The nomads of Douz

When the scanty briers in the desert-steppe around Douz get slight green tips, the inhabitants of the surrounding hamlets of the Marazig tribe, who have lived for a long time in stone-houses with running water and electricity, pack up their tents and their cattle - goats, sheep or camels - and leave like once their fathers for the desert. About 30 km away from their home, they stay there until the summer heat burns up the last verdure. But in this nomadic life there is some luxury. Nearby there is a good beaten track so that the drinking water can be delivered by car. It is a little different with the burning material. The Bedouin-woman has to walk like in former times for many km, chops the knotty briers with their roots and carries the huge babes on her back to the tent. The thick part gives the glow for the cooking-fire, the dry twigs give the light in the evening.

The old ones go outside. On account of the children they once moved into the hamlets to enable them to get a proper school education. Today they work at the local authority as clerks, at banks or tourism. But at the weekend, as soon as the youngest come from school, the whole family go out on a small lorry or on motor-bikes, with food, fresh vegetables and fruit. The nomad-soul only slumbers, an evening under the starry sky of the desert is nicer than Douz with it’s new built de-luxe hotels directly at the big dune El Hofra.

That evening about 20 members of the family met, and I was allowed to join them. In front of the brown tent, hand-woven of camel- and goat wool, the women prepared the meal. The bread-dough of flour, salt and water is kneaded in broad bowls; an other woman is peeling the vegetables. Grandmother returns with the huge wood-bale and sets it in fire where later on the bread should be baked. Meanwhile the daughter-in-law has put the kettle with meat and vegetables onto the fire. It is a wonderful calm evening, which is very unusual in the Sahara. On one side the women are working, on the other the men are sitting in a circle chatting. No one gets the idea of helping the women.

The duties are exactly fixed, they have carried out their daily task in town. A great number of children fool about, they have enough team-mates and a lot of room to move about on the track which is only a few hundred meters away from us, and rarely a car passes by.

Shortly before the sunset the goats return from their looking for feed. Nobody has taken care of them, they just follow their instinct which brings them back to the tent. The grown up animals are fastened up in a fold made of briers which also is a task of women. The young animals are tied up inside the tent. There are many jackals and a kid would be just fine. But they don't dare go near the people.

The women shove the red glow of the bread-fire aside, place the flat cake into the hollow, heap up hot sand on it and put a second flat cake onto it which will be covered with glow. Later on the ash and sand are removed and you get a tasty flat bread.

After the meal, just when they wanted to sit for tea, there was an engine-noise. Bedouins from an other tent came for a little chat on their motor-bikes. Naturally, there are separate circles for women and men, but words are cordial atmosphere of mutuality. The children tired from running around just take a nap.

Gazelle-Hunt

Now, time has come for the men. At nightfall they make their motor-bikes ready for the gazelle-hunting-party. There are powerful reflectors on the handle-bars which blind the animals and so they are easy to be shot. Five men on their motor-bikes have their weapons shouldered and set off. I am so sorry for the poor animals. But am I allowed to condemn the hunters? They only shoot for food for their families; they well know that it is prohibited. And they certainly wouldn't do it if they lived in wealth like we do. I am even allowed to photograph them which is a great proof of confidence.

But I don't want to see the result of the hunting-party. Beneath the starry sky we arrive at the tourist-ghettos at the big dune at midnight.

Text and Photos: by Edith Kohlbach

translated by: Johannes Gross