To nowhere and back – Chad (part 3)

In the final part of his trip to the Tibesti mountains of Chad, GRAHAME McLEODand his fellow travellers make their way out of the Tibesti back to N’Djamena. On the way, they regularly fill up from the many mobile gas stations that ply the piste.

After our stop at Trou Au Natron (Natron Hole) where we marvelled at this massive caldera (a volcanic crater created by violent eruptions), we continued to inch our way along the rocky piste across lava plains at a snail’s pace.

At one point, our trusty guide, Pierot, pointed out the furrow-like features on the smooth rock surface which had been produced by the movement of thousands of camels as they followed one of the trans-Sahara caravan routes from Libya. I couldn’t help but wonder why a camel train would cross the inhospitable Tibesti where we had not seen any surface water. But the key to survival here was, and still is, to dig holes in the many riverbeds where water occurs at a shallow depth.

An isolated outpost

After some hours, we left the Tibesti behind and finally descended into Zouar, a small, forlorn, sad-looking ramshackle settlement with dwellings and small pokey shops consisting of little more than walls of upright acacia branches and roofs of matting topped with empty cardboard boxes. Most of the stalls opened onto the street but some had rusted, reddish-brown metal doors hanging from the top.

The place was filthy and fly-ridden, and the locals seemed to show little pride in their village. Donkeys could be seen sifting through heaps of litter for tasty morsels but I doubt they found much to chew on amongst the discarded empty packets of fags, torn up cardboard boxes, rusted tin cans, plastics, and empty bottles. And scattered over the area around the village were the derelict shells of long-abandoned trucks which had finally succumbed to the rigours of desert travel.

What a contrast from Yebbi-Bou, which the locals keep spick and span. However, the ever-cautious Pierot warned us not to take any photos here. Being along the piste to Libya, and only some 50km from the Niger border to the west, we ran the risk of taking images of clandestine activities which the locals would not want us to see, much less record! Now I must wonder what these activities could be – people trafficking, smuggling…? It’s probably best not to know!

Interestingly, even though the shops here were little more than shacks, the goods for sale came from all over the world. No jokes! Food and drink available include American rice, German malt drinks, Turkish swiss rolls, fruit drinks from Libya and Nigeria, Atlantic sardines from Morocco, and Chinese green tea. The locals will happily sell you a goat!

For relaxation after your meal, you can smoke American blends or strawberry slim cigarettes from Germany whilst playing cards using a pack of Lion cards from China. Then enjoy a great night’s sleep under a Chinese made blanket and, if you have small kids, why not buy Tunisian nappies to ensure a restful night? In the morning, freshen up with Dakar eau de toilette from Saudi Arabia (for men) or Black Queen coconut oil from Nigeria (for ladies). Then enjoy a cup of Chinese green tea before heading out – but not before topping up your Cruiser with Total Rubia Premium Motor Oil.

The one thing missing from this village, though, was fresh produce – no fruit or veggies in sight, not even dates! But boy – were we spoilt for choice for places to fill up the tanks! There were filling stations all over the place – even simple homes on the outskirts had drums of the ‘black gold’ outside. And it seemed that there were also drums under every tree in the village. Clearly, this was the main reason for Zouar’s existence – to serve the needs of Libyan truck drivers with fuel and water.

Just outside the village was the equivalent of a US truckers’ stop. Here drivers rested on mats on the sand in the shade of acacias, while others washed clothes in old diesel drums which had been sliced in half and filled with water. And some trucks were queueing up for water at a motor operated pump. The going rate for filling a water container here was CAF 500 (around R20, depending on the exchange rate).

The piste to Mao and the Sahel

Just outside Zouar, we found a good use for those plastic bags that were littering the village. Here a military checkpoint consisted of a wooden pole, supported by diesel drums, from which dangled strips of plastic. This time it was just waves and smiles, and we were through. We then pushed on through a landscape of sandstone escarpments, canyons and dunes.

Although we found ourselves in the midst of the desert, we were not alone – the sand was crisscrossed with camel and gazelle spoor. Whilst gazelle footprints are small and triangular in shape, those of a camel are much larger and more circular. We set up camp at the foot of the escarpment as the rapidly setting sun painted the dunes a rich pinkish orange colour. Dinner consisted of a hors d’oeuvre of sardines followed by soup, salami and potatoes.

The next day began with a stroll through a landscape of canyons, sandstone towers and dunes. Concentric circles, or semi-circles, which had been traced in the sand by tufts of grass blowing was a sign of the ever-present wind. Where only semicircles were present, it was rather easy to work out the wind direction – the semicircles simply pointed in the direction to which the wind was blowing. No need for wind vanes here!

Once in the vehicles, the foothills of the Tibesti finally gave way to flat endless sandy plains as we travelled south for another 700 sandy kilometres to the next settlement – Mao. Here there was little to break the monotony. The plains, uniform and as flat as an ironing board, extended in every direction to the distant horizon, with no rocks or sign of life.

The landscape was oppressively arid, and the sun was now remorseless. In fact, the only features of note were the old, discarded drums and tyres which marked the piste – it seemed that we were in a time warp in a lifeless alien world. These piste markers are essential in preventing drivers from getting lost in the back of beyond.

This was a land of midday mirages where the light played tricks on our eyes. Distant hills rose abruptly from a narrow strip of ‘beach’ which, in turn, appeared to ‘float’ on an ocean with the hill ‘reflected’ in the water. The piste now seemed to be like a freeway, minus the tar, of course, when compared with what we had driven along in the Tibesti, and we were now able to zoom along at speeds of up to 80 or even 90km/h! However, occasional soft patches of loose sand forced us to reduce our speed to below 40km/h.

Distances here are long, and when you do get somewhere, nothing usually happens. Towards midday, we spotted the remains of a dead acacia tree half buried in the sand and when we got there, Pierot showed us his prowess with the axe and in no time had our evening firewood stacked up on the roof-racks.

We stopped for lunch along a wide sandy oued (or riverbed), where groves of doum palms were growing in depressions in the sand on the one side. Unlike date palms which have long leaves, the doum palm has large fan-shaped leaves and produces large, beautifully polished, smooth, hard, brownish fruits which contain one large seed. It is known as the gingerbread tree since the fibrous fruit is edible and tastes almost like that humble teacake.

Here the water table was only a few metres below the surface, and we were able to easily draw water from a well dug in the sand. It never ceases to amaze me that water can be found almost anywhere, even in places which are covered with sand and have virtually no rainfall. We finally pitched camp at the base of a huge dune which the rays of the setting sun had set ablaze in shades of orange.

The next day we continued to make good progress. But we now faced a potential problem – being far from Zouar, we needed to continuously replenish our fuel tanks since the next filling station was in faraway Mao. However, all we had to do was to flag down one of the many mobile gas stations which ply the piste from Sabha, in Libya, to Mao in Chad. These are massive Mercedes-Benz trucks, some of which are 18 wheelers, which began their working lives 50 or more years ago on the autobahns of Europe. They now spend their retirement on the sandy pistes of the Sahara and although time-worn, these behemoths have indeed stood the test of time! They travel in convoy, and if one breaks down, they may all stop until help arrives.

Breaking down is somewhat of a given since all the trucks I saw were grossly overloaded. The more conscientious drivers would cover their loads with large sheets of white tarpaulin which would be lashed with ropes to the sides of the truck. But it was a different story for other trucks. Here bundles of different sizes would be stacked on top of the load bed in haphazard fashion up to three or four metres above the roof of the cab. Yet more bundles would extend two or three metres beyond the sides of the truck, hanging downwards and almost brushing the sand below. Even then, the truck might still not be considered full – there would still be ‘space’ for large blue plastic water containers, teapots, and buckets to hang downwards on ropes from the top.

As in sub-Saharan Africa, no truck is so full that it cannot also find space to transport human cargo! On the top of some trucks, I could see people stretched out while others were sitting on the edge with legs dangling in space…

Clearly, the word overloading is not in the vocabulary of Chad truck drivers – the sky’s the limit here! I dreaded to think what would happen if such trucks drove over a rock or into a tree… Ropes would come loose and all the goods and bodies, with broken bones, would simply end up in a heap on the sand. Thinking of such a scenario made me appreciate travelling in relative comfort in the Cruisers!

The Sabha-Mao piste has now replaced the old trans-Sahara caravan routes, and the trucks are now the beasts of burden instead of camels. From Chad, trucks loaded with live animals – goats, sheep and camels – make the week-long trip to Libya. Instead of slaves, these ships of the desert today also carry migrant workers looking for a better future in oil-rich Libya. Most simply use Libya as a place to earn good wages so that after a year or two they can return home to restock their herds, set up businesses, or build a home. But some of those passengers clinging for dear life on top of grossly overloaded trucks are seeking a hassle-free life, free of strife and poverty, beyond the Mediterranean… Trucks returning from Libya carry fuel, 50kg bags of sugar and flour, and returning migrants loaded with their hard-earned Euros.

The truck drivers were always willing to stop to provide us with fuel. At CFA 500 per litre, the drivers siphoned the precious liquid from massive 9 000-litre fuel tanks behind the truck cab.

Watering holes

As we approached the Sahel, the bare sandy plains became dotted with thorny acacias and camels slowly gave way to goats and finally cattle. The landscape became more undulating, and we spotted a few small dry pans fringed with orange sand dunes. One of these was to be our campsite that night. The pan was dotted with clumps of doum palms. Pierot told us that about 40 000 years ago a dry period enabled sand dunes to invade the floor of the now dried up Lake Megachad.

The following morning, we awoke to a hive of activity on one pan – this was rush hour, Sahara style! As if from nowhere, goats, donkeys, horses and camels careered down the bare dune slopes to the waterhole on the pan. Three men – immaculately dressed in flowing white ankle-length robes (djellabas) and matching head turbans (cheches) – clearly were responsible for lowering a water bag, attached to a rope, into the well.

Once the bag was full, it was then left to their womenfolk and their donkeys to pull the water bag up to the surface. One such woman, dressed in a long flowing black robe and red and black shawl, then proceeded to beat the living daylights out of a donkey (using a long stick), forcing it to move away from the well and so pull the rope and bag out of the well.

But, unlike elsewhere in the desert, this was an upmarket well. Not only was the well itself lined with concrete, but leading away from the well were three concrete-lined channels leading to circular basins. Once the bag was out of the well, it was the turn of the men to pour the water into the channels. At the sight of the precious liquid, the waiting animals would then rush to the basins to drink their fill.

Mao – but with no Chinese connections!

Later that morning we finally pulled into Mao which, contrary to what people may think, was not named in honour of former Chinese leader, Mao Tse Tung! In fact,I saw none of his countrymen there! Once a no-go area due to rampart smuggling, it has now opened up to the outside world and is the southern terminus of the trans-Sahara route from Libya.

The main business here seemed to be making bricks from the clay in the nearby dried-up oued. Homes nearby were especially neat, with thick walls made of small pale brown-coloured bricks and flat roofs decorated with triangular-shaped protuberances, or merlons, at the corners. After infrequent heavy rain, water simply drains off the roofs by means of hollowed out pieces of palm trunk which protrude, at intervals, from the walls of the houses. This would certainly not be a good time to walk in the streets below unless you like being drenched! Most homes had a large courtyard enclosed by a tall brick wall.

In the centre of town, an open sandy area along the main drag was designated to vendors selling mattresses, colourful mats and blankets. Nothing much seemed to be happening here and anything that was happening was certainly proceeding at a snail’s pace. Groups of men sporting djellabas in an array of colours – white, blue, pink, yellow, brown – had plonked themselves down on the brown sand and were passing the day gossiping, smoking and waiting for something to happen.

Their objective was to while away the time, to see yet another day through from start to finish. And then to do the same the next day… But perhaps these were the village elders in deep conversation about important local issues such as hiring more teachers at the local school or digging more wells for their camels. The scene reminded me of Old Testament times when the town elders would congregate at the city gate, discussing affairs of state…

Maybe it was the dry heat, but there was definitely a laziness to Mao! Although our arrival must surely have been the event of the week, only a few glances passed in our direction before things quickly returned to normal. Expressions on the faces of the audience ranged from bemusement and blank stares to wonder, suspicion, indifference, and disbelief that someone from another world had just dropped in.

The market spread along the nearby sandy streets which were lined with the usual ramshackle stalls where the local women were selling chilli peppers, onions, bananas, and even lettuce, as well as typical Sahel produce – sweet potatoes, cassava and peanuts. Robust motorcycles and donkeys laden with bricks, fodder and grass all vied for space with pedestrians and the occasional goat.

Back to N’Djamena

We followed this – let’s call it interesting experience – with a visit to the local oasis. Here we saw mango trees and cassava – sure signs that we had truly left the desert behind and were back in the Sahel. And scattered in between the date palms were small plots given over to the growing of fodder crops such as lucerne. As we passed through many of the small villages, we saw placards stating that they now had access to fresh water, thanks to an EU sponsored scheme.

For our last night, we set up camp along an oued densely vegetated with tall acacias underlain by black clay soils… This fascinating trip had sadly come to an end, but the memories will forever be etched into my memory.

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