name is Abd al Wahab and he is very good guide.’ He had spent several hours talking to the Touareg of the Mehari Club. ‘Now you can go without car, inshallah. Believe me, this will be good for you. I know you are liking the camels!’ He would bring the man to see us in the evening.
Ruminating over this apparent change in our fortunes, we were interrupted by the unannounced arrival of Taher Ibrahim, an oleaginous Ghadamsi travel agent I had bumped into on my last visit. He spoke fluent English with a Cockney accent, unexpected in someone whose contact with England had been limited to two years in Colchester.
‘You speak excellent English,’ said Ned.
‘Yes, I know, best in Ghadames,’ he replied smugly. He started prying. How much were we paying for the camels? How much was the guide going to cost? Where were we going? How long would we be in Ghadames? To the last we replied shortly: ‘As long as it takes.’ This expression reminded him of an encounter with a prostitute on London’s Gloucester Road. Captivated – as he seemed to think we were too – by the recollections of his sexual triumph, he launched into an account of the episode.
‘I asked her how much. She said £20 or something like that. How long do I get with you, I asked? As long as it takes, she said.’ He burst into laughter.
We met Abd al Wahab for the first time that evening. A handsome Touareg possessed of the silent gravitas of the desert nomad, he had a dignified bearing, benevolent eyes that peered out from his clean white tagilmus (the veil worn by all Touareg men), and a large slug of a moustache that crawled greedily across his upper lip and would have reached the bottom of his sideburns if he had worn any. He was smartly dressed in a black woollen burnous and his manner was calm and retiring, a welcome contrast to the aggressive hectoring tone of Mohammed Ramadan. When he spoke – and he did so rarely – it was in a soft assured voice. We discussed the journey and his terms for accompanying us around a dinner table on a dais in Othman’s house. I repeated to Abd al Wahab what Mohammed Ramadan had told us about the great dangers of the route. He shook his head.
‘It is not so dangerous,’ he replied quietly. We would reach our first well after three days, the second after another three and thereafter they would appear regularly, so we need not be concerned about water for the camels. ‘Also, it is winter now, and the camels can go longer than that without water,’ he went on. ‘Of course, we do not need to take a car.’ Everything about him inspired confidence.
This was our man. We shook hands with him, delighted at having overcome our first serious difficulty, and arranged to go the next day but one. Leaving, he did not look where he was going, stepped down from the dais onto a bed below and was promptly trampolined into the air, before returning to the floor in a confused heap of white cotton and black wool. He laughed at himself good-humouredly, if somewhat sheepishly, and excused himself. He looked as though he would be far happier in the desert than surrounded by these trappings of modern civilization.
The next morning was a flurry of shopping. We descended on the town’s market to buy ten- and twenty-litre plastic water bidouns, cooking pots, buckets, a tarpaulin and blankets to cover the riding saddles that we were buying from the club. Neither of us had ever provisioned for a journey of two weeks, so it was a hit-and-miss affair. Mohammed Ali totted up our bill while we both raided the shop shelves. We thought it best to err on the side of generosity, and tin after tin of tuna fish duly flew into cardboard boxes, joining a plethora of pasta, tomato puree, tea, coffee, sugar, bread, biscuits, tinned fruit, olive oil, garlic, onions and oranges. These complemented our scanty supplies from England. I had brought packet soups, packet sauces and a pot of Marmite. Ned, more of a minimalist, had half a dozen bottles of Encona West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce to enliven the pasta. Having heard that arguments with guides over food were notorious in the desert, we took pains to ensure Abd al Wahab liked everything we were buying. Ned picked up a tin of beans. Here was a chance to practise the Arabic he had been learning on his Linguaphone course.
‘Are you a fasulya bean?’ he asked him, in flawless classical Arabic.
Abd al Wahab smiled and nodded.
The last things we needed from the market were some suitable clothes for the desert. I suggested to Ned we buy a couple of cotton jalabiyas, the free-flowing garment worn throughout the Arab world, as well as a shish, a five-metre length of cotton to protect our heads from the desert sun. As Michael Asher had written,
it seems to me that the West has devised no better dress for travelling than that worn by desert people. The long, loose-fitting shirt allows a layer of cool insulating air to circulate beneath it. The baggy trousers or loin-cloths worn by most desert tribes are extremely comfortable for riding. The turban or headcloth, with its many layers not only keeps the head cool but can also be used in a number of other ways, including veiling the face in a sand storm.
Ned, resolutely English, was initially unconvinced and took some persuading of the advantages of going native. While he hesitated I bought the last large cotton jalabiya in the shop. All that was left in his size was one in diarrhoea-coloured polyester.
Hearing of our imminent departure, Othman had kindly arranged an interview for us with his uncle, Abd as Salam, the chief government official of Ghadames. Minders showed us into his office where he welcomed us graciously. He sat behind a desk sporting a pair of glasses with lenses so thick they distorted his eyes into a demonic grimace. Despite the daytime heat, he wore a heavy beige cardigan, two jumpers, a shirt and thermal vest. This was midwinter for Ghadamsis.
The town dated back to 895 BC, he told us, and had long been an important transit point for goods going north and south across the desert. ‘I tell you something else you do not know,’ he said, with an air of mystery. ‘Ghadames was first city in world to have passports, post office, free market and water gauge.’ ‘Passports’ had once been necessary, he explained, to cross from one half of Ghadames into the other. The system of gates dividing the town into two sections – one each for the predominant but mutually hostile Bani Walid and Bani Wazit tribes – dated back more than 2,000 years. When a man from one tribe wanted to visit someone from the other, he had to have a certain paper, like a passport, that enabled him to pass through the gateway into the neighbouring quarter. Richardson called these two long-feuding tribes ‘the Whigs and Tories of Ghadames’. On asking his guide about the history of their conflict he was told: ‘The Ben Weleed and the Ben Wezeet are people of Ghadames, who have quarrelled from time immemorial: it was the will of God they should be divided, and who shall resist his will?’ These strict tribal divisions no longer existed and intermarrying was increasingly common, Abd as Salam informed us.
The postal service consisted of a small box, into which people would place letters to various destinations across the Sahara. Anyone setting out by caravan to Tripoli, for example, first had to see if there were any letters bound for that area. ‘If he do not look in box before he go, he make big mistake,’ Abd as Salam said. ‘He will be in big trouble with the people.’ The world’s first free market consisted of a square with mosques on two sides. Both the Bani Walid and Bani Wazit were at liberty to meet here and conduct business.
Abd as Salam told us the removal of the town’s population from the Old City had started in 1972, when Gaddafi authorized the construction of new houses. We asked him about the solitary inhabitant of the ancient medina. One old lady, whose house we had seen, had refused to move. ‘She is still in love with her husband,’ he replied. ‘He died several years ago. She does not want to leave because it was his house and she has memories of him there.’ What of the rest of the medina, we wondered? ‘There will be big programme to increase tourists,’ he replied optimistically. ‘We will have fairs and festivals, new hotels, cafés, and handicraft shops. We will not forget Old Ghadames.’
That evening, we revisited the camels, tried out the saddles, and packed up the bags ready for a
