VQR (Summer 2010)

island in the sand Essay and photographs by Anthony Ham Azima walks on the dunes surrounding Araouane. Behind him, the town’s dwellings are submerged in the desert sand. wait by an empty Timbuktu roadside in the found money to be of little use there; the only i pre-dawn January chill. Nothing moves in acceptable currency was gold and silver. And the fetid stillness of the seemingly abandoned like Timbuktu, Araouane was a renowned seat city. With its plastic bags, fly-blown offal, list- of learning, famed for its Islamic scholars and less dogs, and collapsed walls, the city’s decay priceless manuscripts. could be anywhere in urban Africa, save for its But now Araouane’s days are numbered. Sur- color: Timbuktu is the color of sand that blew rounded by sand dunes poised like giant waves in from the desert on yesterday’s orange wind above the town, and with the camel caravans and settled upon the city overnight. There is no that keep Araouane alive being consigned slowly sign of Azima, my Tuareg guide and friend of to history, Araouane could soon disappear for- long-standing, or of the car that will carry us ever beneath the sands. into the desert. Our journey to Araouane is no ordinary Sa- The city stirs. A muezzin calls the faithful to haran journey. For almost a decade, I have been prayer, and a camel bellows in protest. The day’s traveling through the Sahara in the company of first wind rustles the rubbish by the side of the the Tuareg, immersing myself in its solitude and road, and goats hurry through distant streets searching for stories from its vanishing worlds. en route to the desert fringe, there to pass the In the course of this quest, the Sahara has be- day foraging on thorns. Weak car headlights, in- come one of the grand passions of my life. But distinct in the gloom, jounce over the potholes increasingly, much of the Sahara is off-limits, beyond the dust like wild spirits of the night de- plagued by rebellion, banditry, and the latest parting. Swathed in blankets, Timbuktu’s inhab- low-intensity war between the Malian army itants draw near to the Songhai ovens, domes of and Tuareg rebel groups. Depending on whom mud and sources of heat on street corners, then you believe, to these age-old perils of desert scurry home with bread and glowing coals for travel has been added the shadowy presence of the precious first tea of morning. A cold sand al Qaeda, which has established bases deep in wind drives me indoors. the Malian Sahara; they have been blamed for Timbuktu may be the end of the earth, but killings and kidnappings from Egypt in the east it is also the start of a very long road, a once- to Mauritania in the west. If true, the Sahara lucrative trans-Saharan trail that connected north of Timbuktu has become one of the most Africa’s interior with the Mediterranean. Our dangerous places on earth. After weeks of dis- destination is Araouane, one hundred seventy cussion, and against all sound advice, Azima has miles to the north. Among the Sahara’s oldest agreed to take me to Araouane. caravan towns, perhaps even older than Tim- When Azima’s battered Land Rover arrives buktu, Araouane was for centuries renowned for in a cloud of dust, he emerges in robes of vivid the sweet water from its wells. It was also one blue, sandals slapping in the sand. Behind the of the few places of refuge along the waterless wheel sits Baba, Azima’s most reliable driver and tracts to the Saharan salt mines of Taoudenni, a veteran of many a dangerous desert encounter. and beyond to the historically great kingdoms Alongside Baba is Ali, his face gnarled like a des- of Morocco. ert acacia; Ali, who says not a word, not even in Like Timbuktu, Araouane was a prosperous greeting, has spent his life guiding camels along trading town, where gold, silver, ivory, pre- the caravan route north of Timbuktu. Azima is cious stones, ostrich plumes, and slaves passed as effusive as Ali is reserved and his chant-like through en route to the north, while glass and paper from Venice, pearls from Paris, and linen In the middle of a sand sheet in the Saharan desert, from Marseilles headed south. A European visi- a dead tree leans against the wind, surrounded by tor to Araouane in the early nineteenth century swirling dust. 106 VQ r | S u mm e r 2 0 1 0 ritual greetings will ripple through our conver- to Azima, Agouni’s reputation has scarcely im- sation until long after we are underway. But his proved in the almost two centuries since and it customary cheerfulness is tempered by a ner- remains a bastion of Islamist fervor. But Azima vousness that I have never before seen in him; is shocked to find the Sahara so silent and devoid his eyes scan the street and he hurries me into of its usual signs of slow commerce and human the car. movement. “I have never seen the Sahara like We set off in silence. this,” he says. “This is the first time I have trav- eled this road without seeing a single person, not even a single animal at the wells.” We are two hours north of Timbuktu when Ali Azima has always assured me that he has speaks for the first time, and his words are not been unconcerned about making this journey. welcome: “Put a turban on the white man.” I But now that we no longer have a choice, he have seen nothing, but my colleagues have seen advises me to be more careful. “Twice in Tim- a car. “It is very strange to see one car alone in buktu, you told people that we were going to the desert,” Azima says as he conceals my face Araouane,” he says. “There are rebels in the des- under meters of blue cloth. “And it was a very ert, yes, but there are many more listening in new car. It smelled bad.” Timbuktu.” Ever since leaving Timbuktu, we have seen We continue in silence, before Azima speaks no other signs of life; the litter of trails through again, shouting to make himself heard above the the sand has been strangely empty. True, we gave straining engine: “Soldiers don’t come into the a wide berth to Agouni, the only settlement of desert, even this close to Timbuktu. The govern- note between Timbuktu and Araouane and the ment gives them petrol so that they can patrol place where, in 1826, Alexander Gordon Laing, the Sahara, but they sell it on the black market. the first European to reach Timbuktu, was If we have trouble out here, we are on our own.” hacked to death by his Tuareg guide. According He again falls quiet. Then, as if talking to 108 VQ r | S u mm e r 2 0 1 0 One of the camel caravans that keep Araouane alive in his hand. ‘We have been marching for seven travels along the dangerous trans-Saharan trail from days and we didn’t even leave the streets of Tim- Timbuktu. buktu.’ Everyone was amazed that the old man still knew the sand and his cousin told him the himself, he speaks an old truth I have heard truth. So they continued on to Taoudenni, and from nomads across the Sahara: “There are the caravan returned to Timbuktu. The old man many tracks into the desert. There are not so died in peace soon after.” many that lead out.” Halfway across the sand sheet, a dead tree Yesterday’s wind has returned with relentless looms from behind the veil of dust, leaning away force, and eddies of dust snake across the earth, from the wind. I watch as Azima, Baba, and Ali howling through the emptiness like the ghoulish scurry for firewood, their robes billowing in the tails of desert djinns. Sand hisses and spatters wind. It could be the aftermath of the apoca- against the car and even inside it we are soon lypse, this infernal scene of veiled men silhou- coated in a fine layer of grit; visibility is down etted against the near horizon, tearing in manic to less than a hundred meters. We make slow haste at what could be the last tree left on earth. progress, meandering north under a weak sun. I shudder. When Azima returns to the car, he is Beyond the well of Taganet, we cross a vast exultant: “Isn’t it beautiful?” sand sheet, the famed azawad of desert lore, a hallucinatory void; in the strong wind our tire tracks disappear within seconds. We could be traveling in circles, and yet somehow Ali knows Great swells of sand the way, directing Baba with perfunctory hand threaten to engulf the signals to indicate subtle shifts of direction. When I wonder aloud how Ali can possibly know village, climbing the walls the way in this world stripped of landmarks, Azima tells a story. and lapping at the rooftops; “There was once a very experienced guide from above, it resembles with the salt caravans between Taoudenni and Timbuktu. But he was very old and became blind. a shipwreck breaking into He told everyone that before he died, he wanted pieces and drifting apart. to travel with one last caravan to Taoudenni and return. Everyone told him that he was crazy, but he insisted. No one would take him, until finally his cousin agreed.

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