Coming down a mountain side in a diesel powered Toyota Prado. I have just picked my way through a mineralized hillside discussing size potential and mining method of what appears to be a rich copper deposit. We stop in the campsite of the exploration team, greetings are exchanged in Arabic and Berber. The camp team expresses free flowing joy at the reunion with my host and travel companions. The men exchange cheek kisses, left to right to left to right... The kisses grow more numerous to add emphasis to the joy of the reunion. I am greeted with same exuberance, I mumble out a few "salaam's" lean close enough to pass for a hug, but stop short of the kiss.
My Toronto aunties will attest to my ability to spurn kisses. The first born son to my mom and first born nephew to her sisters and my father's only sister in the city, I had ample opportunity to master the art of kiss dodging. Married 6 years, only now am I learning to appreciate a kiss as a communication of affection, and not just a form of foreplay. Kissing these dirty dudes, is too much for me, one of them is wearing a 'dress'.
Random thought; A few weeks ago Ahmeda and I were in a club in Accra, when mid song I could feel the energy of the place change. I looked up and did a quick analysis and it was like all the girls had gone to the washroom at once, and the dance floor as we would say in my high school days had become a 'hall of balls'. So I grabbed Ahmeda and headed for the door, we barely got to there when the first fight broke out, and glass breaking could be heard as we stepped out and bouncers rushed in. I wonder in a land where men kiss and wear long shirts with no pants, if you would have the same problem.
My North American idiosyncrasies seem to go unnoticed as the greetings come to conclusion. We are welcomed into the mud and stone dwelling erected on the site to serve as the exploration office, then we are offered sweet Moroccan mint tea. My host pipes up and asks for fresh water, it's 40+ degrees Celsius, fresh water is more than just a good idea, but I know he has been eager to show off the sweetness of the well water. He's mentioned the abundance of fresh water a number of times during our visit. Not a trivial detail we are in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains on the western edge of the Sahara desert. The terrain is rocky outcrop and loose boulders, I haven't seen a tree, bush or blade of grass all afternoon.
Out comes the well water from a darkened corner of the dwelling, in a yellow plastic container that appears better suited to carrying fuel. It is wrapped in rags that have been kept damp to maintain its cool. A pink plastic measuring cup is being filled and each person drinks its complete contents before passing it on to repeat the process to the next thirsty drinker. I suppress my hesitation, despite my stance on man kisses I have no fear of a shared cup, I've survived months of Jamaican Anglican communions which strangely feels analogous. My fear is the water. Now two months into the family adventure in West Africa, I can count my solid bowel movements on one hand. That approaching cup of cool well water looks like a oneway ticket to shitsville. Peer pressure, I wasn't man enough to kiss, I can't be a pussy about the water now. Gulp!
We resume our descent out of the hills. I commit to use the power of positive thinking to conquer the new parasite army I've just introduced to my system. The driver exclaims "Bedouin", and gestures to a spot on the valley floor. Conversation in the truck has been a mixture of French (which I barely know), and Arabic (which I don't know at all), so my reaction is delayed until I see the distinctive black tents. Excitement. Not sure where I first learned of the Saharan nomadic people, but they hold a place mythic reverence in my mind for there complete mystery. We stop the truck, I pull out my camera and a telephoto lens, pausing to ask if I'm risking getting shot, if they see me ogling them with a camera. My Berber travel mate jokes in his heavy accent, "not from this distance." My first Bedouin encounter is disappointing the camp, just two tents, appears empty.
Final stop, the well. We have to hurry out of the near desolate valley and get back to the paved road before darkness strands us. The valley is cut by a gorge that must fill with water seasonally, but now it is dry. Maybe four meters deep the walls of the gorge are shades of red and brown in flat lying beds, erosionally exposed by the on again off again river.
The gorge floor predominantly the white and grey of the large boulders transported and discarded, by what must be a heavy seasonal flow. I am told many of the peaks are snow capped during the winter months, the big rocks collaborate that.
Now out of the trucks we toddle down the gorge walls, gingerly I pick my steps through the boulders, aware that size is no indication of how firm they may sit. Over my left shoulder I spy two donkeys tied to the petrified root of a tree along the gorge wall. We are not alone. Then I see her. In flash of peach, purple and golden embroidery. Just ahead, a young Bedouin woman wraps her face and gathers two small children and a young teenage daughter and hustle out of view. It's seems all done in a rapid fluid movement and her retreat has the feel of a dance. It's not at all girly and could not be described as sexy, but it is unmistakably feminine. My mind is instantly cluttered with a landslide of thoughts, but the idea of feminine surfs atop the intellectual and emotional wave. Her nomad lifestyle does not afford her any real contact with the outside world, she just lead two donkeys into a rocky gorge, yet there she is as lady as the queen of England. Unapologetically elegant, mysteriously beautiful. Feminine strength.
We continue forward towards the well, it sits on the floor of the dry river bed. A cylindrical structure, it has high concrete walls to avoid being overwhelmed by the river flow when it comes, concrete stairs lead up to the simple crank and rope system that lift a soft walled rubber bucket, that holds the 'sweet' water. I climb the stairs, there is a pronounced gap between the stairs and the well structure to reduce drag against the irrepressible force of water, in anticipation of its annual flow.
From the lip of the well the little Bedouin family comes back into view. The small boy and girl stare at our group inquisitively. The older daughter maybe 13, sheepishly steals glances. The woman covered face stares unperturbedly in the opposite direction, as if to defy our very presence.
I fight my trained impulse to raise my camera, my digital capture of the meeting is clearly not wanted. My camera has already gotten me into trouble today. I snapped a phone picture of a police officer when he pulled us over speeding on a mountain road. He demanded my phone, passport and threatened imprisonment. I withheld both and stayed in the truck. The situation was defused by an equally angry tirade in arabic from my host, and a claim to be relative of Barack Obama.
Camera in hand with the perfect lens, I studied the scene and committed to use words to memorialize the experience.
It would appear our visit to the well, interrupted our lady nomad as she was using the well to satisfy the thirsts of her family, and her animals. My mind recalls a report from an employee in Mali that our exploration camp was completely undamaged, the community appreciated the extra wells we had drilled and protected our equipment during the conflict. Coincidentally, a conflict catalyzed by a regional destabilizing action, the killing of general Moumar Gaddafi, arguably modern times most famous Bedouin.
Feminine strength, in some circles an oxymoron, in most circles completely misunderstood. I don't understand it, though I strain to recognize it, and admire it when it shows itself. I love it in my wife. Had I a daughter I would do all I could to nurture it. I have two sons and I will do all I can to encourage them to seek it and not fear it.
You can ask any club owner or party promoter about feminine strength and you will be told; all the security in the world does prevent trouble it can only prevent damage to property at an event, the only sure way to keep an evening conflict free is to have a good amount of women there. It's a civilizing force. As I walk away from 5 years of boardroom drama, that ended in name calling and bickering, I wonder if it all could have been averted with a civilizing force. Perhaps investors should learn what club owners have known for ages.
My lady nomad, civilizes a life of two tents two donkeys and borrowed water. The startling lesson is I need to set aside concerns about threats to my masculine constructs, like cheek kisses and long shirts with no pants; and look to see where the absence of femininity is putting me at risk. Even big rocks can shift suddenly if they are not properly supported.
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