constanttrek

Encino Man

March 3rd, 2007

Meet Esman. 

I have christened him Encino Man – don’t know if you ever saw the Pauly Shore movie, but believe me, Esman makes the cave man of that film look like a sophisticate from Paris.  He is smiling in this picture; good thing I had the camera to hand, as I think it was the only time he cracked a grin in the duration of our time together. Oh Lord.  Just when I thought I was  due for a quiet, easy stretch… 

I learn lessons every step of the way on this walk, and one I should have learned long ago, is NEVER to agree to a guide until I have thoroughly grilled them, in person.  I can make all the excuses I want, but the bottom line is I was so tired and over it when I got to Tomboctou that I was all to ready to denote the guide responsibility to Ali, who had been assuring me for kilometers that his relative was a brilliant worker and would love to walk with me to Menaka.  Ali himself had been so wonderful that I had relaxed, and forgotten how traumatic a bad guide can be. 

When I met Esman I wasn’t overly impressed; but then I am used to nomads who are a bit reticent at the beginning, and I was tired and not entirely confident in my own intuition.  I am learning, all the time, that I must always, always trust that intuition; it hasn’t been wrong yet.  But I didn’t, I agreed to walk with him, and settled in for a little holiday in Tomboctou whilst I waited for the new laptop to turn up (note to concerned parties: get ready to laugh; it turned up, but the screen has been damaged, so I am, STILL, minus a computer.  I just find it amusing these days, particularly after delaying departure for nearly a week to wait on it).  

 Admittedly the break did me the world of good, not to mention the sheer bliss of running into three lovely English lasses who not only shared a few heavenly beverages with me, but also donated lashings of lotions and potions to restore mind and spirit.  It felt great to just relax and be a tourist for a few days, and to talk about the trip so far in my own language, and to WOMEN.  A true treat. 

I don’t know if I would have been quite so relaxed had I realized that despite direct orders to the contrary from me, my camels were feeding on Sabay rather than the rich grasses and trees they need to put on weight – lesson two:  ALWAYS, ALWAYS walk with the camels to the place they are eating to be sure they are on good feed rather than the moisture rich but nourishment poor stuff.  Again, trusting Ali, who assured me they were in the hands of a good nomad.  Again, this comes down to me not taking responsibility; I can be as pissed off as I like, but I should have gone myself. 

Like I said, I learn all the time. 

So it was that when my camels turned up on the day we were due to leave, I looked at them in mild astonishment – they had been on holiday for over a week, but looked even skinnier than when we arrived.  I pushed down a rising sense of dread and went through the usual carnival of first day packing up, in town, outside Esman’s house, surrounded by the customary gaggle of gawking kids and nomads.  The above mentioned English girls were kind enough to come to see me off, and managed to get some pictures of me frowning at the usual process of demonstrating how I pack the camels:  “NO!  not like that, like this…”, and of me walking out of Tomboctou, still in tourist clothes. 

And then I was out there, once more, alone with Encino Man.

 It took all of half a day before it began to dawn on me (no-one ever accused me of being quick) that Encino Man was a catastrophic choice of guide.  I can’t quite remember what it was that tipped me off; perhaps it was the first time he shook his cup in my face, and then in the direction of the water bottle, and said, “dilly hoon!  DILLY HOON!” (put it here!) – when the water bottle was right next to him. 

Perhaps it was when we stopped after walking thirty kilometers and he ordered me to make him a meal right now, because he was "HUNGRY!"  He’s a "MAN!"  He needs to "EAT!" – and then insisted on the customary evening meal as well, only to then barely touch it, because he was uncomfortably full after eating my less than satisfactory lunch offering (no matter WHAT I cooked, it was a failure and infinitely below standard). 

Then again, it could have been the half an hour of prayer in the morning (versus the customary five-ten minute version) accompanied by much  muttered incantation and stepping over of fires, kissing of fingers and blessing of every piece of equipment, whilst I sat with the teapot and tried to serve tea, which was in turn too hot/cold/weak/strong or just, simply, plain wrong; the only time he interrupted his incessant praying was to yell at me to do the tea differently, or pour him a glass, or to tell me angrily “NOT NOW”, because he was PRAYING, as any fool could see.  After we got through this particular joyful ritual I would attempt my normal cheery  “Good morning, how are you, sleep well?” routine.  Bad move;  inevitably, he was exhausted, sick, in pain, doing it tough putting up with me, but – never fear – he would battle on. 

All of this was, daily, from long before the predawn, interspersed with ferocious, seriously dedicated, hawking, snotting, gargling and spitting; this guy had enough internal fluid to arrest the increasing desertification of the Sahara.  As he snorted each nostril into the sand, spat right past my face, and shook his cup angrily at me as he criticized the nuts and biscuits I put out for breakfast, I would just sit there and hope to God that today was the day things got better – and, even more importantly, that today would be the day we would find decent feed for the camels. 

Because apart from Encino Man being the most revolting, miserable, ignorant creature I have ever had the misfortune to pass time with, what was really, seriously getting me down was the state the camels were in – and the fact that there was just no feed to be seen.  Every day, Encino and I would argue over where to stop; if he spotted just the slightest bit of grass lying about, he would be anxious to down baggage.  I was looking for the Talhay trees, the rich thorny trees the camels thrive on – even though one or two is no good, find a small grove, and the camels will eat happily and not move all night.  On sparse grasses they tend to wander far and wide in search of something better.  But arguing such matters with Encino Man was totally futile, as of course I am not only a tourist but a woman to boot, there solely to fill his cup, cook his dinner, sympathise with his injuries and bow to his infinitely superior wisdom.  Obviously I am not great at accepting such limitations, and the decision over where to stop turned into a major trauma daily. On the whole he would win – if for no other reason than that the camels were by this time so utterly exhausted they would go down the second we stopped walking, and I just didn’t have the heart to kick them up again.  On the couple of times I really insisted we keep going, we did find reasonable feed, but, oh, did I pay for it, in grumbles and sulks and grim looks.  But more often than not the camels were left foraging for pathetic grass, they would hike miles in the night, and then Esman would spend two hours in the morning attempting to find them – which meant he had something else to complain about. Simply put, I was desperate to get rid of this guy. 

But it wasn’t just me.  My camels – and I am going to shamelessly confess that I have turned into a serious fan of “my boys”, as I now think of them, and love them to bits – did not take to Esman.  The most tranquil camels on earth, they have suddenly taken to kicking and biting – but, funnily enough, never me, only Esman.  I have tried to explain that if you kick, hit, yell at, and abuse an animal, it is rather likely that animal will in turn take a dislike to you; but, hey, as I already mentioned, what would I know? 

So we stumbled along, and the camels got thinner, and I became more and more dispirited, from being yelled at, constantly told I was doing things wrong, and ordered, without any remote attempt at diplomacy, to wait on the idiot hand and foot.  You might wonder why I complied; my answer is that I stuck my neck out about the things that really matter – like the camels, and water; and I drew a few lines, such as refusing to cook two meals a day.  But mainly, for the sake of diplomacy, I held my tongue, put my head down, did as I was told, and plotted how to get rid of him. 

Several days ago we came across a brilliant stretch of feed, grasses and trees everywhere: perfect.  I was close to despair at this point, as the camels were skeletal, too tired to even try to eat at the end of each day.  I had been wondering if they would even make it to Gao.  Esman was busy telling me that I have walked them too far, that I don’t understand what I am doing, that they are overtired….blah blah blah; but I knew that my camels were fine, they just need to EAT. So I downed baggage and said that we were staying put for as long as it took for the camels to put some weight back on. Suddenly he was all smiles and cooperation, realizing he was about to get paid to sit on his butt for several days, and he charged off to chop wood (despite there being a plethora lying about on the ground – Esman likes to make a big noise, and let you KNOW he is working).  I watched him go and thought:  it’s bad enough walking with him – how the hell can I sit around with him for a week? 

Then the nomads from the neighbouring tents began to show up, as they do; ever so diplomatic, they only come in twos and threes, so I am not overly inundated with everyone begging at once.  But, inevitably, they arrive punctually at meal times, so I began to cook for six rather than two.  After giving away the usual store of clothes, medicine, biscuits, flour, sugar, tea, dates, etc etc (read: anything that is spotted is asked for) I decided that if I was going to sit around, I may as well use the time to find a new guide, and get rid of Cave Dweller before I – quite seriously – killed him (very glad I gave the gun to Ali as a present; I rather think it may have been misused by now, otherwise). 

I found out there was a village about ten kilometers away, from where a truck traveled to Gao every few days.  I packed up, told Encino Man his job was to stay with the camels and don’t move (even he can understand that) and got the hell out of there, and ready for yet another African transport adventure. And it was. 

This is the truck. This is the truck BEFORE the bulk of the luggage was loaded on, and – before forty odd adults, assorted babies and toddlers, two donkeys, a couple of goats, and one stinking Australian tourist, all climbed in.   My camels are only 100 or so km from Gao.  It took ten HOURS for the truck to make the distance, and a cold, sardine-like experience it was.  Luckily for me, I seriously love babies; I had two on my lap and another one throwing up down my back for the duration of the journey.  But I never cease to marvel at the African capacity for patience, acceptance and humour, and despite flat tyres, not enough room to shift one toe, and the usual freezing night, I met with nothing but smiles, laughter, and good spirits.  No matter how many times I take transport from one place to another I am reminded, every time, of how truly wonderful is the African capacity for joy in the face of adversity, and feel buoyed and joyful by the happiness and kindness I meet. 

So I trundled into Gao in the early hours of the morning, fell into the nearest cheap camping joint, and set about, the following morning, finding a replacement for Encino Man. And it has been remarkably easy. The blokes who run the camping listened to the story, called all those in town who matter, and between them got very determined to find me a guide extraordinaire. 

In less than a day I had found him, a wonderfully calm, smiling, laidback guy who has family in Menaka, has walked the route a thousand times with camels, was thrilled to have some paid work, didn’t argue about the price, and promptly began organizing a vehicle to get us back at a cheap price so we can avoid a repeat of the truck experience.  The sheer bliss of actually being able to communicate with my guide – of being able to have a conversation that does not involve being yelled at, told I am stupid, or misunderstood, is indescribable.  Mohammed (yet another Mohammed) will return with me to the camp, where we will relieve Esman of the onerous task of walking with me, and send him on his spitting, snorting, praying way. 

Esman isn’t a bad person; he is just old, not a natural communicator, and accustomed to having women wait on his every need.  It simply doesn’t occur to him to fill a water bottle, or wash a plate, or help in any way; nor does it seem strange or rude to him to yell orders at me – it is simply the way things are done.  I am, in many ways, used to this from all my guides to some degree – but there are ways and ways of doing things, and Esman is one of the dumber, harsher specimens I have met, and I have little sympathy nor interest in empathizing with someone who deliberately makes life difficult for himself. 

I had to laugh – I cooked porridge the first morning we were stopped, as a bit of a change for breakfast.  He took one look at it (oats and water – not difficult) and declared he didn’t know what it was and thus wouldn’t eat it.  This, from someone who had ordered me to cook him roasted goat’s intestines, on a camel dung fire, the night before.  Later that day, he ordered me to open him a tin of pineapple, which he has eaten with me every day.  He has also watched me open the tin with a knife, every day.  Feeling less than convivial, I wordlessly passed the tin and knife to him – something a woman here would never do, but I was somewhat unamused at this point.  He made one weak attempt to poke at the tin with the knife and then looked at me in helpless anger and said, “but I don’t know how to do this.” 

I looked at him and I thought:  mate, every single day that I am here, I come across things I don’t know, have never seen or learned, don’t understand, and find strange and often difficult.  And not only am I expected to take them in my stride, I am expected to learn them straight off, and understand them immediately – like how to plait and roast goats intestines on a camel dung fire!   And there he is, confounded, bewildered and angry, because he doesn’t know how to open a tin – despite watching me do it for ten days straight. 

 And I thought – you total idiot.  I don’t need you here, I don’t want you disturbing my head space, and I want you away from my camels. And so I am here, in Gao, and in two days I will be back in my camp with a new guide, and on my way again.  I am a bit behind schedule; but I can’t make the camels walk on air, and until they are fit, it is pointless trying to go anywhere.  I get frustrated and despondent over delays, but every time, I have to remember that they are just part of it, and that as long as I hang in there, I will get there eventually – just a bit later than I hoped for.

 And hey – in the meantime, I get to enjoy the lovely souk here, pull my camera out, chat to other tourists, and eat delicious fish – and those are all things that, after Esman, soothe my head, heart and soul.  The walking, also, is immensely easier; if it hadn’t been for the guide from hell, I would have been in seventh heaven, as it is plateau the whole way and, blissfully, PRICKLE FREE.  Every now and then I catch a glimpse of the huge Niger river winding about, surrounded by dunes, and everything around me is more vibrant, colourful, and somehow joyful than in Mauritania.  The nomads might be poorer, and just as desperate for presents as anyone else I have come across, but they are also happier somehow than those who pulled at my clothes and frowned at me in Mauritania; here the women sit down and smile and laugh with me, slapping my hands in good humour like they did in Morocco.  I feel much more relaxed, and nobody could care less if I wear melekhva or not – I like that, too. I have had some language dramas; the Arabic dialect is a bit different to what I am used to, and many of the nomads speak Tamashek instead.  Then there are the multitude of African languages, which I haven’t even begun to learn.  But the great news is that my new guide speaks all of them, and French too; and he’s such a pleasant soul, we have no trouble communicating whatsoever.   It is amazing the difference it makes to my mental state to know that I am heading back out there with someone I actually like – it is difficult to describe the mind numbing misery of being stuck in the desert with someone who is a nightmare to be around. 

Ah, this walk just keeps on delivering those lessons; lets just hope I start learning from them! 

Hoping to get the laptop fixed here – if so, you will hear from me, and if not, it will be a while between posts. 

To my darling mate Jodie and her fiancé Andy – congratulations to you both, and Jodes, I don’t care WHERE you get married, but don’t you dare do it without me! 

To all the friends and family who email me and put up with the strangulated phone calls at ungodly hours, thankyou so much for listening and supporting me in this walk, as you have all the way through.

 And to BBC, the English  girls, thanks guys – I was really lucky to find such gorgeous chicks to rave away too.  You are wonderful. 

And I’m off, to give Encino Man his marching orders;  And, oh how SWEET that is going to be.  

 

 

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