to travel far without horses or camels, and without leaving the city?” I reply sharply.
Her eyes shine and she brings one of her long fingers up to her mouth. “It's a secret. Soon you'll know it. In the meantime, we'll still go to the edge of the city walls to see the caravan. Using the women's road.”
I accompany my father down the stairs to the narrow entryway that gives out into the street. Jasim, glowing with pride, helps my father with his two large saddlebags. My mother and Bilkisu stand side by side. They have taken off their jewelry. Their bare faces, one lightly tanned, the other dark, blend with the design of red palm trees and flowers— the magnificent garden that all the women of Ghadames paint in red, on the walls of their houses, to protect them against misfortune.
Papa has been careful to place the oil lamp pointing inward in the niche. This way, if a visitor looks in through the hole in the door, he will immediately know that my father is off on a trip. Placed another way, or unlit, the lamp conveys a completely different message. For example,
The master is in the palm grove.
Or,
There has been a death in the house.
The men know not to knock at the door when, thanks to the little lamp in the entryway, they see that the women are alone in the house.
Before going out, Papa leans toward me and holds me tight.
“I'll bring you back a gift,” he whispers, infuriatingJasim, who thinks our father spoils me far too much since I am “just a girl.”
Then they both slip away in the dark alleyway.
Mother does not want to come with us to the city walls. She is convinced that nothing bad can happen to my father as long as she is watching over the house at the precise moment when the caravan sets off. But Bilkisu doesn't share the same superstitions, and she is just as eager as I am to break up the monotony of our reclusive existence. So here we are jumping like goats over the small walls on the rooftops, our heads covered, but our dresses held above our ankles, so that we can walk faster and be the first to arrive by the women's road.
The rooftops of Ghadames are like a city above the city, an open, sunny town for women only, where they walk about, lead their own lives, visit one another, and never talk to men. Twenty feet below, the men walk in the cool shade of the alleyways, conduct business, and never talk to women.
These two worlds, my mother often says, are as necessary and different as the sun and the moon. And the sun and the moon never meet, except at the beginning and end of the night.
We almost break our necks during our wild stampede, but finally we reach the northwest wall, with its tall fortifications and square tower. Here, outside the city walls, the Iforhas— the tribe of Tuareg nomads who escort the tradesmen ofGhadames to the far ends of the Sahara—have their encampment. The camel drivers have been waiting since dawn with at least twenty animals, all loaded with packsaddles and saddles, their forelegs hobbled, their mouths scornful.
At that instant I see my father's silhouette, with his honey-colored burnoose, and the blue djellaba that Jasim is sporting for the occasion. It's maddening that they're so far away from me! How can my father possibly recognize me among the identical veiled creatures perched on the city walls like a row of black birds?
I try to attract his attention by waving my hand, but he is too busy securing the saddlebags on the back of his camel. Gently, he makes the animal kneel down, then he eases himself onto the saddle, seizing its prominent pommel. Now comes the tricky moment—when the camel rises to its feet. As the animal stretches its front legs, one must be careful not to fall backward; then as the hind legs are raised, there's danger of sliding frontward, over the camel's neck! But for my father, all of this is second nature.
This will be his last caravan before the intense summer heat. He must go all the way to Tripoli, a twelve-day trek to the north,
Her eyes shine and she brings one of her long fingers up to her mouth. “It's a secret. Soon you'll know it. In the meantime, we'll still go to the edge of the city walls to see the caravan. Using the women's road.”
I accompany my father down the stairs to the narrow entryway that gives out into the street. Jasim, glowing with pride, helps my father with his two large saddlebags. My mother and Bilkisu stand side by side. They have taken off their jewelry. Their bare faces, one lightly tanned, the other dark, blend with the design of red palm trees and flowers— the magnificent garden that all the women of Ghadames paint in red, on the walls of their houses, to protect them against misfortune.
Papa has been careful to place the oil lamp pointing inward in the niche. This way, if a visitor looks in through the hole in the door, he will immediately know that my father is off on a trip. Placed another way, or unlit, the lamp conveys a completely different message. For example,
The master is in the palm grove.
Or,
There has been a death in the house.
The men know not to knock at the door when, thanks to the little lamp in the entryway, they see that the women are alone in the house.
Before going out, Papa leans toward me and holds me tight.
“I'll bring you back a gift,” he whispers, infuriatingJasim, who thinks our father spoils me far too much since I am “just a girl.”
Then they both slip away in the dark alleyway.
Mother does not want to come with us to the city walls. She is convinced that nothing bad can happen to my father as long as she is watching over the house at the precise moment when the caravan sets off. But Bilkisu doesn't share the same superstitions, and she is just as eager as I am to break up the monotony of our reclusive existence. So here we are jumping like goats over the small walls on the rooftops, our heads covered, but our dresses held above our ankles, so that we can walk faster and be the first to arrive by the women's road.
The rooftops of Ghadames are like a city above the city, an open, sunny town for women only, where they walk about, lead their own lives, visit one another, and never talk to men. Twenty feet below, the men walk in the cool shade of the alleyways, conduct business, and never talk to women.
These two worlds, my mother often says, are as necessary and different as the sun and the moon. And the sun and the moon never meet, except at the beginning and end of the night.
We almost break our necks during our wild stampede, but finally we reach the northwest wall, with its tall fortifications and square tower. Here, outside the city walls, the Iforhas— the tribe of Tuareg nomads who escort the tradesmen ofGhadames to the far ends of the Sahara—have their encampment. The camel drivers have been waiting since dawn with at least twenty animals, all loaded with packsaddles and saddles, their forelegs hobbled, their mouths scornful.
At that instant I see my father's silhouette, with his honey-colored burnoose, and the blue djellaba that Jasim is sporting for the occasion. It's maddening that they're so far away from me! How can my father possibly recognize me among the identical veiled creatures perched on the city walls like a row of black birds?
I try to attract his attention by waving my hand, but he is too busy securing the saddlebags on the back of his camel. Gently, he makes the animal kneel down, then he eases himself onto the saddle, seizing its prominent pommel. Now comes the tricky moment—when the camel rises to its feet. As the animal stretches its front legs, one must be careful not to fall backward; then as the hind legs are raised, there's danger of sliding frontward, over the camel's neck! But for my father, all of this is second nature.
This will be his last caravan before the intense summer heat. He must go all the way to Tripoli, a twelve-day trek to the north,
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