The Rhythmic Beat of the Tenere Crossing

The Rhythmic Beat of the Tenere Crossing

The first strokes of heat began the morning kindling of the Tenere’s tired sands, as the sun, small and mighty, began it’s slow trek west over the empty dessert. The sky, it’s blue purity more prominent here than anywhere else on earth, was home only to thin wisps of white cotton, softly streaked across it’s surface, it’s viberance so undiluted, it served only to contrast the desolation of the dunes below, dry sweeps of bleak yellow, tiresomely monotonous, except for the occasional murky waterhole, or brittle, aging camel skull.
         Across the vast plains, the ground began its transformation. The bitter cold lifted, forced out of residence by the suns dancing offspring, shimmering in the still cool air. It would not take long for the soft grains, now full of comforting warmth and teasing promises of exotic luxury, to be repressed by the doggedly unmerciful sun, denying anybody trapped in between them even the mere hope of salvation, instead condemning them to bear the fallout from this titanic battle of the elements.
         The Tuarey, a nomadic tribe that reside in the Air Massif, a small mountain range west of the Tenere, know the land only as ‘the place of no life’, and with good reason. Each year a small party travel east to Bilma to trade salt, crossing the dessert to reach their destination. Unfortunately for many a Tuarey child, one sick camel, or one unprecedented sand storm has rendered them an orphan, and with a suicidal resolve to cross their parents on the next journey. For them, a successful crossing is a necessity, and out of necessity, many a keen navigator has been born, whom, had they met the desserts current traveller, could have instructed him on many things. The first thing they would have told him, which would be all he had time to hear, was that they will only travel east during the winter months, where the heat is at it’s most bearable, and the risk of sand storms is minimal, and only then if they could prepare enough water and food for them and their camels. The second thing they would tell him, if the was still around to hear it, would be for him not to underestimate the importance of water, for many an experienced navigator can loose his way, and if you were to miss a water hole, death became inevitable.
         It was unfortunate, then, that the traveller didn’t meet the Tuarey, or the Tubu, a tribe with a savage reputation, whose women cross the dessert to trade dates once a year, for he liked to hear the tales of others travellers, be them tall or short. Instead he had set off across the Tenere alone, during the height of summer, with only a small hide canteen that held no more than a pint, and was only a quarter full. However, unlike the camel bound tribesmen that had journeyed before him, this traveller had made much greater progress on foot. Without a party to consider, or the rations required to sustain it’s members and their steeds, he had survived, dressed only it a white cotton robe, now dusty and frayed, to cover his weathered caviar skin, and a pair of sandals, fashioned from an old tyre, and held in place by a tight bind of nylon rope, it’s neon turquoise bringing some much needed humour to his sorrowful attire.
         There was also another distinct difference between the traveller and the Tuarey, whose light brown skin and Caucasian features suggest their roots may lie more towards mid-Asia. As the traveller walked, limping slightly as he did so, he seemed completely attuned to his surroundings, so much so that his focus was not on the heat, now beginning to reach it’s midday peak, but on his hand, held out in front of him, the splayed cotton strands of his clothing resting at the base of his palm, the tendons in his forearm, clearly visible beneath the stained cloth.
         His eyes, their bright whites, a shocking contrast to his rich soil iris’s, were fixed on his hand, that was tapping, slapping and clicking out an ancient motif, his concentration almost tangible as he stared, periodically clicked his tongue or slapped his abdomen with his concealed hand, in time with the ancient rhythm. His thumb, a blur as it bounced of different sections of each finger, created a loud ‘thwack’ on contact, varying in tone with each carefully performed strike. At carefully rehearsed intervals he would knock two fingers together melodically accenting the beat, or slapped his fingers against his palm, indicting the end of a phrase. Altogether the beat, ancient and haunting, seemed to predate the tribal drumming and two part chants of African heritage, instead echoing back to a darker time, and stirring up more than mere emotion. This music had a much more physical effect.
         With each awkward step the traveller took, as his sandaled foot approached the ground, the baking hot sand that lay below sprayed out to the side of him, revealing a cooler layer, much more accommodating for the warm rubber of his soles. He had walked for days across the Tenere, his hand tapping out it’s song, his eyes fixed upon it’s movement, stopping when the sun hid all but it’s tip behind the horizon, casting out a purple twilight glow over the dessert.
         It was only then he would take a drink, and would still only grace the canteen over his pursed lips, allowing the smallest trickle of water to wet his tongue and cool his throat. But that was hours away, as it was only the afternoon, and the fatigue that was beginning to creep into his muscles would have to be overcome by willpower alone. He knew that if he were to stop clicking, the heat would soon overwhelm his misshapen frame, and he too would succumb to the same fate as the vagrant nomads. But to him, the notion of stopping was one that he simply couldn’t entertain, especially as he was so close to reaching the Clear Gate. Then he could rest, maybe for a day or so, and gain some sustenance. The prospect of finding fruit joyfully crossed his mind, but was quickly banished for fear of missing  vital offbeat.
         Still he continued, the only discomfort emitting from the deep, seeping rope burns in the gaps between his toes, where the once calloused skin had been eroded, revealing the thin virgin flesh beneath, before demolishing it, and tearing even further into his foot. Fortunately pain was something that he had long since learned to handle, and what he was suffering now would be tantalizingly erotic compared to what he would have to suffer later. But that was yet to pass, and his mind once again drew back to the beat, reaching the end of the phrase and returning to coda.