Grande Fantasia for the Colonel

In Tahoua we stocked up the beer supply – whatever about fuel and water, it would be a disaster to run out over the coming weeks in the desert. This is not so simple, as it is hard to find – although bottles and cans are brewed locally, it is a luxury most people cannot afford. We started in the market, changing money with a clothes seller. Surprisingly, he pulled out two electronic counterfeit detectors from under the piles of cloth. The rate is the same as the bank, but it is quicker and avoids commission. They prefer big notes, sneering at 10s and 20s. 

The lad then hopped in the car and brought us to three different places in search of the beer. We found it at a private house near a rubbish-filled gully, buying a couple of cases of Amsterdam from the lady of the house.

The next 400km to Agadez saw a shift from Sahel to desert again. Where there was water there were people, green crops and animals. But as we drove, the trees thinned to bushes, and villages were fewer. The attractive rounded huts of mud and straw, shaded by old trees, were replaced by squat buildings with flat roofs, cracked walls exposed to sand laden gusts of wind. The road tar is pock-marked by some nasty potholes, and near villages the local boys had made amateur repairs, and made great show of throwing earth as we approached, in hope of a coin or two. 

100km before Agadez there was hardly a tree to be seen and we returned to piste - the road is under construction but no activity was to be seen. Like Timbuktu, the town arrives suddenly - a water tower on the horizon, then the tall mud minaret of the Grande Mosque. The bored police at the checkpoint had a long chat and confirmed that Gaddafy was still in town for the festival of the Prophet’s Birthday. He was in residence in a large white marquee on the approach to town. Not surprisingly, we had trouble finding a room, as the town is teeming with officials, drivers, police and military. 

We finally found a dark room at the Hotel Agriboun, where the ceiling fan did its best to move the hot air. Streams of people and Toyotas were going to the North – a grande fantasia was to take place in honour of the Colonel. Every 100 metres a soldier stood guard. On the outskirts of town there was an amazing sight - thousands of camel-borne Tuareg and Fula lined up in full ceremonial style surrounded a crowd that represented every tribe in the country, also in their best. The camels stand very patiently flank to flank, not bothered by the size of the crowd. A line of tall young Wodaabé men stood in front of the camels, their faces painted. They are famous for the annual Cure Salée festival, where their make-up and dancing are used to attract a bride. I got the impression they had already being waiting for hours, and after a few requests my water was gone.

In front again were clusters of musicians, dancers and singers, all waiting for the two Presidents to arrive. A stage had been built and furnished with two large cream armchairs. As we waited, a tanker watered the sand of the performance area, and the police made an effort at crowd control. This was generally good-natured. A group – especially the Toureg women – would decide they did not like their vantage point, and they would get up en masse and move. As the army rallied and tried to muster them, another part of the crowd would flow around them. The officers would shout at each other and shrug. But as the time got closer, patience wore and some of the police waved clubs and took to shins with branches. Closer to the stage was patrolled by Libyan officials in khaki, and when the dignitaries arrived they were almost invisible behind another layer of security – although sad to say I could not see any of Gaddafy’s legendary team of female bodyguards. The man himself was just about discernible, dressed in blue robes, as he accepted gifts, including a fine white camel. Then the thousands of camelmen paraded past the stage, to the sounds of women singing and ululating. Fireworks finished the event, as the cavalcade departed in a cloud of dust, and later I heard jets taking off.

The nights in Agadez are oppressive, the houses are ovens, and people move outside to sleep. After one night in the hotel we moved to the house of a Frenchman who has kindly offered to allow us to stay, even though he has departed for France to escape the coming hottest months of the year. His cook is looking after us.

Also guests are a Dutch couple, Leon and Claire, with an ancient British Army Land Rover III and a Norwegian, Haakon, with a motorcycle. We will all join forces for the next part of the journey, through Algeria.