Day 20
Predawn. Orange arising in dune country, long perfect horizons, fading contour thinning trees, across the yellow empty map.
Muhammad the Khabir rode into our lunch camp yesterday, his black greatcoat folded, wearing his thin riding araagi, turban coiled carelessly, big hellos for me, big mock arguments sly smile hollow anger for Khair, problem with the Sugar "why didn't you stop?" "no tea to serve, we're low on water" "no grub to eat", h rode off, we loaded up 16 logs on the pack animal and rode through black rock to join his men. After tasting their clear cold water they led us.
Rode into Wad Tom, hamlet of brush squat dwellings, goats one donkey, children, black-dressed red-scarfed silver-ankled women, to buy sugar at LS 1 per rutl.
We've also run out.
Rode through the gravel pans of Wad Tom, clump of thick trees, goats herded fire glows through brush doors, tree-hung dried meat.
Into the dunes and clear-skied morn except for one mare's tail picking up the sun before its risen, last afternoon's clouds, dark thick northeastern, blown out fine sand has loose low spots, dunes crest and curve sharply always moving southeast in the northwest winds.
Decided to do some serious site recordings they will all be gone before I know it, only voices and pictures to remember living hard -working men of the desert.
And tire tracks converging each day, reentering gov't access territory, the old lady in the hovel thought Dave was the police when he photographed, empty cigarette pack in the sand.
From Khair, the other route from Nahud skirts the Abu Dum hills, "according to one's moods" (hasab al-mazaj)
B'ir Adam, the story book desert well, between dunes a truck tire rings the 30 foot rock lined well, clear water, leather bucket, bring your own rope,
3 donkeys cane from nowhere to inspect, we fill 4 skins Khair the Younger and Saeed of the other group do likewise, Masood soaks his leather camel rein.
I'm mounted on a new camel, strong and leading the herd and stout, over very soft sand he strides and old whitey la;is, gets nipped, hump shrunken, blood stained, last night he collapsed more than once before we dismounted.
News from Wad Tan finally filters down to me, 600 camels from El Fasher 2 days ahead, 200 from abu Jaib with 2 Khabirs and 400 from Sadiq, deep tracks
The Great Waste, where in fact nothing is wasted, a Victorian concept of the metropole, a colonial misnomer, how many insects rodents livestock herders and planters can live even thrive. there are will be rains. the green was will return.
Across more flats, soft sand walk this morn, My new camel a pleasure to ride, we will be good friends even if he is gelded. Flour for milaah called duraaba, like Um Duraaba, flour for 'aseeda called dukhun.
writing by moonlight in 1/2 moon words: fadayya- lizard skin ground, hiyalla- heavy sand, rimma - camel skeleton, rasab - small gravels, zalat- rocky ground
Day 21 at Predawn.
Muhammad cooked last night and up early this morning in the darkness, stirring 'aseeda, crazy chemist over the fire concocting magic brew, so much oil in the milaah last night it turned thick, but sticks to the 'aseeda hunks better this way.
Muhammad the haashi nursemaid, last night and yesterday lunch feeding time, millet grain and dried hay force fed the millet mixed with water, throat massage to swallow, has to drag them together bawling all the way, squealing like pigs, kicked dogs cry babies.
Saw Little Dipper and Arcturus before it turned orange this morning. What's that bright star in the morn east beside Venus? Also what's that constellation around the Southern Cross? Scorpio? and the 5 pointed polygon and the lambda along the side of Orion and Sirius, towards Cassiopeia?
M. the ragbag. At B'ir Adam, Saeed needed a rag to wipe the skin, asked M, and tore off a piece of his araagi, his turban already gone, no shroud for his grave.
Camel carcasses as cairns, died in midstep to Cairo, within nose range of the Nile's waters, bleached bones held together by slowly rotting sinews, rawhide erected by rigor mortis and the wind, more visible in the distance than black rock cairns, they catch the sun and sound the warning, camels sniff their fate and mouth a bone to taste their brother's salt, The Great Waste?
Khair doing a lot of prayers lately. Yesterday asr and maghrib, this morn fajr too.
Camel sex party yesterday at lunch break, couldn't keep a big white stud off anything warm, 6 inch pencil eraser penis whipping back and forth like a car antenna, foamy saliva and pink throat bubble gurgling, backwards mount!
New words: lunch camping spot- deira, night camp- miraah or manzal
Counted 103 turds under my camel's tail this morn
Day 21 at Midday.
Um Duheir, Mother of the Smaller Eternity, wind blown sand streams, Nile mist, like climbing Tuckerman’s in winter, snow coming over the ledges burying boots, fine enough to drown in.
Sandflats 360 degrees razor edge horizon, now breaking up as we drop to the Nile rocky outcrops again, good walk into the wind but better finally mounted,
my new camel like a good easy chair, I sit any which way in comfort, at ease
he walks steady, discovering new safe postures, an expanded repertoire of seating for late night rides.
Long ride last night, I did better than before, didn't think about the end until we were headed down, celebrated the end of Day 20 with 2 1/2 glasses coffee black bitter grounds as digestif, and slept like a log
Khair says we don't have far to go, promises as early camp tonight, the wind is Um Duheir.
Masood goes on about marrying Hanaan al BuluBulu, the Tanya Tucker of the northern Sudan, Fitihaab her village near Um Ruweiba, I plan to stock up on her tapes in Dongola a real heart throb among the Kababish.
early stop today just past the telegraph wires, Adam touched them overhead with his whip, crossing the finish line, trees along the Nile now in sight, we water tomorrow about 9 after the wind dies and the sun gets high, so the fickle camels drink well, no problem with us, I've already eaten 3 meals, cleaned. rested, shopped and eaten again, hard to get a grip on my impatience once I've sniffed the Nile. But camp tonight seems like the edge of town, at its garbage dump, paper floating by, an empty bottle at our lunch place.
We operated on the red camel with hand of Fatima, Swollen right front ankle, Nasir came over with a branding iron, heated it and tied the camel tight, back legs together front hobbled tipped him over like a car and he seared 3 vertical stripes and one lateral, skin blackened and parted, no reaction from the camel, still limping not surprisingly.
I've explained our plans to go ahead to Dongola and rest a few days, for the border formalities but Khair volunteered a suggestion that we bathe and eat a little, that's what he'd like to do.
The wind was blowing white powder all afternoon, its darkening now, past half moon overhead, M. stirring up lukhma, grub, we're sleeping in close to the boys tonight, spirits are all up, Saeed over for campfire tales, we're leaving Um Duheir, onto the Nile, river life
Day 23
Morn. Dongola. Arrived late last night broken down truck left the herd behind. Our arrival at the Nile triumphant and frenzied and over in a second. Rode the green line following tracks a wheel-less bus propped up beside the way, date palms in view, greenery in multiple shades, tended fields, past a long mud building with arched doors and brightly painted green window shutters. Through the dunes, and voila the Nile's Bank, steep pebbly descent, the wind chopping against the flow, camels hurried to drink just as the square-rigged white sail puffed by laden with ladies.
Lapping waves at the bank, like the Missouri on a windy summer day, many mirrored surface churning up sediment, M.'s camels close behind, frenzied herd mixing confused drinking many shouts of encouragement but no group celebration or recognition of a goal achieved, are Kababish not impressed with water?
Conversation with 2 donkey riders, Abd al Maula and al Fadil, teacher at primary school, Dave and I go to visit make a presentation to the first grade girls up front and boys back, a lovely teacher looks on, al Fadil beside my seat explains our trip, US geography, and Ronald Reagan actor Jimmy Carter peanut farmer.
Anxious to get into Dongola but reluctant to leave the herd. Rationalizing my escape, necessary recuperation if I will survive the 2nd half, time required for formalities and telegram, see Nubian life, Kawa Ruins, or just to stuff my self on my mind's feast prepared in the last 2 weeks. We rush from school, mount and ride north following car tracks, beyond clear sight of the green feeling very out of place, in a parking lot, "Arabs" as spectacle, dogs/children chasing, the end of the desert, our pure experience, an era an age a way of life all gone with electricity, motorized traffic and the Nile, stopped for lunch in a dirty place, no longer a sandy noble camp site, a miraah, literally “a place of rest”, no traces of fire or camel dung from past drives, within earshot of traffic, waiting for a passing truck
I'm fatalistic passive about our ride, don't want to go beside the sown in such a way, feel like losing ourselves back in the wastes, where automobiles fear to tread.
Wave down a truck, going to Dongola? without stops? "It all depends on God", good enough answer, pull into Goulad after 20 minutes, stuff ourselves on double orders ful, vegetable stew, and bread all tasting for the first time in our lives marvelous, continue on, settlements, newly laid out home sites model villages, empty quarters, the sun in that part of the western sky I remember so well from the rides. Just now if I'd been still in the saddle, I'd be in pain, before the sun falls enough to cool and be beautifully aglow.
Breakdown! Flat tire! No sewing needle to patch a tube! Caused by a grain of sand wearing against a man-made fabric no doubt. A boy walks off for the needle we wait, get cold, hungry, our butts sore from constrained seating, steady but irregular bumping. Is it possible to be colder, hungrier, sorer, more all around uncomfortable than in the saddle? Just wait. Repair. Wrap up in the blanket, I've got the outboard windowless seat, Talking Heads, David Byrne please outsing the whine of the motor as we climb the cold dune.
Arrive Dongola, find a flea bag hotel, collective room, my neighbor snoring like a hog in my direction, I want to scream, even sleep is meaner, camels growl in the night but let me rest. Change rooms, all my dreams are caning true.
The bakery. Our nightcap meal, bread from the oven, bakers from Kadugli, wide smiles soft slow voices, brighten when I say we left from Nahud, near their home, the Nuba Hills.
An Egyptian in pajamas wise cracks about 15 piaster bread, big inflation after he leaves we sit together at ful and warm bread, Nuba bakers and gringos, the bakery boss waves off our payment for the 6 loaves we carry, the sole warm glow in an unfriendly night.
Awake to donkey brays rooster crows and bird song, get out of the flea beg early, watch Dongola came to life, before dawn from a tea shop, tea with milk and cloves.
To be sleeping indoors, as disconcerting as a 7 hour time zone change, NYC to Cairo, Sahara to City.
Today to find al Amiri Yaseen, well known to the bakery owner, see Temple of Kawa, telegram and shop for essentials, donkey seat, Hanaan tapes.
Afternoon, waiting out the overhead sun, tea shanty bank of the Nile, walked through the backyards to get here following irrigation canals led by children a precocious hello from a white-thaubed maid. Mango, dom, balah, lubia all abounding. Burtha'a, donkey seats for LS 13. Enough ‘83 and ‘84 Hanaan tapes. Hanaan 82 is 'oud music, a collectors item.
Find rest after a trying morn with the authorities. Perils of the city. Ibn Khaldoun was on the mark. The simple strength of the barriyya, the desert, and the baroque weakness of the madina, the city, and the passport control charged each one LS 28 just to go back to the desert, for exit visa and 15 day extension, a muttering captain, "My God", to show off his schoolboy expressions.
And his smiling flunkies poking through broken file cabinets for the proper register, sharing among the three of them the sole military cap to go before their chief, in and out, on our way to the police for a travel permit, Gottcha!
Undercover agent cruising gringos in the market, got hot and bothered, finally cooled down when he read abu Jaib's letter of introduction and saw our documents, run around again, only cooled after orange drink bananas and peanuts and simsim candies.
Khair will be amused by our urban follies. It never would have happened back there, where central authority is afraid to show its face, scared by the likes of Billa Ali and his rag-wrapped carbine, the law of the gun the rule of wits. Where carbon copies make no difference, where gringo writes the notes, one word, one scrawl carries weight but not as much as a gesture or a flash in the eye. Back here its the green team vs. the white team, out there its the thief vs. the upright, no need for color coded uniforms, the legend travels by word of mouth, no use for seated scribes outside post offices.
The ferry loads, Kawa awaits.
Day 25
Midday break. Back where we left off in Khileawa, only old whitey has died; after we left the group, during the night, left the bones as a sign post. Long morning walk today paralleling the green, plenty of tracks and a few passing Toyotas. Adam patching a pad on a difficult camel. Morning moon setting full, finally figured that the other bright star beside Venus has to be a planet, either Saturn or Jupiter, the other has to be in the evening sky below and south of Sirius.
Grand reunion yesterday with Khair and M. the Khabir in al-Amiri Yaseen's Shop #22, lounging about, stocking up on luxuries, i.e. cumin, falafel, tomatoes, we bought fresh mint and got free dates and dried dom nuts from friendly souk merchants.
Khair was amused by our misguided adventures since we'd left him, starting with the flat tire. Explained to the group assembled in the shop the purpose of our trip. Their comment, "mokh kabeer", big brain?
Took a Toyota laden with supplies and al-Amiri's brother Sadiq, (both sly old birds with frightening faces until they smile, then they light up the dim corners of the stall) and waited at the drop point. The camels showed up just at sundown after we'd feasted on falafel, tomatoes, and onions in oil and red pepper, lips burned until a boy showed up with a water jug.
Sorry and Happy to be leaving Dongola, behind were hassles and fresh bread, cops and bananas, snoring hotels and restful tea shops, long days with the authorities and early mornings/late nights drinking clove tea and eating warm loaves.
And we hope the next fifteen days are full of the new and unexpected, feel like the trip is coasting home here on out. Hope we don't get bogged down in long marches along the beaten path, right now camped beside an international aid project all fenced in, mechanical wheeled irrigation pipes and pump houses
Day 26
Midday. Near a dried slough of the Nile, north of Simit Island. A beautiful spot with camels eating Nile grass and rolling on sand bars. I bathed my feet and drank deep from a clear pool left by receding flood waters.
Last night cruising along the truck route picking up road dirt, a brief stop to drink from a clay jar kept for the benefit of travelers, rode late till 9 and entered a boulder zone much like a cataract without the flow, full moon rising orange 1 hour after sundown, the orange I didn't eat in Dongola. But wait.
This morning cut across the desert, came upon what looked like an oasis apart from the river, but it was the Nile turning back and we followed the waters. Dates six months from harvest, delicate arching fronds, dom fruit in fan palms 2 months from season.
Invited to lunch by M. Osman and Houja abd al-Rahim, west of Simit Island, M. worked in Kuwait and now was home for 3 months vacation, ate oil-less ful, breaded fish (boulaati), dates, kisra bread and grapefruit, all while the camels munched outdoors.
A saint's tomb, and passed a ruined fortress, black stone foundation, mud upper stories, still a way off from Sulb and Seddinga.
The 3rd Cataract has 2 sets of rapids, Kajbar and abu Fatima.
Muhammad's bismillahs when he is: filling the teapot, filling tea glasses, drinking tea, saddling up, mounting, adding spice to lukhma, pouring milah onto aseeda, etc.
Resting under the tree, ducks at the pool. At Kawa, there was a small green canary staring down a donkey, today by the Nile saw a pintailed green bird, black crows and white "friend of the farms", sadiq al mazaari’, landing on camel humps.
Recession irrigation, ful and fasuliyya and lubiyya, the Nubian cultural zone of Mahas, check R. Fernea on Nile cultures, brightly painted gateways, charcoal making, date cultivation, rich bird life, river breezes, green plant life, broken by black boulders, mud architecture, arched doors, cool lime interiors, M. Osman had a bed lined, green shuttered sitting roan, ate with spoons and drank tea from a china pot, he works tawaali with Yanks and Brits.
The routine of Nile encounters, people's homes, food, or simply water jars, and then the desert to tire and thirst and compare with the comforts of the river. I could ride this way a long time, this view this river feel is what I saw when I read the map in New York, 1000 km of Nile bank, no road lost temples like the one just behind, unmarked, passed by surprise and left behind unnamed, and the spontaneous meals to counter the 'aseeda, fresh fruits, even ful and bread, honest grub even though the season is early, pre-ripenirg, the sense of fertility and bounty to come, a desert antidote.
We've earned this luxury, our stomachs our eyes even our legs (strorger now, and stops more restful) feel the difference. In a land where celebrations mean oranges and dates, not a slaughtered sheep.
Day 27
Midday beside Mount Shubaaha. Turned away from the Nile across Sesebi Reach, Khair says we won't see more river until day after morrow. Iast night grazed the camels at dusk beside the banks, a stand of date palms on west bank caught the orange glow, a pump coughed, young man came to ask us to move the livestock up on the bank, his handal and fasuliyya crops were underfoot, Masood said Kuwayyis, kuwayyis Good, Good, in his goofy American accent.
Wind was up, ducks flew in pairs, a last sip from the Nile, and almost fell asleep at the waters edge, everyone seemed tired, personally exhausted after a very short slow day, odd. Camped within sight of a small town, the lights blinked on about 5 or 6, when the generator started. Moon is up orange and full, egg-like, squeezed sideways as its laid, the horizon is one big hen house.
BBC news about France's largest traffic jam in history, threatening to topple the government, Commie transport minister gets tough with the truckers, and a cyclone on the Natal coast, missed the review of Francis de la Torre's "Saint Joan"
More patching at lunch, over zalat and broken rock, plenty of cairns and camel skeletons, one still fresh with skin bloated and leather tanning, twisted neck biting at the last itch on the hump.
Day 28
Lost and Found. Iast night with M. in the lead, before the moon rose we wandered off the track, wind blew cold and camels strung out. Wasn't hard to lose the way in the black, many rises and falls and the way beirg many parallel beaten paths interlacing and winding between heavy gravels.
But by stopping time Khair knew we were lost, camped and this morning set off due west in search of the path. Many jokes and banter M. and Khair in lead on foot. Climbing hills and pointing with whips all around the compass.
Khair was rubbing it in, M. needs our map, I say the map is useless, Khair says the Sahara has big problems, we finally backtrack and follow a sand wash north seeing the gravel beds of differing weights contouring and entering. Black slate and white quartzites, finally another broad sand bed canes in from the east. We were west of the track all along, now M. rubs Khair for taking us too far west.
M. gives us the all clear, follow me sign, says we're near the river and Sukoat, and sure enough we're not 1/2 mile from the date palms.
Nasir. The elegant bad guy, grey sleeveless sweater, shirt, grey overcoat, turban with tail wagging down his back, and his pant legs in tatters.
Adam. Red/yellow striped sleeveless sweater, red long sweater, red leather mocs, and shawl wrapped bandolier style across his chest.
Masood. Blue ski cap wrapped by a turban, black vest ragged over lorg dirty tunic, often wears galabiyya on top. Being so small, like a child in a night gown, an 8th dwarf.
Muhammad. Tunic flapping, nothing under nothing over, his chest lightly covered. 2 days ago when he caught Dave and me alone, asked for Sudanese money when we arrive Cairo, didn't get his full meaning, "children weak, of service, Try". Talked to Dave first and realized he couldn't get through, came over to me, eyes not blinking, to the heart of the matter. I, "I will try".
Camel patching howls, Adam's heavy hand, wind up hard today, little sand in the air though, Praise Be, reclining camels create drafts and sand devils across the camp, when they stir the wind flies up the sand.
Passing many old camp sites, camel nests, fire rings, 3 blackened stones, fresh urine stains on dark sand this morn, mud pies by the dozen.
Idris. Shortest of the other group, impish. High voice, travels mostly on foot, their factotum, their Muhammad?
M. the Khabir. Without turban and greatcoat, chest proud, a tough old buzzard George C. Scott-like, he and Khair like to duel and spar with w::,rd and gesture, voices rise, laughter falls, Khair's giggle.
As usual the most uncomfortable stopping place to be found, within sight of the river and tree cover from the wind.
Glad that the mint has been fully accepted and put to use, mint tea makes it an equal pleasure, theirs and ours, when they smile and shout, "Kubbayya! Shai!" And the dates almost gone, my bowels say not a second too soon, yesterday left Mt. Subaaha quite a bit browner and then greener.
My camel is a strong stubborn brute for a eunuch, no way to turn his head or pull him up when he decides to graze, and he stumbles often which is rough on my seat. My groin pays the price for each misstep. But the leather donkey pad allows me to wrap the cloth pad around the horn and across his shoulder blade, so I sit cross-legged more comfortably, one position going a long way.
Khair sharpens knife for raw hide stripping, sprinkles gravel with the blade on the wooden club, and then rubs back and forth butcher fashion. Toe holding the start of the thread, cuts evenly along the side, stretching taut all the while. 3 foot perfect laces, easy to stitch the patch, raw hide soaked before cut, shaving the lace down afterwards. Sitting on the large piece, his diwan, the firaash shoes shouldn't tread. Masood is deadly serious about violating his bed sheet.
Day 29
Predawn. Awakened through the night with Muhammad stirring 'aseeda. The muffled scraping of food in a dish, dough, flour, underwater sounds of food from far away. A childhood recollection, always over the fire, squatting, stir rod in a tight-fisted grip, pot steaming, still doesn't know the spices but makes great quantities.
Yesterday saw Sulb after we remounted from lunch, in the distance, nestled in the date palms surrounded by village of Aquula, ran up to it through the mud compounds, pretty ochre-highlighted wall buttresses with mastaba trim and key hole arches, painted double doors and portals in harlequin, circus welcome, psychedelic spinning colors. Split palm roof beams laid across poles, leaving
Looking for Mr. Dahab, aragi bootlegger, at risk of 40 lashes under the Sharia, better to drink beer in Egypt, 9 more days counts M. the Younger.
Mahas- North of Dongola
Sukoat- Begins at Jebel Dowsha
Rutaana (gibberish) spoken here according to the Kababish. Ianguage of the Nubians our camp guest M. Osman reccgnized sane of Ala' Al-Din Hamza's song, said it was Kanusi dialect from Selima up past 'Abri.
Up from behind cane 3 herds, "the Professor" trail boss puts eyeglasses away in tunic and drinks tea at sunset. I imagine him to be an ex-banker or lawyer fed up with city life and became a came lman. A feloucca sails to the other shore with fire wood, and old woman carrying tomatoes, 2 maids with wood stacked overhead, a boy, and his proud father the sailor, I photograph all.Stopped early, washed socks on the sand bar, dates galore left aver from Hamid. Ahmad Diyyab, the slow speaking police chief, donkey for a squad car, a chronic aragi-holic according to Khair. In the primary school, 'a"I/Kl Allah wants out of the Rif, a scholarship in the US, what can a liberal arts graduate do there?
I've the same trouble much closer to home.
Day 30
Midday break leaving the Nile. Ahmad Diyyab always tries a shakedown. Cost LS 30 last year. Problems with the drivers' documents, not all had papers, sat Muhammad down in front of the flag and desk, "Where do you live exactly (bi-thabt)?", "Kordofan, Markiz Sodiri, Um Badr" "North or South?", "North", "Ah, what's your pay?", "300 guineas"
Khair squats me down with our backs turned and hands ewer a wad, later said he'd been afraid of the tafteesh, inspection, and I returned it this morning.
Lonely spot to camp, plenty of light and a late leisurely start, feeding the bahayim (Wehr trans. "hoofed animals") on palm fronds, feather dusters, roman candles, date bursts.
The other groups arrive Over the dunes, 2 groups from Omdurman and 2 from Um Ruwaaba, Khamees is the name of the bespectacled trail boss, with a story,
38 days out from the starting point, trouble with thieves, gunfire in the night, they got away with 3 camels.
Can't pinpoint Dahab Fadil, our would be aragi connection. We walk all morning along the banks trying to stay out of the wind and blowing sand, but soon tire and knock down a few chewy dates from the palm, refuse tea from the first guy we see and then don't get another invitation. Meet the herd tired and thirsty just as they turn away fran the Nile. I wonder if they are surprised to find us waiting for them so far ahead.
Khair says we follow the river 3 more days, in the desert for two, and then Abu Simbel on the 6th. Looking forward to Dal Cataract. Missed 'Amara evidently, Abri on the other bank looks inviting. our camp now across from Sai island, missed the chance to sail across last night to see the Ottoman fortress in circular ruins.
6 inches of air to circulate, high windows for light, wind and privacy. Working the winter wheat, Mel's colors, farms' friends picking bugs, the field hand stops work at the maghrib, sharp sickles may cut a finger, or trample new shoots. Camel drivers need but a star- al Jeddi- to work their way through the night.
Finally Khair stirs from his sleep, mutters the tawheed, Ia illaha illa Allah, wa Muhammad rasuul Allah and dons his orange taqiyya.
Sulb, a ruined and reconstructed sight, 6 standinq rebuild columns, lotus stems, 1 proto-Corinthian with curling leaves, what remains of the portal riverside, and white caps in a strong wind, wide channel, and children (Mutawakkil, Muhammad, and Mu'aawiyya) know the answers to my questions, camels pass and we rush off to follow as they pass through the main street of Sukoat, and climb over a windy, blown sand-obscured mountain.
Pass date stands sand-impounded, dunes like oysters, same color, wet and perfectly smooth surfaces, a Miami Beach ashtray.
The camels move up the rise, visions of the Khyber Pass in a full blow, a truck is heard coming and passes, one simple question from the driver, "Mashiyyeen Masr? Goinq to Egypt?", and through the pass down the rock stony way littered by camel carcasses.
A donkey rider approaches, long legs clicking, a spider on a string, "I am the police. Passport?" We walk all the way into Hamid village lights glowing, Khair arguing about the camel permts and over limits, heated talk, confiscated papers, flashlight consultations, finally camp and await the morning hearing.
Abd ar-Rahman and Ibrahim arrive with tray of kisra, 'ats, and meat shurba. We eat together, drink tea, Ad.am asks if they swim, "Doesn't the water eat you?" They ask about the camel drive. Ibrahim has owned his new camel for 25 days.
Khair says its 9 days on to Binban and 2 more up to Esna.
Wind up all night.
Late morn rest stop under the palms. we camped at Qubba Saleem near Seddinga. Saw police on the leeward side of a mud compound, on a wide mastaba serving as city hall, primary school, ladies' back fence, a municipal stage where village dramas are acted out with audience participation.
Seated in the majlis, Abd ar-Rahman's grandfather died, Khair and M. each gave LS 2 to his waqf.
And we rode along towards Hamid. Another friendly encounter with the police, a donkey riding rais al-nuqta, president of the post, friend of Masood and Khair, greetings all round and smiles.
Each village has its own color trim for compounds, passes from deep ochre to light ochre to orange to yellow.
The teapot as old Ironsides. Yet another jerryrig to plug the hole and secure the spout. Can't Sink the Bismark. How many adwaar (poured rounds) has it served?
O Black Ingot of the Night, Morning Prayer, Midday Soul-Stirrer.
Yesterday's lunch in the field, beside wheat green and young, a covered tray, a salute, an invitation to break kisra bread, spinach puree, date syrup like carob, and fried potatoes. Fill the water glass from the irrigation ditch, and tea from a thermos, and dates for dessert, and goodbye and shukrans.
The night before, eating Abd ar-Rahnan's 'ats (lentils), I was digging at the colored pattern in the dish with my kisra, hoping to pick up a tasty bite, by the firelight later I saw the dish had long been empty.