I could only see his eyes but I knew Muhammad was smiling. The crinkled creases at the corners of his eyes gave him away. He'd just finished telling me the legend behind the origins of the cheche—the six-meter long turban that Muhammad, like the majority of Tuareg men, wore wrapped mummy-style around his head.
The story tells of an Arab raiding party who attacked a Tuareg village where the men had all left to go hunting. Believing they'd struck an easy target, crowing about an easy victory even before they advanced, the Arabs were dumbfounded when the Tuareg women fought back. Unprepared for a full scale battle the Arabs were forced to abandon their raid and flee. Afterwards, licking their wounds, they began to tell a tale about the warrior women of the Tuareg whose men covered their faces in shame at their women's strength.
"If this story is true", Muhammad said. "Who do you think should be ashamed? We Tuareg would have been proud to have such fierce women".
Surrounded by a rippling sea of sand dunes, I breathed in the hot dust whipped up from the 4WD's wheels. Faced with the harsh reality of the Tuareg's homeland it's easy to see the more prosaic reasons why the cheche became part of their traditional costume. My mouth felt like I'd been chewing gravel. My eyes stung from grit. Sweat dripped down my forehead from the congealed mass of my fringe. "Eating dust" is not a catchphrase here. It's the reality of day-to-day existence in Algeria's southern Sahara. The cheche provides one of the most effective tools of escaping the worst of what this environment throws at you.
This is Tuareg territory. In the desert outpost of Djanet, where the sugar cube buildings slouched under the glaring sun, they glided down the dusty main drag with the slow sinuous strides which only those born in hot climates ever master. They wore shiny emperor robes of emerald green, ruby red and Picasso blue, and sat under shop veranda shades drinking endless cups of tea. A proudly independent desert people, the Tuareg once controlled the caravans through the vast depths of the Sahara; trading in ivory, salt and slaves. This profitable business collapsed in the 20th century as the slave trade died out and the advent of the vehicle forged its way into modern life. Still capitalizing on their reputation as gurus of the desert lands, the Tuareg trade in tourism these days.
Riverbed as Road
Muhammad and I were following one of the Tuareg's ancient trading routes, heading for the barren Hoggar Mountain Range. From Djanet we had veered off the bitumen and into the never-never land of sand. In a beat-up jalopy of a four-wheel-drive, festooned with clinking jerry-cans, supply boxes and the mandatory guerba (a traditional water carrier made out of goat-hide), all swinging off the car frame like a survivalist's fantasy Christmas tree, we sped across the Erg Admar's endless yellow waves. In the distance where the land was supposed to meet the sky the horizon blurred into a silvery shimmer. When we stopped the soft soles of my feet were scorched by the griddle-hot ground. Except for our own chatter the only sound was that of the wind swooping over the crests of the dunes, re-sculpting them grain by grain.
Following the trail of an oed (a dried-up river bed), we drove west to a plateau speckled with sparse scrub. Among this pitiful landscape of dirt and dust the tiny Tuareg settlement of Tadent eked out a living as herders and trinket touts. The air was thick with the smell of dung and campfire smoke. A skinny goat, tethered to a tree, bleated out a sad whine as I got out of the car. Village women approached me silently in flowing puffed-sleeved rainbow gowns of lipstick-pink and lime green flowers looking like bright, sparkly peacocks strutting through a tawny beige world. This was the last settlement stop for miles. Afterwards we veered off the oed and began the traverse higher into the Tassili du Hoggar.
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