The Prophet's Camel Bell Read online

  “He is buying one sheep,” Hersi explained. “He will paying with his own money, sahib.”

  “He mustn’t do that,” Jack protested.

  “He is wanting to do it. This gerenuk business is a heavy matter for Abdi.”

  Abdi came back with the live sheep, its forelegs tied together. He shoved it into the Land-Rover, practically on top of Hersi, and it bleated all the way back to camp. Mohamed came rushing out to greet us.

  “Meat!” he shouted ecstatically.

  He grabbed the sheep and tugged it away. We heard its cries, fainter with distance, and then silence. Precisely fifteen minutes later Mohamed appeared with our dinner, two steaming plates of rice with large slabs of meat at the side.

  “Liver,” he said, smacking his lips, “and some small steak.”

  When he had gone, I looked at my plate and I seemed still to be hearing the revolting sound of that shrill bleating. The interval between life and death, creature and meat, had been indecently slight, from my point of view.

  Evenings in camp were quiet. We sprawled in our canvas and leather-strapped chairs outside the tent, watching the dance of the moths around the lamp. The Somalis talked around the fire, or chanted songs. Sometimes we heard the high-pitched voice of Mohamedyero, ten years old and excited to be here among the men. The night was softly black, the stars white and startling. I felt I had never seen the stars before I saw them here. In cities and towns the electric glare detracted from the sky. Here there was nothing except our few faint lamps and the orange embers of the fire. If we walked past the edge of the camp, the human lights were lost and there was only the blaze of planets beyond ours.

  With the arrival of dusk, the hyenas began to emerge, long shadows sneaking from bush to bush, prowling around the camp in wide circles that would narrow as the night wore on. They were scavengers, not fighters, these giant bastard dogs with massive shoulders and jaws that could have broken a man’s neck in a single snap. They had strength but no heart, as a lion has, or a leopard. They would not venture inside our bushwood fence unless our campfires died untended and all humans slept. The great pale-furred throats gave forth their eerie groan as the wide nostrils caught the scent of the sheep guts with which our steel traps had been baited, just outside the camp. And the Somalis squatting around the fire heard the cry and grinned with anticipation, for they loathed the hyena who killed their sheep and young camels and sometimes even children but who would never stand to face a man with a spear unless thirst had given the beast the courage of madness. When the sudden yelp of pain came, every one rushed out to see the trapped animal and deal it the last blow. Another hyena would trouble the flocks no more. Praise be to Allah, who delivered this evil one into our hands.

  Jack went away from camp every day, looking for the best sites for ballehs, drilling test-holes to determine the nature of the soil. I remained, writing to whoever was left in camp, trying to learn Somali. One day when he returned he had a story to relate. On the Wadda Beris, the Rice Road, he had come upon a mud-and-wattle hut, of the type called by Somalis “coffee shop,” although in fact the only drink sold in such places was tea, usually thickly laced with spices. An old Somali with a ragged white beard had come out to greet him, and would not let him go.

  “Wait, wait – I have something to show you.”

  Jack waited impatiently while the old man rummaged in his hut and finally emerged with a piece of paper, a letter worn with being folded and unfolded, and now almost falling to bits. Jack read it, and was so struck with it that he copied it down. It was dated the 15th of April, 1931.

  “Salaam aleikum, Haji Elmi. I am very glad to hear again from you after so many years. After I left you in Djibouti many years ago, I was for a long time very ill with fever, and after, I went on a long voyage around the world. On my way back I stayed in western Canada and did not return to England again, which is perhaps why I never had your letters. I do not remember quite all about Mohamed Hassan. I remember he stole the double-barrelled 303 rifle which Lord de Clifford told him to bring me in Abyssinia. I think I made a complaint to Captain Cordeaux. I do not see why you should have to pay any money to him. All that we shall talk of when I come (Insh’Allah). Canada is a very fine country and I had good shikar there, principally bears and big antelope. I came back for the war to England and was nearly killed in France, and then I went onto the staff in Palestine. I tried to get back to Somaliland, but could not get leave. I am very glad to hear you have seven sons. I have one – he is now thirteen years old. I wonder if there is still any kudu or oryx left, and any bears at Bijeh. Aleikum salaam –”

  Some feeling of restraint had prevented Jack from copying down the name, so it is lost. So many echoes appeared in this letter. Where in western Canada had he found such good hunting? The Rockies, it must have been. As for Somaliland, there were practically no kudu or oryx left, and if there were any bears at Bijeh, we never heard of them. We wondered what had finally happened to him, and if his son was still in England or had been killed in the last war. We would never know. Here was a man who had belonged to that race of wandering Englishmen who had once roved the world as though it were their own backyards, and who were now tokens of an age that was gone. They were odd men, perhaps, difficult, doomed never to fit in anywhere, but of a uniquely individual calibre. We wondered where such men could go now, with the world so mapped and known.

  The Somalis from nearby encampments often visited our camp. When Jack was away, I tried to speak with them. I made an effort to communicate in Somali, but usually they did not understand what I was attempting to say. Mohamed, beside me, squirmed in embarrassment.

  “I think you let me speak, memsahib.”

  Invariably I gave in, unable to bear their blank looks, Mohamed’s tortured expression, my own sense of verbal inadequacy. A delegation of Habr Awal, one morning, was particularly suspicious. Through Mohamed, we struggled to convey thoughts back and forth.

  “If the officer is here to dig ballehs,” they began, their voices gruff and their faces surly, “why does he not dig them? What is he doing? We see no ballehs.”

  I tried to explain that the sites had to be chosen, and that the machinery for the work had not yet arrived in the country.

  “Why are the Ingrese making ballehs at all,” they asked, “if they do not intend to use the water themselves?”

  I tried to meet fire with fire. They were always saying the government should help them, I remarked, and now that the government was actually embarking on a scheme to provide ballehs, they still complained. Their talk surprised me, I told them blandly. They answered, however, by evading the issue entirely.

  “Why does not the government leave us alone?” they enquired plaintively, and then they added, somewhat paradoxically, that they really wondered why the government did not send out twenty truckloads of water to each Somali camp during the Jilal season.

  With a growing sense of futility, I replied that only the rains could provide enough water for all, and that was in Allah’s hand. The ballehs, however, would hold water at least during part of the dry season, once they were built, but such things took time to build. The Habr Awal men threw up their hands and looked at the sky, and Mohamed refused to translate their comments. But I knew enough Somali now to catch the gist.

  “What does she know of it, the fool? She is insane, like all English. They are shaitans, devils –”

  They went away. But they did not wish me peace. They went in silence, with malevolent eyes. It was not to be wondered at, that I had failed to get across anything to them. My grasp of Somali was too limited, and so was my understanding of the country. And for their part, they were men who deeply resented the British and their families and herds were now dwindling in the drought.

  The rumours about the balleh scheme grew with each passing week. The tensions in the Haud were severe, and it would not have taken much to set the desperate tribesmen at each other’s throats, or ours. Hersi came to Jack one day with a disquieting report.

&
nbsp; “Sahib – one man coming last night to see me. He is my cousin. We are both Musa Arreh, and his camp is not greatly distances this place. He telling me what he is hearing recently times –”

  A group of tribesmen, it seemed, had spent the better part of a night outside the thorn-bough fence of our camp, fondling their smuggled rifles and debating whether they should raid our camp or not. We were saved by only one thing – the Somalis’ inclination towards oratory and argument. In whispers they had discussed the question so heatedly that the day dawned before they had reached a decision.

  “The sun rising,” Hersi said with a sour grin, “so it was too lately times for all their considerations.”

  The next time, they might make up their minds sooner. What attitude could one possibly take towards people who, understandably enough, were liable to turn in their despair against the first person who happened to catch their attention, when that person might be oneself? I was filled with doubts and indecisions. Jack asked himself the same questions, but he had to consider another thing as well. I was here in camp all day, with only Mohamed and several labourers, while he and the others were away surveying.

  “You’d better learn how to use the rifle,” he decided, adding as casually as possible, “not that I think for a minute you’ll need it.”

  Sombrely, followed by Mohamed, Abdi, Hersi and all the rest, we walked out to the edge of camp. Jack loaded the .303 and showed me how to hold it. I had never fired a gun of any description.

  “Hold it close to your shoulder,” Jack said. “Okay. Now fire.”

  Whoom! Stunningly, I found myself sprawled on the ground, the rifle beside me. In the background, the Somalis were quietly guffawing.

  “For pete’s sake,” Jack said, trying to hold back his laughter, “I told you to hold it tightly – why didn’t you.”

  My pride was more damaged than my shoulder. I went back to the tent by myself.

  At last Jack poked his head in through the tent doorway.

  “Maybe it would be safer, at that, for you to rely on your gift of the gab. You’ve got that in common with the Somalis. If there’s any trouble, you can send Arabetto out in the truck to me, and try to keep them talking until I get back.”

  So, in a manner of speaking, the problem was solved. The matter of the rifle was never mentioned again. Either luck was with us or else our fears had been exaggerated, for although we had many more delegations of tribesmen, some of them riled or suspicious, we never saw a suggestion of a rifle nor heard any more rumours about a raid on the camp.

  As for the question posed by the possibility of an attack, that was not answered. I doubt very much if there is an answer.

  ——

  Some report of our vulnerable camp filtered through to the District Commissioner, and we were assigned four Illaloes to accompany us. They were the “bush police,” tribesmen to whom the government gave uniforms and rifles and a certain amount of training. They remained close to their tribes, for their duties were mainly concerned with patrolling the country to keep down fights at the wells, the looting of camels and other forms of inter-tribal bickering.

  Our Illaloes were very enthusiastic. They watched over us like gauche guardian angels in khaki shorts and pugrees. Indeed, at first it was difficult to persuade the Illalo corporal that when I set out across the desert at night in search of a nearby thornbush, I did not welcome an escort.

  Jack left three of the Illaloes in camp each day when he went off surveying. The corporal came to me one afternoon and complained that he had an excruciating ear-ache. The tin box that contained our first-aid kit was my special province. I had selected the medicines and bandages with care and I had the satisfying feeling that we were well-equipped. But I had nothing for ears. The Illalo stood there with a quiet and expectant face. It was obvious that I must do something. But what? I asked Mohamed to bring me a bowl of warm water. The Illalo watched with interest while I added a drop of Dettol. Ceremoniously, I stirred and the water turned milky. I swabbed out his ear and he thanked me profusely. It would not do his ear-ache any good, but at least he might feel that I had tried. If his ear continued to bother him, we could send him to Hargeisa the next time the truck went in for water.

  That evening Hersi came to see me.

  “The Illalo corporal wishing me to telling you, mem-sahib, that the ear medicine is highest qualities. His pain, it is gone, absolutely. He says a thousand thanks.”

  I gaped at him. How could it be? Faith, which could move mountains, could also cure ears, apparently. Surprised and delighted, I pretended to shrug it off.

  I had a regular sick-parade some days. Gashed fingers, thorns to remove from hands and feet. Abdi’s eyes became sore with the constant blown grit and dust, and I bathed them for him with boracic. Courteously, he thanked me.

  “I pray Allah grant you a son, memsahib.”

  I was moved by his gratitude and his prayer, and I felt a growing sense of confidence in my medical skills. I doled out aspirins and “number nines,” the standard Army laxative, usable only by those with bowels of steel, and I bandaged away with a will. What I had not noticed, however, was that nothing serious had yet come my way.

  Then the Somalis from nearby encampments began to come to our camp in the hope of obtaining medicines. The gashes were deeper now, the thorn-slivers infected. Once it was a woman who had been bitten on the arm by a camel. The teeth had gone in on either side, and the festering arm looked as though it had been punctured right through. Camel bites frequently caused blood poisoning – this much I knew. I told the tribemen with her that they should take her to the doctor in Hargeisa.

  They could not possibly do that, they replied. They had a small camp, and if two of them went in to Hargeisa with her, there would not be enough men left to care for the sheep and camels. So I bandaged her arm, uselessly. She thanked me, and I felt sick.

  A Somali herdsman came to our camp one evening. His emaciated body, every bone showing through the dried and flaking skin, trembled as though with chill. He crawled like a shot deer under a thorn tree and lay there, breath fluttering only faintly in him. I stood aside, for I did not have any idea what to do. Hersi and Mohamed and the labourers knew, however. They did not give him anything to drink right away. First they bathed him with water, and then they gave him a very little water in a cup, refusing to let him drink more until later. If they had allowed him all he wanted, he would have been twisted with cramps and would probably have died. When he had recovered sufficiently, we heard his story. He had been down at Awareh and had been travelling back alone with his camels. Thirst had almost killed him, and he had managed to survive only by the appalling process of killing one of his camels every eight days and sucking the moisture of the beast’s guts.

  What had I known of life here at all? I recalled the faith-healing of the Illalo’s ear, and the simple boracic treatment of Abdi’s eyes. It seemed to me that I had been like a child, playing doctor with candy pills, not knowing – not really knowing – that the people I was treating were not dolls. Had I wanted to help them for their sake or my own? Had I needed their gratitude so much?

  For a while, after that day, I could not stand to look at my toy potions and powders. I shoved the tin box under a camp cot. I would have no more to do with it. Then I saw that this way, too, was an exaggeration. Would I do nothing simply because I could not do everything? The searching sun of the Jilal exposed not only the land but the heart as well.

  Practical considerations forced me to dig out the inadequate tin box once more. Mohamedyero had sliced his finger with a butcher knife and was yowling as though he had just had a limb lopped off. I bandaged the small wound, thinking that all a person could do was what they could, but at least in the knowledge that it was only slightly more than nothing.

  “Some she come to see you,” Mohamed announced.

  They stood hesitantly at the edge of the camp, several women from the bush and desert, clad in their drab brown and black rags, their faces unveiled, for purdah
was never worn by those who spent their lives leading the burden camels.

  Among Somalis, only the women knew how to set up the portable huts, how to place the frames of bent roots in the earth and cover them with the woven grassmats. When the tribe set up camp, the women had to assemble the huts before they could rest. This division of labour was not as unfair as it sounded. The men protected the tribe with their spears, and led the herds to new grazing grounds, often going ahead to find the way. Men had to reserve their strength for their own demanding work. But the women’s lives were harsh, and after marriage they changed from girls to lean and leather-skinned matrons in the space of a few years.

  The women approached, eyed me penetratingly, whispered between themselves, and finally asked. Could I give them anything to relieve their menstrual pain?

  Somali girls underwent some operation at puberty, the exact nature of which I had been unable to determine, partly because in our early days here every Somali to whom I put this question gave me a different answer, and partly because I no longer questioned people in this glib fashion. The operation was either a removal of the clitoris, or a partial sewing together of the labia, or perhaps both. But whatever was done, apparently a great many women had considerable pain with menstruation and intercourse, and the birth of their children was frequently complicated by infection. In the opinion of an educated Somali friend of ours, this operation was one custom which would take a very long time to die, for the old women would never agree to its being abandoned, he believed, even if the men would.

  I did not know what to say to these women. They were explaining, almost apologetically, their reasons for asking. Walking with the burden camels, at such times, especially during the Jilal season – it was not easy to keep going.