Since the beginning of time, whenever a substance of value was found, people perished, in infinite numbers and in distressing ways.
The trading of ivory, gold and diamonds across Africa's once most important trade route now included the selling of lives. Men, woman and children.
They are the migrants of the Sahara, the ghosts off North-Africa.
Welcome to the Niger desert...
For centuries caravans have trekked the desolated sands of the Sahara, trading in gold, spices, and kola nuts with outer desert towns and trade posts. Less desired items were also traded in Mali and along the Timbuktu route, for instance slaves, beads and cowry shells which were often bartered with ivory from the west.
The caravans often relied on the Berber people to safely guide them across the north-western Sahara desert, sending out runners to scout routes for desert pirates along the Dar el-Arbain route and to prepare the Oasis at Karwa before the caravans, in their thousands arrived.
The camels are prepared in advance, grazed and watered for the 6 month perilous journey. Vital Oasis stops are required for resupplying water and for the animals to rest. The journey along the trade routes covered thousands of miles through the most harsh conditions in this million year old desert. Death by exposure was a common occurrence.
Today, thousand year old stone markers pay homage to the fallen, echoing Dante's words; "Abandon all hope — Ye Who Enter Here"
Present day, Agadez; the Ciudad Juárez of North-Africa.
Desert bandits, arms markets and drugs, with silver and leather goods being the most popular items sold or traded for salt from Bilma.
No tourists are noticed. The absence of their buses and foreign languages make us, the bearded hijab clad westerners stick out like a sore thumb. The Agadez mosque and market draws followers and patrons from surrounding towns and villages. The once flourishing town has now become a hub for traffickers and smugglers. The profit...humans.
"More people die in the Sahara than out in the Mediterranean", a Malian man tells us. "We trek to Agadez from Chad, Gambia, Mali and Sudan, leaving our homes, our lives and everything else behind. We are kept hidden away from authorities in the ghettos of this small mud built desert town, subjected to hard labour and sexual exploitation, until once a week, the smugglers from Libya arrive", he says.
Amir arranged passage for us to Tunis, explaining the forty hour trip by road, crossing into Algeria. I had last seen the Syrian in Rusafa. It seems like ten years ago. He reminds me that it hàs been ten years. His business card still says, "Guide".
For a middle eastern man he looks more a westerner than we do. Unanimously we blame MTV. Amir laughs it off. Feeble attempt at humor for such a place like this.
More people die in the Sahara the Malian said...the Psalms shepard boy's words mull in my head. This is the valley he spoke of, the shadows of death.
I am addicted to sadness...
Sunrise. The first rays of light are greeted by the call of prayer delivered by a solitary face less voice. It flows through the streets out towards the desert.
Amir received a phone call over breakfast, informing him of a flight from Mono Dayak to Nouhadibou. We pack hastily. The Red Cross chartered plane fills up quickly. The French pilots sell the seats cheap.
Dollars buys anything. Passports are roughly checked and stamped as we are extricated from the boarding gate like goats.
Amir points at a man and says "That's him, the Tuareg". The dark skinned man on the mobile phone was busy arguing the price of personal floatation devices from Togo for one of his merchant boats.
"Migrant boats", I almost said out loud.
This neatly dressed man straight from an Armani catalogue is a human trafficker and merchant of death. Amir tells us that this man enjoys protection from a Benghazi group of militants and is untouchable through out North Africa.
Seatbelt fastened. I drift off at the humming of the powerful Allison T56 engines as they come to life.
"What drives us to leave our lives behind, risking inevitable death. To be buried in unmarked graves or swallowed by the deep blue sea. To reach foreign shores. To learn a new language. To start a new job. To raise our children. To leave the sand of this desert behind. To start a new life. To live in peace. We are the cowry shells and beads of this desert. We are weighed and bartered. We are the remnants of war. We are the ghosts of the Sahara. We are a substance of value"
The last of the passengers tuck their baggage away in the over head compartments and take their seats.
The Tuareg walks down the isle with an entourage of gladiators briefly making eye contact before taking his seat "As Salaam Alaikum", he greets.
I remember the article about the people who fled the war in Mali. Did they die in the Sahara after forty hours of thirst? After forty hours of exposure? Or forty hours of abanoned prayers?
My heart wept for them as I replied; "Wa Alaikum Salaam".
I close my eyes and wonder...what peace?