back to spend the evening at the café. Khalida’s father had invited us to return for the night and this time we accepted.
‘Bonsoir’ said Chergui and his friend Gabir. Having black skin and sub-Saharan features I wondered how he came to live amongst Arabs. It seemed unlikely he’d come to the desert for economic reasons, and I imagined him to be a descendant of slaves, victims of the raids and trade of past centuries.
Pierre and Gaston were already into their first beer and we joined the group for the rest of the evening. A tall dark stranger approached us. The Tuareg in his best traditional robes stood beside Chergui and spoke to him in Arabic. They both looked at me and Chergui pointed to Ross. A serious conversation then followed in guttural tones, with Chergui shaking his head and the Tuareg continuing, insistent. Gabir started to laugh.
What’s the joke?’ asked Gaston.
‘He has offered Ross seven camels in exchange for Sara,’ said Chergui, waving his hand to dismiss the idea.
We all laughed. The Tuareg stood regal, serious and immobile.
‘That would help you do the rest of the desert crossing,’ laughed Pierre.
‘What a good idea!’ joked Ross. ‘Tell him five camels and a Land Rover!’
I translated what had been said into French, and Chergui translated it into Arabic. The stranger nodded at Ross and held out his hand to seal their business deal. He had watched the laughing and joking but hadn’t been a part of it. Ross stood up and reached to shake the dark hand and continue the joke. The Tuareg showed a small smile and glanced in my direction. Chergui leapt to his feet grabbing Ross’s arm.
‘Non! Non!’ The joke had run its course and straightaway sobered, Ross sat down.
The Tuareg lingered having lengthy discussions with Chergui, still casting brief looks at me and Ross. As they talked I had a good look at this near-miss suitor. He was tall, strong and rather stern-looking, but handsome in an Arabic way. I imagined his veil to hide a neatly trimmed beard. Dark blue robes hung around his tall form and a matching swathe of cloth wound thickly around his head. Rows of braid adorned his lower sleeves and coat front, and a flash of bright metal betrayed a sword partly obscured in the folds of fabric. Would I have been destined for a harem? I wondered. Some female companionship would be welcome I thought looking round at our gathering. Alluring visions of endless grooming beside fountains, and attar of roses scenting the air in a rich man’s palace came to mind. And of course the sex! Hmmm. I reconsidered the Tuareg in his smart blue robes. Unless of course he was just an emissary? I suppose I was quite marketable being young, tall and slim with long blonde hair, and he may have intended to sell me on for a profit. Or was it a set-up? It certainly seemed real enough to both of us at the time. It is supposed to be every woman’s fantasy to be whisked away in the desert by one such as him. Ross would have had difficulty explaining himself to my father.
The Tuareg hung around for a while and then left us. The conversation moved on too and I mentioned we’d seen a gazelle a few days earlier.
‘You’d like to see a gazelle?’ asked Chergui. ‘I have one as a pet here in my house. Come and look. It’s very young.’
We followed him into his house and walked through a series of gloomy rooms.
‘Wait here,’ said Chergui and disappeared behind a locked door with Gabir. Sounds of scuffling ensued, then the door opened and we crept in. The tiny courtyard was partially covered at one end where Gabir was crouching over a struggling young gazelle trying to hold it still. Its eyes shone bright with fear. Chergui motioned for us to close the door which we did just in time as it broke loose and charged at the mud walls, kicking and rearing.
‘What happened to its mother?’ I asked dodging to one side.
‘She is dead,’ replied Chergui without explanation as he helped Gabir to take a better hold of the crazed creature.
I didn’t want to inquire too closely on the cause of death, and wondered how long the gazelle would remain a ‘pet’ once it had fattened up. Chergui locked the door of the little animal’s prison with the sound of thuds and crashes following us back to the table. The little stubs of its horns were not enough to allow an escape.
We returned to enjoy a comfortable last night in Tam at Omar and Khalida’s house and found only Omar still awake. We crept into a dark room with two narrow beds. My dreams were the stuff of Arabian Nights.
In the morning we had hoped for a last thorough wash before the next long drive but the water had been cut off so it would have to wait until the next town and the next country.