Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Behind us had been proof that the Sahara Desert was once the bottom of an ocean. Now,
all around us, was proof that it was once a vast, lush savannah, home to primitive man
and big game. In the last few days, we seemed to have tramped from one aeon to the next,
covering not only a hundred miles but a million years. We had watched the sea recede, the
forests flourish, primitive man living in hunter-gatherer tribes, then civilisations - like the
Ancient Nubians - rising and falling. All of it leaving its mark on the land.
'It's even more than that,' said Moez. 'Think about it, Lev. It's simple. All this - what
would we call it, climate change? - is how civilisation started.'
'What do you mean?'
'Imagine when there were forests here, and savannah, and all these hunter tribes lived
independently, foraging the land, just living for the day. Then imagine how the forests start
to wither and the savannah dries up and, five thousand years ago, all of this turns into
desert. The game dies away, or migrates, and the only place left for those tribesmen to go
is to the big river they all know, the one that goes north. The Nile valley was the only place
left with water, or any greenery at all . . .'
I began to understand what Moez was saying. 'So, suddenly, all those disparate tribes
have to live in the same thin strip of land. They have to start relying on the same resources,
coming into contact with each other daily. They have to start living in
communities
.'
'And stop fighting,' said Moez. 'And, after they've hunted all the big animals into local
extinction, they have to start farming, too. Farming
together
. Which means the first vil-
lages grow up, and then the first towns and, eventually, cities themselves. That, Lev, is
how Ancient Egypt was born - and it was the same down here, for the Nubians like me.'
For the longest time, we stayed staring at the etchings on the rock, before making the
trudge back to the river. Where the sandstone cliffs tumbled into the water, Awad and
Ahmad were waiting. Rolling their eyes at what they thought our indulgent foray into the
desert, they reined the camels around and, again, we set off along the river.
'Mr Lev . . .' said Ahmad, with the air of a pirate, as we sat down to our lunch of fried
goat's liver and refried beans. We were on the outskirts of a village called Sorry, named
because the English governor who had once ruled here had barely understood Arabic - so,
when passing travellers asked him for directions, it was all he could say. 'We would like to
renegotiate our contract.'
My eyes flitted between Ahmad and Moez, who was doing his usual best at keeping a
straight face while he translated this wily Bedouin's words.
'You see,' Ahmad went on, 'we are quite tired of riding now. We would like to go
home.'
'Home?' I said. 'But there are more than four hundred kilometres until we reach Lake
Nasser . . .'
