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

asked him if he knew anyone else in Ghadames who might agree to come with us.

      ‘Really, I don’t know, Mr Justin, because you are the first to do this,’ he replied sombrely. ‘Oh my God, you like camels too much. Other people go by car. But I am also wanting you to go by camel now. Maybe tomorrow we will find good guide for you, inshallah (God willing).’ From the tone of his voice, it was clear he thought our chances of success extremely limited. And then, in a gesture that took both Ned and me by surprise, he suddenly raised his hands to the heavens in the most theatrical supplication to the Almighty. ‘Please God, help us so they can do the journey without a car!’ he implored. Would He listen?

      The next day, Ibrahim confessed he no longer held out great hopes of finding another guide prepared to travel from Ghadames to Idri by camel. He had lost the urge, never very great in the first place, to look for one. Mohammed Ali, a more enterprising character altogether, said he would talk to some of the people from the Mehari Club. Buying camels in one of the ancient centres of the caravan trade had been difficult but manageable. We now wondered whether finding a guide prepared to exchange the comforts of travel by Toyota Landcruiser for the hardships of a camel trek would prove too much in late-twentieth-century Ghadames.

      While we waited to hear the results of Mohammed’s efforts, we visited the museum, a very basic series of rooms in the old fort containing traditional Ghadamsi costumes, utensils, folkloric medicines, a Touareg tent and the usual Gaddafi propaganda. In one room lay a few stones with barely legible Roman inscriptions. In another was a rope above a sign saying ‘It used for climbing tree’ and a photograph of a man delicately balanced with a rope tied around his waist and the date palm, resting his feet on the trunk. Mohammed Ali’s uncle had fallen to his death several years ago while collecting dates from a tree. The museum did not do justice to Ghadames’ past, but after those of Tripoli, Leptis and Sabratha there was something to be said for brevity. A tour took about ten minutes.

      Outside Ibrahim’s office, an elderly Land Rover with two gerbas (waterskins) attached to the wings had arrived. Two languid Frenchmen came to say hello. They were looking for another vehicle with which to make a convoy down to Ghat. We said we could not help, but there seemed to be a fair amount of tourist traffic heading that way if they waited around. Moments later, a monstrous Mercedes Unimog desert vehicle pulled in. Emblazoned on the sides in lurid colours was a romanticized desert scene and the hideous caption ETHNOGRAPHISCHE EXPEDITIONEN. Its German occupants spilled out. They too were en route to Ghat. ‘Ja, ve make documentary about ze Touareg und little bit about ze Sahara,’ they told us. Ned and I retired to one side. The Frenchmen, whose faces had fallen when they saw this brute of a vehicle arrive, approached the Germans reluctantly. It was obvious they would rather not have gone with them but had no alternative. We British sat apart from the Continental throng. ‘A microcosm of Europe,’ said Ned.

      Mohammed reappeared later that afternoon in a state of excitement. ‘Now really we are in good condition!’ he bellowed. ‘I have found someone who will go with you. His name is Abd al Wahab and he is very good guide.’ He had spent several hours talking to the Touareg of the Mehari Club. ‘Now you can go without car, inshallah. Believe me, this will be good for you. I know you are liking the camels!’ He would bring the man to see us in the evening.

      Ruminating over this apparent change in our fortunes, we were interrupted by the unannounced arrival of Taher Ibrahim, an oleaginous Ghadamsi travel agent I had bumped into on my last visit. He spoke fluent English with a Cockney accent, unexpected in someone whose contact with England had been limited to two years in Colchester.

      ‘You speak excellent English,’ said Ned.

      ‘Yes, I know, best in Ghadames,’ he replied smugly. He started prying. How much were we paying for the camels? How much was the guide going to cost? Where were we going? How long would we be in Ghadames? To the last we replied shortly: ‘As long as it takes.’ This expression reminded him of an encounter with a prostitute on London’s Gloucester Road. Captivated – as he seemed to think we were too – by the recollections of his sexual triumph, he launched into an account of the episode.

      ‘I asked her how much. She said £20 or something like that. How long do I get with you, I asked? As long as it takes, she said.’ He burst into laughter.

      We met Abd al Wahab for the first time that evening. A handsome Touareg possessed of the silent gravitas of the desert nomad, he had a dignified bearing, benevolent eyes that peered out from his clean white tagilmus (the veil worn by all Touareg men), and a large slug of a moustache that crawled greedily across his upper lip and would have reached the bottom of his sideburns if he had worn any. He was smartly dressed in a black woollen burnous and his manner was calm and retiring, a welcome contrast to the aggressive hectoring tone of Mohammed Ramadan. When he spoke – and he did so rarely – it was in a soft assured voice. We discussed the journey and his terms for accompanying us around a dinner table on a dais in Othman’s house. I repeated to Abd al Wahab what Mohammed Ramadan had told us about the great dangers of the route. He shook his head.

      ‘It is not so dangerous,’ he replied quietly. We would reach our first well after three days, the second after another three and thereafter they would appear regularly, so we need not be concerned about water for the camels. ‘Also, it is winter now, and the camels can go longer than that without water,’ he went on. ‘Of course, we do not need to take a car.’ Everything about him inspired confidence.

      This was our man. We shook hands with him, delighted at having overcome our first serious difficulty, and arranged to go the next day but one. Leaving, he did not look where he was going, stepped down from the dais onto a bed below and was promptly trampolined into the air, before returning to the floor in a confused heap of white cotton and black wool. He laughed at himself good-humouredly, if somewhat sheepishly, and excused himself. He looked as though he would be far happier in the desert than surrounded by these trappings of modern civilization.

      The next morning was a flurry of shopping. We descended on the town’s market to buy ten- and twenty-litre plastic water bidouns, cooking pots, buckets, a tarpaulin and blankets to cover the riding saddles that we were buying from the club. Neither of us had ever provisioned for a journey of two weeks, so it was a hit-and-miss affair. Mohammed Ali totted up our bill while we both raided the shop shelves. We thought it best to err on the side of generosity, and tin after tin of tuna fish duly flew into cardboard boxes, joining a plethora of pasta, tomato puree, tea, coffee, sugar, bread, biscuits, tinned fruit, olive oil, garlic, onions and oranges. These complemented our scanty supplies from England. I had brought packet soups, packet sauces and a pot of Marmite. Ned, more of a minimalist, had half a dozen bottles of Encona West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce to enliven the pasta. Having heard that arguments with guides over food were notorious in the desert, we took pains to ensure Abd al Wahab liked everything we were buying. Ned picked up a tin of beans. Here was a chance to practise the Arabic he had been learning on his Linguaphone course.

      ‘Are you a fasulya bean?’ he asked him, in flawless classical Arabic.

      Abd al Wahab smiled and nodded.

      The last things we needed from the market were some suitable clothes for the desert. I suggested to Ned we buy a couple of cotton jalabiyas, the free-flowing garment worn throughout the Arab world, as well as a shish, a five-metre length of cotton to protect our heads from the desert sun. As Michael Asher had written,

      it seems to me that the West has devised no better dress for travelling than that worn by desert people. The long, loose-fitting shirt allows a layer of cool insulating air to circulate beneath it. The baggy trousers or loin-cloths worn by most desert tribes are extremely comfortable for riding. The turban or headcloth, with its many layers not only keeps the head cool but can also be used in a number of other ways, including veiling the face in a sand storm.

      Ned, resolutely English, was initially unconvinced and took some persuading of the advantages of going native. While he hesitated I bought the last large cotton jalabiya in the shop. All that was left in his size was one in diarrhoea-coloured polyester.

      Hearing of our imminent departure, Othman had kindly arranged an interview for us with his