South from Barbary: Along the Slave Routes of the Libyan Sahara. Justin Marozzi

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СКАЧАТЬ passed over the centuries, now struggled to equip a tiny party like our own with five camels. Bracing ourselves for a financial showdown, we arranged through Mohammed to have an inspection of the animals the next day.

      ‘We must look as though we know what we’re doing,’ said Ned firmly when we were both back in Othman’s house. He was in serious mode now. Most of the time he was not, so it was sometimes difficult to adjust.

      ‘We haven’t got a clue,’ I replied.

      ‘Yes, but you mustn’t let them see that.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re right, but I can’t see us pulling it off for long,’ I said doubtfully. Somehow I could not see us fooling the assorted officers of the camel club that we were anything but neophytes as far as camels were concerned.

      The next morning, taking another day off from monitoring Ghadames’s untroubled airspace, Mohammed collected us from Othman’s house. We squeezed into the front seat of his pick-up and he tried unsuccessfully to hotwire the ignition. ‘Really, this car is in bad condition,’ he boomed blithely, bustling about beneath the bonnet and tinkering with the engine. This was an understatement. Most of the basic components of a vehicle – such as seats, windows and dashboard – had disappeared long ago and if you looked down between your feet, there was more road than car. It said much both for Peugeot engineering and Ghadamsi mechanics that the car was still, albeit precariously, on the road. After several more attempts, it rattled reluctantly to life and we howled off several kilometres out of town to see the animals, clutching our paper by Michael Asher on how to choose camels.

      ‘Judging a camel’s age and condition takes experience and a novice will need the help of a local,’ it warned,

      However, certain facts can be ascertained by examining the animal closely. First, make the camel kneel and inspect its back and withers. Any open galls or wounds immediately rule it out as a mount: on a long desert trek it can mean death. Let the animal stand again and look for obvious defects like crooked legs, in-growing nails, a hobbling pace, excessive fat on the legs. Check the inside of the front legs where they meet the chest: if you find evidence of rubbing there, the camel will be weak and slow. Generally, look for an animal that is well covered: no ribs showing, a fairly robust hump, bright eyes, well formed long legs and an erect carriage of the head. Finally, have someone saddle and ride the camel: note whether it snaps, bolts or roars at its handler; lead it around and see that it walks freely; make it kneel and stand up several times.

      We thought we could manage that. Abd an Nibbi, who was deputizing for Abu Amama during the latter’s absence in the southern town of Ghat, welcomed us to a makeshift camel enclosure on a patch of wasteland. He looked faintly amused, and at the same time – was it our imagination? – crafty. There were seven Mehari camels inside, of which it took no expertise to see that two were clearly unsuitable for a long journey. They were puny youngsters, half the size of the others. It did not leave much room for choice. We needed five.

      At close quarters, they looked terrifying. Huge hulks of beasts with mighty, towering legs, together they formed a striking picture of grace and power. The first Mehari camel Richardson had seen walking into the medina of Ghadames had had a similar effect on him. ‘It amazed me by its stupendous height. A person of average size might have walked under its belly.’ An Arab philologist suggested to him the word Mehari derived from Mahra, the Arabian province on the south-east coast adjoining Oman, from where the animal was supposed to have originated. ‘This remarkable camel, which is like the greyhound amongst dogs for swiftness and agility, and even shape, they train for war and riding like the horse,’ he wrote. The Touareg warriors of Ghadames sitting astride their Meharis looked ‘splendid and savage’ to him.

      Massive, disdainful and apparently in no mood to be paraded around for our convenience, these Meharis roared terribly, jerked from one side to another and lashed out at the handlers with their legs to show their displeasure. Not a man to be cowed by mere animals, Abd an Nibbi entered the fray. Masterfully he subdued them, throwing a rope around their heads, pulling down their necks and grabbing their nose-rings with supreme assurance. Once he had hold of the nose-rings he tugged at them vigorously until the camels were completely cowed. Within seconds they had been transformed from proud, dangerous-looking beasts into the meekest creatures conceivable. Abd an Nibbi shot us a knowing look, as if to make sure we had witnessed this demonstration of camel skills. I remembered Ned’s advice of the night before and thought ruefully of what amateurs we were. There was no going back now. We had to look convincing. One by one, Abd an Nibbi brought the five camels in front of us.

      I looked across at Ned, who had begun to scribble notes with what I imagined was the practised calm of a professional camelbuyer. He looked every bit the part. It was time to join the act. Together, we walked slowly around each one, trying to look as though it was the most normal thing in the world. We bought camels all the time, of course. We nodded sagely, conferred and shook our heads regretfully (we did not want to look over-eager), checked their legs (all of which to our untrained eyes looked crooked), stared into their eyes, slapped their flanks with what we hoped was the air of connoisseurs, and pondered carefully. Ned continued to take notes throughout the inspection. Mohammed Ali pottered about here and there, pausing occasionally to admire a particular animal. ‘Ohhh, really, these are good camels, Mr Justin. They are in good condition.’

      At this initial viewing, three of the camels appeared particularly impressive. Cream in colour, they exuded a definite aristocratic hauteur and swaggered about with the greatest nonchalance. They paid us little attention beyond a certain sneering look before continuing their perambulations. Another, a barrel-chested brown, did not seem to be on good terms with the whites, but looked a robust mount. A handsome and effeminate beige, slighter than the others but with the demeanour of a lively thoroughbred, completed the party.

      Ned looked up from his notes for a second. ‘Get them to trot,’ he said to me, as though addressing his camel boy. All that training on horseback in the Andes had not been for nothing. He was warming to the task. I looked at the tall beast beside me and wondered how I could get it to do anything, let alone trot. Then I remembered it was essential to show no fear in front of a camel. Grabbing the rope that was attached to its nose-ring, I ran off with the first. Disturbed from an otherwise peaceful afternoon munching hay, the camel appeared to think this was the greatest impudence but within seconds broke into a light trot behind me. At last. I was in control.

      ‘That’s good,’ said Ned, with the same air of authority. ‘Keep going.’

      We took it in turns to take them trotting and got them to kneel down and stand up again repeatedly. Whether we presented a convincing picture to the Ghadamsis around us was a moot point. Judging by his face, Abd an Nibbi was struggling hard not to laugh.

      Undaunted, Ned continued taking notes. I saw them several days later. They went something like this:

      (1) 13 years old. Wound on front left leg. Slightly knock-kneed.

      (2) 12 years old.

      (3) White. Bobbles on nose.

      (4) ‘V’ on neck. Good temperament.

      (5) Brown.

      All were for sale, Abd an Nibbi told us with a confident expression that indicated he knew something we did not. We started discussing prices, at which point he pulled out his own paperwork. It consisted of a letter from Abu Amama saying on no account were the camels to be sold for a dinar less than the figure he had quoted me on my last trip. In other words, they were going for £800 each. We could take it or leave it. There was to be no haggling.

      We returned to Othman’s house to think it over.

      ‘What do you think?’ asked Ned.

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