“I know about this,” I interrupted Hamed. “I saw it with my own eyes in the Ogaden.” We were driving around the desert in trucks, trying to find dying nomads and take them to the camp in Godē. I was shocked that whenever we found dying Somalis and their camels, they refused to be parted from the animals, even though certain death awaited them. I was accompanying a group of young volunteers from the humanitarian organization Save. They would have to forcibly tear a shepherd away from his camel — one skeleton from another — the man cursing at them all the way to camp. But he never remained there for long. These people received three liters of water daily, for everything: drinking, cooking, washing. And daily rations of a half kilogram of corn. Plus, once a week, a small sack of sugar and a piece of soap. The Somalis knew how to set even some of this aside, selling the corn and sugar to dealers hanging around the camp, putting away the money to buy a new camel, and running off into the desert again.
They were unable to live any other way.
Hamed is not surprised at this. “That is our nature,” he says, without resignation, with a touch of pride even. Nature is something one cannot oppose, attempt to improve, or free oneself from. Nature is decreed by God, and is therefore perfect. Droughts, heat waves, empty wells, and death on the road also partake of that perfection. Without them, man would be unable later to appreciate the true delight of rain, the heavenly taste of water, and the life-giving sweetness of milk. A beast would not be able to rejoice in the succulent grass, or relish the smell of a meadow. Man would not know what it is to stand in a stream of cold, crystal-clear water. It would not even occur to him that this is simply to be in heaven.
It is three o’clock, the heat is beginning to subside. Hamed raises himself, wipes the sweat from his face, straightens his turban. He will go take part in a meeting of all adult men, called a shir. The Somalis have no hierarchical structure of governance. All decisions are made during this meeting, at which everyone can speak. The first order of business: listening to reports from children’s reconnaissance missions. The children do not rest. Since morning they have been ferreting about, investigating the surrounding area: Is there a large and hostile clan nearby? Where might there be the closest well to which we have a chance of getting first? Can we continue on our way, confident that nothing threatens us? All these matters will be discussed in turn. The shir is all bustle, quarrels, shouts, confusion. Finally, however, the most important decision will be made: how should we proceed. Then, we will take our places in the order established centuries ago, and we will be on our way.
A Day in the Village of Abdallah Wallo
It is the girls who rise first in the village of Abdallah Wallo and go for water even before the sun is up. This is a fortunate village: water is nearby. All one has to do is climb a steep, sandy bank down to the river. The river is called the Senegal. On its northern shore lies Mauritania, and on its southern the country with the same name as the river — Senegal. We are where the Sahara ends; ahead of us lies the barren, semi-arid, hot savannah known as the Sahel, which, several hundred kilometers farther south, toward the equator, will in turn give way to the humid, malarial regions of tropical forest.
After reaching the river, the girls fill tall, metal tubs and plastic canisters with water, help one another place them on their heads, and, chatting, climb the steep incline back to the village. The sun rises, and its rays catch the water in the containers. The water trembles, sways, and glitters like quicksilver.
The girls disperse to their houses, their yards. From the earliest morning, from the onset of this expedition to the river, they are carefully and neatly dressed, always the same way: in a wide, loose dress of flowered calico, ankle-length and concealing the entire body. This is a Muslim village — nothing in a woman’s attire should suggest that she might wish to tempt a man.
The sounds of pots being set down and the splash of water are like the tolling of the bell in a small country church: they bring everyone to life. From the mud huts — there are only mud huts here — children tumble out. There are throngs of them, as if the village were a giant kindergarten. As soon as they step over the thresholds, the little ones start to pee, instinctively, in no particular place, to the left, to the right, some carefree and joyful, others still a bit sleepy and sulky. They finish, then rush to the buckets and canisters for a drink. Girls — and only the girls — seize the opportunity to wash their faces. It doesn’t occur to the boys. The children now turn their attention to breakfast. Or, rather, that’s just how I think of it; the concept of breakfast does not exist here. If a child has something to eat, he eats it. It can be a piece of bread or a biscuit, a chunk of cassava or banana. He never eats this by himself, for the children share everything; usually, the oldest girl in the group makes certain that everyone receives an equal portion, even if it’s only a crumb. The rest of the day will be a continuous search for food. These children are always hungry. They instantly swallow anything that is given them, and immediately start looking for the next morsel.
Mornings in Abdallah Wallo are not accompanied by the barking of dogs or the clucking of hens or the lowing of cows. There is not a single animal in the village, not one creature that one could describe as being livestock — cattle, domestic birds, goats, or pigs. As a result, there are no barns, stables, pigpens, or henhouses.
There is also no vegetation in Abdallah Wallo, no greenery, flowers, or shrubs, no gardens or orchards. Man lives here one-on-one with the bare earth, loose sand, and crumbling clay. He is the only living creature in the hot, blazing emptiness, and is wholly preoccupied with survival, with the effort to remain above ground. There is man, and there is water. Here, water takes the place of everything else. Because there are no animals, it nourishes and sustains; because there is no shade-producing vegetation, it cools; its splashing is like the rustle of leaves, the murmur of shrubs and trees.
I am the guest of Thiam and his brother, Yamar. They work in Dakar, where we met. What do they do? Different things. Half the people in African towns don’t have defined occupations, permanent jobs. They sell this and that, work as porters, guard something. They’re everywhere, always at one’s disposal, ready to serve, for hire. They perform their task, take their wages, and vanish without a trace. Or they can stay with you for years. That depends on you, on your money. They tell rich tales about what they have done in life. And what is it that they have done? Thousands of things — everything, really! They stay in the city because it is easier to live there, and one can earn something now and then. If they manage to make a few pennies, they purchase a few presents and travel home, back to the countryside, to their wife, children, cousins.