Saturday, November 19, 2005
Bilma and our return.
Sean and I were lamenting Bilma's name. You have to work so hard to get there and then you have to call it Bilma. Such an outstanding location deserves a superior name. It should be called Wahat Al Qabzak, Hurkshiqufh Karaht or Sueno de Muertes. All around it on the map are hard sounding places like Erg du Djourab, Massif de Takolokouzet and Idhan Murzuq. Bilma sounds like someone’s clingy step mother or a town in Kansas.
. . .
This blog is growing stale. I haven't felt like writing it for about two weeks. Bilma, in any case, was restful and simple. It had absolutely no trace of tourism whatsoever: no guides, no men in costumes selling jewelry and hats, no bars, no restaurants. This is a sort of authenticity that is hard to find in places that are worth visiting. Walking in any direction from the center of Bilma is rewarding: we hiked into the dune fields of the Tenere desert; we were lead through the streams and pools of Bilma's running water by a horde of well mannered but manic children and we climbed a ramp of sand that lead to the summit of an escarpment of razor sharp rocks overlooking the oasis and the rest of nowhere. All of these walks and much about the surrounding area deserve attention; but descriptive writing can be tiresome and it tends toward purple when it grows old.
The ride back was also ridiculous. We had nearly abandoned any hope of traveling straight through the Tenere because a mere two or three trucks per month are likely to make the voyage. A collection of hospitable people brought us to the attention of the prefect of Bilma who spoke Sean's African language and liked Tuuli just find and we found ourselves in the back of his military pick up truck in the company of four attentive Nigerienne military personnel whose massive automatic weapons were always within arm's reach. The prefect, along with the mayors and traditional chiefs of the various oases of the northern desert region of Niger were heading to Agadez for a meeting with the minister of the interior. They were going through Fachi, an even less visited oasis in an even more exquisite area of the Sahara. These chiefs and mayors came from diverse tribes with diverse customs and grudges, some of them sat in the back of the pick up truck with the soldiers, the two grumpy women and us (all of us on top of the blankets that were on top of our stuff, which was leaked all over by some drums of water, which was especially awful when it became necessary to use the wet stuff for insulation against near freezing temperatures). It was impossible to change position on the back of the truck. We were only relieved by the constant popping of the tire over which Sean was sitting and the small stretch and rearrangement that this permitted.
My favorite of these men was the chief of Djado. He is one of the Tubu people-however that is spelt and I'm sure they don't care. After the Agadez meeting he was heading to a summit with Tuareg leaders near Diffa to move the two warring contingents towards reconciliation. Apparently-according to the Fulani Prefect-you are not a Tubu if you do not steal; you prove your Tubu manhood by stealing and you only steal livestock. The Tubu have long been a desert people and raiding passersby is a part of their custom; it predates national law by hundreds of years. The Tuareg people, situated on the other side of this conflict have not adopted a culturally relativist stance since they have most of the livestock in these parts, most of the guns, all of the slaves and none of the patience. The groups don't get along. The Tubu chief had an absolutely wonderful 10th century untouchable look of I'll-talk-all-day mischief about him and offered us sweet milk to be sopped up with bread while we stopped to fix our fifth or sixth flat tire. I got the feeling that he would have a delightful time at the talks saying exactly what the mediators would pressure him to say and that none of this would have the slightest bearing on the way he intends to lead his people. All of these men were extraordinarily kind and none of them treated us like the filthy, untitled, ripe smelling charity cases that we were.
The chauffer could have won the Saharan leg of the Paris Dakar Rally. My fingers were bleeding and blistered from holding onto ropes, plastic handles, the truck's frame and baggage straps. The truck was fully airborne at least once (there were about ten of us in the back). I know this because the only pair of tracks in the whole world anywhere near us suddenly had a three or four foot gap in them. That gap was where the pick up truck flew. I almost fell out of that damn thing about fifty times and I made little embarrassing noises of sudden terror at least ten percent of the time. I used these public displays of vulnerability to legitimize my aggressive campaign to move back into the inner sanctuary of the truck that was primarily occupied by a breast feeding woman and a miserable, shriveling old prune of a woman who thought she was the high priestess of the pick up truck. If I had died it would have been her fault. Thankfully we shared no language except eyes of hate.
She appealed to a soldier to have me move further away. He looked at where I was sitting and told her it was not possible. He was right. So I gave him some water and some dates and thought kindly of him and then when the truck slowed down because of huge rocks I asked about his life. He had children in Niamey (about three days away) and he was looking forward to an opportunity to see them. I had completely failed to take into account that this man who had shouldered his automatic weapon twice on this trip might pay attention to toothless things. I had completely lost sight of this potential fatherliness when he locked and loaded his weapon and fanned out with his colleagues around the prefect's pick-up, which had just run out of all tubes, all spares and had flattened its spare tire stuffed with blankets. He was fanning out to halt the upcoming four by fours that we expected to be full of tourists who were going to have their stuff commandeered so that our dignitaries could make the meeting in time. However, the other four by fours were full of other chiefs and mayors who were also en route to the same summit and had been experiencing their own difficulties.
This was an opportunity for tea and car repair. Several bouts of that, several interesting people, much more car trouble, deepening unspoken malice between me and the crumbling fig whose comfort was more important than my basic safety and we were within a hundred kilometers of Agadez, finally passing villages. Most people didn’t wave at our car because it was scary and full of soldiers with guns. But at one point two little boys did and the soldier who was my ally waved at them and said the French equivalent of "what's up little guys", while smiling larger than anyone not in love. He even relinquished his essential grip on the pick up’s frame to accomplish this fatherly wave. The other soldiers and passengers ignored them completely. Then he said a bit more about his sons, further confusing my understanding of soldiers. Then we were back in Agadez. Somewhere in between we slept in the desert and nearly froze, visited a Chinese oil seeking exploration with a ridiculous arsenal and some friendly mercenaries who baked good biscuits and Tuuli tried lighting a cigarette while leaning against a leaky 100 galloon fuel canister, which impressed nobody and did not succeed.
I have been lazy with these episodes because I want to catch up with time.
Soon after returning to Agadez we followed bad advice and drove south to Zinder. The road began to deteriorate, the sun started setting and so we looked for a camping spot. We saw some herders, stopped nearby, didn't have a single linguistic tool for making ourselves understood except two folded hands under a shut-eyed head, big smiles and thumbs up. You could fill have filled a large briefcase with the amount of pounded millet and okra sauce that they brought to us after our modest offering of dates. Their women were strikingly gorgeous and sat watching us play poker for nearly two hours; they completely threw off my game.
The next morning I drove through the roughest stretch of road the stingray has ever so far handled. It was necessary to maintain speeds around 40 to 50 miles an hour on winding donkey tracks of deep sand, frequently more than a foot deep. It was necessary to allow the car to bottom out, bounce around and skid wildly in order to avoid slowing to a stop in deep sand from which we would not have been able to free ourselves. It was unlikely that other cars could have pulled us from the longer stretches since their own wheels would have found no purchase. The road periodically branched in two or three directions where smaller vehicles sought to avoid the central and most traveled route that was often ruined by massive trucks that carve a central barrier high enough to leech all necessary speed from cars with low clearance. However, from time to time the tracks that wander off to the right or the left deteriorate into nothing or hit sand patches that could sink a tank. One of them crept further and further away from the main road until we began to suspect that we had actually chosen a path with its own independent destination. If that track had taken us to a village I think we might have cried. I continued to careen down this non-road tilting and jumping the stingray in ways that it did not deserve. As in several other locations, it was necessary as the last of our speed was drunk like water, for me to swerve right and left when we neared zero miles an hour. In all cases, one of our tires eventually caught, enabling us to reach the fully paved section after about two hours of the insane driving. Previously we explained to people that our car can handle all roads except sandy ones. Now, we cannot say that. It felt like rally driving. I would do it for a living. In other people's cars, I would absolutely do it for a living.
Then we were in Zinder, spent time there, met good people, saw some projects worthy of respect and attention after which we departed for Nigeria, where I am now. That means I am mostly caught up. That means I can write about something else tomorrow, as I intended.
Sean and I were lamenting Bilma's name. You have to work so hard to get there and then you have to call it Bilma. Such an outstanding location deserves a superior name. It should be called Wahat Al Qabzak, Hurkshiqufh Karaht or Sueno de Muertes. All around it on the map are hard sounding places like Erg du Djourab, Massif de Takolokouzet and Idhan Murzuq. Bilma sounds like someone’s clingy step mother or a town in Kansas.
. . .
This blog is growing stale. I haven't felt like writing it for about two weeks. Bilma, in any case, was restful and simple. It had absolutely no trace of tourism whatsoever: no guides, no men in costumes selling jewelry and hats, no bars, no restaurants. This is a sort of authenticity that is hard to find in places that are worth visiting. Walking in any direction from the center of Bilma is rewarding: we hiked into the dune fields of the Tenere desert; we were lead through the streams and pools of Bilma's running water by a horde of well mannered but manic children and we climbed a ramp of sand that lead to the summit of an escarpment of razor sharp rocks overlooking the oasis and the rest of nowhere. All of these walks and much about the surrounding area deserve attention; but descriptive writing can be tiresome and it tends toward purple when it grows old.
The ride back was also ridiculous. We had nearly abandoned any hope of traveling straight through the Tenere because a mere two or three trucks per month are likely to make the voyage. A collection of hospitable people brought us to the attention of the prefect of Bilma who spoke Sean's African language and liked Tuuli just find and we found ourselves in the back of his military pick up truck in the company of four attentive Nigerienne military personnel whose massive automatic weapons were always within arm's reach. The prefect, along with the mayors and traditional chiefs of the various oases of the northern desert region of Niger were heading to Agadez for a meeting with the minister of the interior. They were going through Fachi, an even less visited oasis in an even more exquisite area of the Sahara. These chiefs and mayors came from diverse tribes with diverse customs and grudges, some of them sat in the back of the pick up truck with the soldiers, the two grumpy women and us (all of us on top of the blankets that were on top of our stuff, which was leaked all over by some drums of water, which was especially awful when it became necessary to use the wet stuff for insulation against near freezing temperatures). It was impossible to change position on the back of the truck. We were only relieved by the constant popping of the tire over which Sean was sitting and the small stretch and rearrangement that this permitted.
My favorite of these men was the chief of Djado. He is one of the Tubu people-however that is spelt and I'm sure they don't care. After the Agadez meeting he was heading to a summit with Tuareg leaders near Diffa to move the two warring contingents towards reconciliation. Apparently-according to the Fulani Prefect-you are not a Tubu if you do not steal; you prove your Tubu manhood by stealing and you only steal livestock. The Tubu have long been a desert people and raiding passersby is a part of their custom; it predates national law by hundreds of years. The Tuareg people, situated on the other side of this conflict have not adopted a culturally relativist stance since they have most of the livestock in these parts, most of the guns, all of the slaves and none of the patience. The groups don't get along. The Tubu chief had an absolutely wonderful 10th century untouchable look of I'll-talk-all-day mischief about him and offered us sweet milk to be sopped up with bread while we stopped to fix our fifth or sixth flat tire. I got the feeling that he would have a delightful time at the talks saying exactly what the mediators would pressure him to say and that none of this would have the slightest bearing on the way he intends to lead his people. All of these men were extraordinarily kind and none of them treated us like the filthy, untitled, ripe smelling charity cases that we were.
The chauffer could have won the Saharan leg of the Paris Dakar Rally. My fingers were bleeding and blistered from holding onto ropes, plastic handles, the truck's frame and baggage straps. The truck was fully airborne at least once (there were about ten of us in the back). I know this because the only pair of tracks in the whole world anywhere near us suddenly had a three or four foot gap in them. That gap was where the pick up truck flew. I almost fell out of that damn thing about fifty times and I made little embarrassing noises of sudden terror at least ten percent of the time. I used these public displays of vulnerability to legitimize my aggressive campaign to move back into the inner sanctuary of the truck that was primarily occupied by a breast feeding woman and a miserable, shriveling old prune of a woman who thought she was the high priestess of the pick up truck. If I had died it would have been her fault. Thankfully we shared no language except eyes of hate.
She appealed to a soldier to have me move further away. He looked at where I was sitting and told her it was not possible. He was right. So I gave him some water and some dates and thought kindly of him and then when the truck slowed down because of huge rocks I asked about his life. He had children in Niamey (about three days away) and he was looking forward to an opportunity to see them. I had completely failed to take into account that this man who had shouldered his automatic weapon twice on this trip might pay attention to toothless things. I had completely lost sight of this potential fatherliness when he locked and loaded his weapon and fanned out with his colleagues around the prefect's pick-up, which had just run out of all tubes, all spares and had flattened its spare tire stuffed with blankets. He was fanning out to halt the upcoming four by fours that we expected to be full of tourists who were going to have their stuff commandeered so that our dignitaries could make the meeting in time. However, the other four by fours were full of other chiefs and mayors who were also en route to the same summit and had been experiencing their own difficulties.
This was an opportunity for tea and car repair. Several bouts of that, several interesting people, much more car trouble, deepening unspoken malice between me and the crumbling fig whose comfort was more important than my basic safety and we were within a hundred kilometers of Agadez, finally passing villages. Most people didn’t wave at our car because it was scary and full of soldiers with guns. But at one point two little boys did and the soldier who was my ally waved at them and said the French equivalent of "what's up little guys", while smiling larger than anyone not in love. He even relinquished his essential grip on the pick up’s frame to accomplish this fatherly wave. The other soldiers and passengers ignored them completely. Then he said a bit more about his sons, further confusing my understanding of soldiers. Then we were back in Agadez. Somewhere in between we slept in the desert and nearly froze, visited a Chinese oil seeking exploration with a ridiculous arsenal and some friendly mercenaries who baked good biscuits and Tuuli tried lighting a cigarette while leaning against a leaky 100 galloon fuel canister, which impressed nobody and did not succeed.
I have been lazy with these episodes because I want to catch up with time.
Soon after returning to Agadez we followed bad advice and drove south to Zinder. The road began to deteriorate, the sun started setting and so we looked for a camping spot. We saw some herders, stopped nearby, didn't have a single linguistic tool for making ourselves understood except two folded hands under a shut-eyed head, big smiles and thumbs up. You could fill have filled a large briefcase with the amount of pounded millet and okra sauce that they brought to us after our modest offering of dates. Their women were strikingly gorgeous and sat watching us play poker for nearly two hours; they completely threw off my game.
The next morning I drove through the roughest stretch of road the stingray has ever so far handled. It was necessary to maintain speeds around 40 to 50 miles an hour on winding donkey tracks of deep sand, frequently more than a foot deep. It was necessary to allow the car to bottom out, bounce around and skid wildly in order to avoid slowing to a stop in deep sand from which we would not have been able to free ourselves. It was unlikely that other cars could have pulled us from the longer stretches since their own wheels would have found no purchase. The road periodically branched in two or three directions where smaller vehicles sought to avoid the central and most traveled route that was often ruined by massive trucks that carve a central barrier high enough to leech all necessary speed from cars with low clearance. However, from time to time the tracks that wander off to the right or the left deteriorate into nothing or hit sand patches that could sink a tank. One of them crept further and further away from the main road until we began to suspect that we had actually chosen a path with its own independent destination. If that track had taken us to a village I think we might have cried. I continued to careen down this non-road tilting and jumping the stingray in ways that it did not deserve. As in several other locations, it was necessary as the last of our speed was drunk like water, for me to swerve right and left when we neared zero miles an hour. In all cases, one of our tires eventually caught, enabling us to reach the fully paved section after about two hours of the insane driving. Previously we explained to people that our car can handle all roads except sandy ones. Now, we cannot say that. It felt like rally driving. I would do it for a living. In other people's cars, I would absolutely do it for a living.
Then we were in Zinder, spent time there, met good people, saw some projects worthy of respect and attention after which we departed for Nigeria, where I am now. That means I am mostly caught up. That means I can write about something else tomorrow, as I intended.
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