Articles > Just Desserts

For the first time in my life, I decided I had had enough and I sat down. It was a suitable spot for Nemesis to strike. Just desserts in the desert; meeting my Waterloo on the dunes. We were among some of the largest sand dunes in the world, their crisp ridges and sweeping curves stretched away to the far horizon. Beyond, the endless wastes of the Sahara, ten million square kilometres of dry, empty space. We were somewhere near the middle of the biggest desert in the world, the size of the United States of America, and since before dawn we had been walking barefoot across the dunes leading our string of camels. It was all even more beautiful than I remembered it from 33 years before. Then I had been alone save for Arambey, an elderly Tuareg with whom I had travelled by camel through the Air Mountains and the Tenere Desert. I had been searching for prehistoric rock drawings and, with a cine camera lent me by the Royal Geographical Society, had made the first film records of this extraordinary and little known art form.

Earlier still, in 1962, I had ridden through the Tassili n'Ajjer where the finest African rock paintings, dating from as early as 10,000 BC, are to be found. Later, with John Hemming, I had crossed the Libyan desert down to the Tibesti mountains in Chad, where there are more extraordinary engravings. Now I had my wife, Louella, with me as well as Paul Harris, the great travel photographer, and Mark Wild from Discovery UK, who was making a video film of our journey. We had nine camels and four remarkable Tuareg companions. I had brought my friends to this remote spot because, of all the many places I have travelled throughout the world, I believe it to be not only the most beautiful but the most fulfilling. By that I mean that one feels closer there to nature, God, the universe, one's own soul, whatever it is we all seek throughout our lives, than anywhere else I know. Of course, a real mystic can find Nirvana anywhere, but I find this bewitching desert a convenient shortcut. Everyone should try it.

What is it about deserts that do this to us? Wilfred Thesiger says in Arabian Sands that 'only in a desert (can) a man find freedom' and he should know. It is the vast bowl of sky overhead, burnished by day, stippled by night; it is the space, emphasised by the wind, punctuated by the silence; it is the solidarity and companionship that come from being utterly dependent on each other in a climate where all is parched and desiccation rules; it is all of these and much more. You have to feel it to understand it.

When asked what is the most important thing to take on an expedition, I always reply: "a local." My advice was never more true than now. The Tuareg, the veiled men of the desert, made us feel safe and welcome. We were in the very heart of Tuareg territory, a place that has been wracked by drought, famine and war and is only now beginning to recover. Our leader was a legendary Tuareg hero, Kelakua, a man who exuded confidence and humour from behind his blue veil. You never see a Tuareg's face. All you see are his twinkling eyes and the top of an aquiline nose. They are a tall, noble people who move with grace and dignity, covering the ground, however rough, with apparently effortless ease. The women, by contrast, do not veil themselves and many are startlingly beautiful; but they do not go on caravans. That is men's work.

The Air camels are the best in Africa, and Kelakua the best mehariste or camel driver. Unlike camels elsewhere, our nine were beautifully behaved. They never spat or bit, seldom complained and then only sotto voce. We each had our own personal riding camel and we became extremely fond of them, giving them pet names, feeding them dates and scratching them behind the ear. Most of the time we walked, leading them gently by the rope attached to one nostril. For hour after hour we would stride across a vast landscape, lost in our own thoughts and stunned into silence by the sheer beauty of our surroundings.

Sometimes, for a few hours, we would ride, nervous of the height and unaccustomed motion, but gradually learning to enjoy it. Proper Tuareg riding saddles are placed in front of the camel's hump and you sit cross-legged with your bare feet resting on the camel's neck. Between your legs is an elegant pommel shaped like a cross, but this is fragile and for decoration only, not for hanging on to. It is quite easy to fall off if your feet slip from the neck. The finest saddles, made from pieces of wood lashed together with raw hide and then covered with coloured leather, come from Agadez. Like all the other accoutrements of Tuareg life they are colourful and stylish.

Behind us came the five baggage camels, loaded down with goatskins of water. We only passed one well in 14 days; the pleasure of drinking our fill and pouring cool water over our bodies easily compensated for the heat and thirst on either side. Pleasure is only real when it follows pain. Life should be a thing of contrasts.

I was anxious to see how the Tuareg were faring. Shortly after my last visits in the mid-1960s, the Sahel drought devastated the southern Sahara. Many Tuareg were forced to leave their traditional lands and abandon their nomadic ways to settle in refugee camps. When, in the 1980s, some rain came and they tried to return, they found the new independent governments unsympathetic to their needs and eventually there was a war. Their problem, like that of the Kurds, is that they are a people scattered across the borders of what are now four countries: Algeria, Mali, Libya and Niger, the country we were in and where their largest population originates.

Peace has only recently arrived and the political situation is still quite tense, but I was encouraged by how robust our hosts were about the future and their determination to restore their economy and way of life. While many Tuareg still languish in camps across the border in Algeria, several of those we saw in Niger now have herds of sheep and goats again and, most important of all, some, like Kelakua, have managed to breed enough camels to undertake proper caravans again.

For a male Tuareg, this is for them the only proper occupation. The women and children tend the flocks and grow vegetables in the gardens which are irrigated from the scattered wells; the men transport salt, dates and other goods between remote oases. The trouble is that today much of such transport is undertaken more quickly and more cheaply by truck. A few enterprising Tuareg have decided to offer their services to foreign travellers who may wish to experience their way of life, one which they believe to be the ultimate - a view which I share. After all, they reason, it doesn't matter what you carry as long as it pays for the journey. We were among their first clients.

Ostensibly, our purpose and excuse for being there was the same as mine had been before: to look at the rock art. Recently some stunning new carvings had been found. Life-sized giraffes etched in deep relief, they are regarded as among the finest examples of such art in the world. In 1999, the World Monuments Fund listed them as among the 100 most endangered historic sites and the Telegraph included a large picture of one of them in an article the day we flew to Niger. They are endangered because, being so remote, anyone could hack bits of them off or deface them, as has happened all too often at more accessible sites.

When, with some difficulty, we reached them, we were delighted to find a Tuareg, Azoum Fuluar, living close by with his family and guarding them fiercely. Around his neck he wore a World Monument medal given to him by David Coulson, the Chairman of the Trust for African Rock Art (TARA), who had identified and photographed them some months previously. We gathered we were the first visitors since then. Now plans are in hand to build a well concealed visitor centre and camp site close by so that they can be both visited and protected more easily.

On the fifth day of our camel journey, it was very hot at midday. The world's highest shade temperature (58C, 135F) was recorded nearby. Achmed, the youngest of the Tuareg, led the way as usual with me hard on his heels. We had started long before daybreak in order to get well up into the dunes before the heat hit. The ground was cool beneath our bare feet and the feel of soft sand between the toes a pleasant echo of childhood.

Having bare feet also made it easier to grip when following a ridge and, since there was not the faintest trace of vegetation anywhere, there was no danger from thorns. Moreover, the Tuareg ride their camels barefoot and, should we decide to mount up, we would not need to waste time taking off desert boots, let alone undergo the inconvenience of constantly shaking out the sand from inside them. Achmed's feet were like cracked rocks, impervious to heat and cuts; ours were soft and, as the heat crept up on us, we began to develop calluses and, more dangerously, blisters. When the sand became too hot for us, it was time to put on sandals, but still we walked on for hour after hour, leading our camels to the top of each dune and then sliding down the other side.

The colours cast by the rising sun had been our first overwhelming reward. A golden light on a crest of sand, a pastel blue sky behind; exactly the hues of Douanier Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy Woman with only the lion missing. And there were lions here not so very long ago. Some of the older Tuareg remember lions in their youth, when mothers warned their children not to stray too far from camp because of them. Although it is one of the remotest and harshest regions on earth, wildlife used to be plentiful - and it could be again. Nearly eight million hectares (20 million acres), an area twice the size of Switzerland, were gazetted as the Air and Tenere Natural Reserve in 1988, when more than 40 species of mammal were identified. Then, in 1992, work stopped and, as a result of civil unrest, the reserve was placed on the List of World Heritage in Danger. Now the war is over and the wildlife recovering, as we saw from the many tracks in the sand each dawn.

Achmed assured me yet again that we were nearly through the sand and would soon reach a wadi. But, as yet another dune loomed up ahead, I suddenly realised that I either had to sit down or fall over. Immediately, Kelakua and Achmed were beside me and within moments had erected a canopy over my head. I felt the blessed relief of shade: several of my contemporaries have succumbed to heart attacks and for a moment I thought it was my turn. A single swallow appeared in the sky above and swooped low over the dune. Kelakua said it was a good sign and meant water was somewhere near. I wondered if it had flown south from England at about the same time as we did.

Soon I felt better and I rode my camel until it was time to camp next to a lone acacia tree in the promised wadi. It is good for one to contemplate one's mortality occasionally, especially in such surroundings, and I slept well that night.

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