A Real Conversation
When the overloaded Toyota pickup roared off there was nothing at all but sand under my feet and the black outlines of a few desiccated trees in the nearly moonless night. I had been dropped off somewhere along the 400 kilometer desert track between Timbuktu and Gao, and suddenly found myself standing completely alone, at night, in the most nowhere place I’d ever been. I had two liters of water, a tin of sardines, half a kilo of dates, and two mangoes. I needed to find civilization in the next forty-eight hours or so.
In the beam of my flashlight I found a twisted metal sign hanging by one corner off its post. It used to point the way to the town of Rharous, supposedly less than ten kilometers away to the south. No way to find the track at night, but there — as promised by the driver — the twinkle of a far-away flashlight, a campement. I could have slept right there on the sand, of course. I could have waited next to the signpost like a survivor clinging to the driftwood remnants of civilization, but humans, we’re social, and I far preferred the warmth of unknown others.
In my coddled urban life I always forget that you really, really can’t see anything at night. I set a course for the flicker of technology, but then they turned the light off. Orienting by the stars, I walked in the direction I best remembered. The light blinked back on occasionally and I found that I’d gotten turned around, and redirected my steps. How far away was that little star? How far had I gone in five minutes? Could I have found my way back to the signpost, as if it mattered? Probably not. So I just yelled. Nothing for it, really.
Hello!
Not loud enough. Wrong language anyway.
Salam Alikum!
Come on. If you’re going to yell, yell.
HEY!
The light flickered back on, a hundred meters to my right. I answered with my own torch, and walked toward the now constant star. I stumbled over a low hedge of brambles, artificial, a human wall, and began to discern four or five people outlined in the blue glow of an LED flashlight, sitting on the woven mats they call a “natt†here.
Salam Alikum, I said for real this time as I approached, a lone white face coming out of the night.
Alikum Salam, came the soft reply from several voices.
La bas?
La bas.
Ça va? I’d run out of Arabic pretty quick.
Tres bien, ça va?
Tres bien, merci. Vous allez bien?
Tres bien, et ta famille? Tu va bien? Ça va, et vous? We were all talking all over each other now, in the usual way. But better make this a good greeting, I can’t afford to offend right now.
Tu as sante?
Oui, merci.
Hamdulilah, I concluded. Praise Allah.
They stood up and I shook many hands.
Tu as besoin d’un natt pour dormir? said the old man, the patriarch. Right to the point. I didn’t even have to ask. Yes, I said, I need a place to sleep. He immediately pulled one of the natts aside, a few meters away, and I gratefully dropped my heavy bag onto the plastic.
Do you need water? he asked as I arranged myself.
No. I’m fine, I said, thinking that I could always ask for water in the morning.
Do you want some dates? I offered as I re-approached the group.
Yes, thank you, he said, and I sat down with the men. Probably six or seven people: a patriarch, a few younger men, and some teenage boys, everyone sprawled on natts or simply reclining in the dusty sand. All men, of course. The women don’t sit outside at night and talk until late in the evening.
Pause. How to start a conversation?
So — you live here in this campement?
Yes.
Ah. How many people live here?
We’ve never counted.
Well, how many families, then?
Oh. Let’s see. There are eight houses, and five huts. Eight plus five is what –
Thirteen, said another man.
Thirteen.
I could barely see the old man. I could discern only that he had a kind face and a grey beard, and wore a loose turban and some sort of dark robe. He and one other spoke clear French. My own recently-acquired French was also proving adequate, though occasionally during the conversation I had to stop and ask for the meaning of a word.
Where are you from? the old man asked.
Canada.
Ah. That’s in Europe?
No. It’s in North America.
America? So Canada is in America?
Well, no. North America is a continent. Within it are three countries. Mexico to the south where they speak Spanish, then l’États-Unis in the middle, also known as l’Amérique, then Canada in the North. L’Amérique is a country, whereas L’Amérique du Nord is a continent. Not the same thing.
Ah, said the patriarch.
What? said one of the others. So the old man explained, in rapid French, the difference between a country and a continent. Like Mali versus l’Afrique. Within North America is the United States, Canada, and Spain, continued the old man.
Ah, said the other.
No, I corrected. United States, Canada, and Mexico. He’d confused Espagnol with Espagne. I’m sure my accent sounded just as thick to him as his did to me. Not one Francophone among us.
My geography has never been good, he said, and I wondered if he’d ever seen a map of the world.
How many countries are there in Europe? he asked me.
Um. Twenty or thirty.
Let’s see. France, Spain, Switzerland– he began.
Germany, Italy, Belgium, the United Kingdom, I added. Austria.
Austria?
Next to Germany. They speak German there. Poland. Denmark, Sweden, Finland. The Czech Republic, Slovakia. Yugoslavia. Portugal. Uh, Luxumbourg. Greece, Armenia. Uh — others. I guess I don’t know my geography either.
That’s eighteen, said the bearded old man.
Why don’t all the countries in a continent work together? asked the younger one.
I don’t understand, I said.
Why so many countries? Why not one country per continent?
Oh. I guess because of history. It’s like Africa. There are many, many, uh– what’s the word? I tried “tribes†in English. Blank stares. Races?
Oui, des races.
Right. Good. There are many different races in Africa. In Europe, it’s similar. Do you understand?
Yes, I understand well, thank you.
There was silence as we all looked at the stars. I nibbled on my dates. The other men present, those who couldn’t understand French, shifted and got up to leave. I shook hands and bid them farewell, au revoir, merci, bonne chance, la prochaine fois, insh’allah. The two French speakers said goodbye in their own language, then sat down again with me. There were only three of us left now. I could see only outlines, and hear nothing at all.
Where does your water come from? I wanted to know.
We have a well. C’est le bonne l’eau said the old man.
It’s a bad well, said the other.
Wait. You say it’s good, whereas you say it’s bad. You have a well, no? That’s very good, I think.
It’s not like you think, replied the younger man. It’s not cement.
Lined with stones?
Yes.
That’s not good?
It’s good water, said the old man.
We’re very poor, said the younger Touareg.
The water for the animals comes from the river, added the patriarch. Seven kilometers to the Niger, I knew. I suppose one drove the herd to the river each day to drink. In the starlight I could see the black outlines of goats or lambs wandering nearby, and the large silhouette of a cow.
You speak very good French, I told the old man.
I learned by talking to people.
Really? That’s amazing. What other languages do you speak? Arabic?
Yes. I learned Arabic in school.
But what did they speak to each other every day, I wondered. Hasanian, perhaps, a cross between late-coming Arabic and the more-or-less indigenous Berber language of the Maghreb. Or Songai, the local tribal language of the black Africans here, or Bambara, one of the official Malian dialects.
We speak Hasanian, the man told me. I also speak Songai.
You speak a lot of languages. You’re a very intelligent man. Learning a language without any sort of classes or books is quite a trick.
Thank you, he said.
We all listened to the night for a while, but there was no sound at all. There wasn’t anything that could have made a sound, out here in the desert where there are no cars, no electricity, and barely any living things. It was the younger one who spoke next.
Which country is the richest? he wanted to know.
Ah– no one country, really.
America?
Sort of. Also Canada, most of Europe, and Japan.
Japan is rich?
Yes.
Really?
Yes.
And which is the strongest (la plus forte)?
Hmm. That depends. Do you mean has the biggest military? Do you understand “military�
Yes.
Well, America has the biggest military. But that doesn’t mean it’s the best country.
And which is the most intelligent?
Well. (Tough one.) I have traveled to many countries. In each country, there are people who are very intelligent. But, not all countries are very educated.
What do you mean? said the younger man.
I don’t understand, said the older man.
Uh– intelligence is the not the same as education, I tried.
Blank stares.
Which country has the most conaissance? asked the older man.
Connaissance: knowledge, understanding, consciousness. Okay. We might be talking about the same thing now.
Well, the rich countries generally have more education. More people go to school. Can you read?
Yes, said the old scholar.
French?
No. Arabic.
What percentage of Africans can read, do you think?
Not much. Maybe one percent, answered the younger man.
Hmm. I thought it was more, I said. Ten percent, maybe. But still not much.
Africa is very poor, said the younger man.
I know.
Turning back to the patriarch: do your children go to school? Is there a school near here?
Yes, they go to school in the village nearby.
How far?
What?
How many kilometers until the school?
Five.
Not too far, then. Do they go every day?
Yes.
That is very good. Knowledge is very important, I think.
Oui, c’est vrai.
There are three kinds of knowledge, began the younger man. The first type (mumble) what is good (mumble) like animals (word I don’t know) hot. The second, a student, books and (unintelligible) important but, the third one must faire une tour in the (garbled).
I’m sorry, I don’t understand, I said. My French is not good, I added. Yours isn’t either, I thought.
Let me explain, he said. (Long, bad, explanation.)
Okay, I said when he was finished. Let me see if I understand. You said that there are three kinds of knowledge. The first is the knowledge that this is good, this is bad, this is hot and will burn, this is good to eat. It is the knowledge of babies and animals. The second is the knowledge one gets from books, and as a student. Finally, one must go out into the world to learn more.
Exactement.
I like that. That’s very wise. Where did you — who said that?
It’s in Arabic, said the older man with his usual clarity.
You mean, in the Koran?
Yes.
Ah. Interesting. Actually, after French I want to learn Spanish and then Arabic, so that I can read the Koran. Then Mandarin — that’s a Chinese Language. With those five languages one can speak with most of the people in the world.
Ah! Really?
Yes. Those are the official languages of the United Nations, actually.
The what?
The United Nations. In French it would be, what? Nations Unis? No? You haven’t seen that stamped on food sacks and white Land Rovers around here? Never mind.
There was a comfortable pause. We looked at the stars. I had a question.
The Touareg people –do you have images in the stars? The shapes in the stars, in Canada we think they’re animals or people. Those stars there, they’re a bear, and those ones there, they’re a man. Do you have animals in the stars too? Like, what, camels or something? Or men?
There are lots of men in the stars, said the old man.
Oh. I know about that. The Touareg believe that each star is the soul of a great man.
Yes.
Okay, but what about pictures in the stars. That pattern there — see the bright stars? – in Canada we think it’s a man with a, who is, um, (gesture of drawing back an arrow.)
Ah! Une lance!
Oui. And his name is Orion. See? It’s a man.
Oh! We call him Ali.
Ali! Well I’ll be damned. “Orion†is “Ali†to a Touareg. And those three bright stars in a line, we think that’s his belt.
Yes.
And the three dimmer stars that come off of that, they’re a, a couteau (knife. I didn’t know the word for sword.) A big knife, hanging like this.
Yes, like a Touareg knife. And those two are his arms, and between them, the dim stars, that’s his head.
Yes! Wow. For us Canadians, it’s the same.
Silence for a while.
Do you have a portable? asked the old man.
A what?
A portable.
Oh– you mean a telephone?
Yes.
Yes, I have a portable. Do you?
No.
Is there even reception here?
Not here. If you go up to the top of that hill you can get reception from Rharous.
Honestly, it’s not that important. But (out of sheer curiosity) is there a television in the village?
Not here. In the next village.
Me, I don’t like television. I prefer books.
But television is free, said the younger one.
It’s free after you buy the television, I pointed out.
We’re very poor, he said again.
Look, I said, it really doesn’t matter whether you have a telephone or a television. The rich countries –let me explain something. The people who live in rich countries are not actually any happier than the people who live in poor countries.
Sometimes we don’t have enough to eat, said the older one.
There is malnutrition also, added the younger.
I know. It’s bad. But after you have enough to eat, a place to sleep, everything else is essentially unnecessary. However much you have, you just want more. Do you understand?
No.
Money and happiness are not the same thing, I said.
Skeptical silence.
Happiness comes from the heart, not money. (Trite, but the best poetry I could render in French.)
Skeptical silence.
Look. When you get a telephone you want a television. When you get a television you want a car. When you get a car you want a big house. It never ends.
The old man smiled. I understand, he said.
The young man did not smile.
Food, medicine, shelter, those are the important things, I said.
Many people don’t have food here.
I know. It’s a problem. There are many problems in Africa.
Africa is very poor.
Yes. There are many wars too. Like in the Congo, or Sudan, or the Touareg rebellion here.
But if you gave money to everybody, said the young man, people wouldn’t fight.
Wait –are you saying that the wars would end if people weren’t poor?
Yes.
I’m not so sure, I said. In Sudan, the government– not everyone in the government, but some –the government is muslim, and they don’t like the, they make war on the –
The Christians, finished the old man.
Yes.
Ce n’est pas bien, he said immediately.
No, it’s not good! It’s really not good. And you have the same situation in other countries too. Rwanda, other places. Look, there are many, many races in Africa, and each one tries to, each race wants — wants tout.
The old man burst out laughing. Yes, he said. Each one wants everything. That’s right.
But of course it’s not possible. They must all learn to work together.
The old man nodded sagely.
Yes, he said. That’s the problem.
I looked at the stars again. They really were spectacular, but despite everything that I’d said, I liked my electricity and my internet too much to give them up. I needed health care and I get kicks out of foreign films and Thai food. But this life does have its advantages, I thought. This really is a beautiful place. It could be a beautiful life, philosophizing in the desert, if one had enough to eat.
I think I must sleep now, I said. It’s late.
Yes, he said. Do you need a blanket? It will be cold.
Only if you have one extra.
Wait, he said. A moment later he brought me a sheet.
Good night, I said. Salam Alikum. A demain, insh’allah. And they went inside.
In the morning they gave me water from the well and asked for nothing. I gave them my two mangoes, rare treats which I hoped would convey my gratitude. Thank you, said the old man. I must work now, he added as a huge herd of cows began walking through the yard. He offered to send a child to show me the way to Rharous, but I declined. I could easily see the southward track now.
Thank you for everything, I said.
It was nothing, said the man. I enjoyed talking to you, he added.
Me too, I said. La prochaine fois, insh’allah.
Insh’allah, he said. And I hefted my sack and began walking.
