Mother of the Wind

We are homo sapiens – the tool users. We earn the name by developing tools to increase our leverage on the world around us, and with this increased technological leverage comes a growing sense of power. This position of advantage which protects us from wild nature we call Civilization. Our security increases as we apply more leverage, but along with it we notice a growing isolation from the earth. We crowd into cities which shut out the rhythms of the planet – daybreak, high tide, wispy cirrus high overhead yelling storm tomorrow, moonrise, Orion going south for the winter. Perceptions dull and we come to accept a blunting of feeling in the shadow of security. Drunk with power, I find that I am out of my senses. I, tool man, long for the immediacy of contact to brighten my senses again, to bring me nearer the world once more; in security I have forgotten how to dance.” – Yvon Chouinard, “Climbing Ice

Everything is quiet in my little glass box as it rises through the clouds. The rain has subsided. Only the mist – thick and grey – remains, clinging to the green hillsides. The leaves of the Douglas firs shiver, renewed and alive. I know the air outside is cold and wet but inside the gondola cart, the air is warm and dry. I am comfortable as I ferry a cartload of French fries from the base to the summit lodge.


The day grows older and the clouds begin to part, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the white. I return to the base again with a new shopping list. When I arrive back at the summit later in the afternoon there is a horde of tourists lined up in the cafeteria hall. They file along the bain-marie with the relentlessness of a factory assembly line. The cooks in their black uniforms pile mac and cheese, burgers, pork ribs and poutine onto freshly-wiped plastic trays. The horde moves on. They reach the till, they swipe their cards and with their trays overflowing, they move out onto the observation deck – a grazing ground with a view.

After eating, the iPhones and SLRs come out. Buttons are pressed, shutters flicker, high-powered lenses click into place. Here, as anywhere, it is not the view itself but the photo of the view which is important. It is not what the eyes have seen but what the wide-angle lens has captured. The panoramas, the selfies.  The view is what you pay for. The scene becomes pixels, memories reduced to data. Instagram snaps, Facebook profile pics – they’re all here waiting for you. Ride the gondola. Eat some food. Take some photos. Make some garbage.

Another busload arrives at the base and a conga-line of packed glass carts arrives at the summit. The daily cultural tour begins – a representative of the local First Nations arrives. With a crowd thronging around her, she gesticulates wildly at various points of interest. She’s wearing a feather in her hair. Designer sunglasses – made in Italy. North Face jacket – made in Vietnam.

“Natural medicines were sourced from plants in the woods around us,” she says. “The Squamish people never had need of a drug store.”

She points up at Skypilot, the rocky peak watching over the Shannan valley. She begins talking about it. Bare of snow and ice to keep it glued it together, Skypilot is crumbling beneath itself. The glacier which feeds Shannan creek is almost gone. Last winter was the driest on record. The falls have become a trickle. At the height of summer, the gondola was taking water from Shannan creek. An emergency agreement with First Nations and BC Parks. The toilets must keep flushing. The kitchen faucets must keep running. The customer does not like to go without.


Now the cultural tour is over. There are no more pictures left to take. What reason is there to linger? The horde begins to thin. No one takes the walking trail back to the base. That’s what the gondola is for.

Remaining at the summit, on the back end of the assembly line, I pile garbage onto a cart, prepping the detritus for downloading.

I board a glass cabin of my own. The doors close behind me. Everything is quiet again on the way back down. Below, the contours and colours of the landscape – the forested hills, the bulges of granitic mountaintops, the wide flat expanse of the Sound and the distant glaciers of the Coastal Range – meld one into the other: shades of green, of grey, of blue, of whitest white. To me, on the other side of the glass, the view may as well be a postcard – a messy watercolour of jumbled hues and shades. There is no texture, no depth of field, no ignition of the senses – just a scene.


I look to my right. It is the white of the mountains that arrests my attention more than any of the other colours. the far-off, the cold, the uninhabited. Inside my box, I feel a disconnect between me and the world outside. I am aware that a seaborne breeze is blowing hard against the cabin but I do not feel it cold and fresh and salty on my skin. I see the colours but I do not feel myself amongst them. I observe but I am not apart of.

High on the Chief, a day later, I slide my hand into a crack in the granite and flex my palm and thumb. My hand jams into place and I climb higher, hanging off skin and bone. I reach a small ledge. Two ring bolts and two hangers await me, affixed to the wall. I did not place these anchor bolts but I clip myself to them, trusting them implicitly, and belay my friends towards me. As I pull in the slack, I take in the granite walls around me, rising up on either side. I hear the rumbling of a truck in the distance and look over at the mine site across the way. The sound of exploding rock in the quarry. A copper mine. Sometimes I’ve wondered if the green deposits in the Sound are glacial or man-made.

Rowdy car horns are sounding on the highway below. A traffic jam has built up on the road back to Vancouver. A tugboat chugs down the fjord, dragging a bundle of wooden logs, bobbing side-by-side, through the water. Kitesurfers wallow about in the shallow water either side of the spit. A busy scene.

Squamish. An old logging town. An old mining town. An outdoors town. I hear the shouts of climbers elsewhere on the walls of the Chief. I pull in more slack and my friends climb higher towards me. Here I am, hanging from a pair of bolts that I did not place, climbing a granite big-wall with just four abseils between me and a supermarket. Somewhere below, a long-line helicopter waits dormant on a helipad – a search and rescue team always on standby. I am insured against calamity.

My friends arrive at the belay and we climb on, navigating the complex ridgeline of the Angel’s Crest – climbing toward the second summit. A gust of wind rustles through my hair as I traverse the razor-backed knife’s edge of the Acrophobes tower. I feel comfortable in my sticky rubber shoes and I remove one hand from the rock. I look down at the town again.

The Acrophobes, The Angel's Crest.

The Acrophobes, The Angel’s Crest.

Squamish. Skwxwú7mesh, in the Native tongue. When said aloud, it seems more a whisper than word. Whispered with the sighing of the wind through the spruce trees. Whispered by the last glimmer of the sun as it sets behind the Tantalus Range. Whispered by the waters of the Sound as they change from green to blue and from blue to ultramarine in the evening. It sounds old – primordial. Squamish. “The Mother of the wind”.

There was not always bolts on the Chief. There was not always the hustle and bustle of the town below. In earlier times, Squamish warriors would scale the low-angle faces of the Chief in barefeet and full battle garb to harden their minds and bodies. What must the fjord have looked like in those days? Before the copper mine? Before the pulp mill? before the golden arches next to Highway 99? Before the gondola? Before Man? What must this place have looked like?

The author high on the Chief (Photo: Pete Harris)

(Photo: Pete Harris)

Standing at the base of the Chief, in the climber’s campground, I look up at a prominent line of basalt – the Black Dyke – which snakes its way from sea level to summit. Squamish legend tells of a mythical serpent – Say-Noth-Ka – who, fleeing the might of a Native hero, slithered up the walls of the Chief, leaving this glistening path of geologic slime in its wake. Say-Noth-Ka fled across the landscape, carving out mountains and valleys and runnels for rivers and waterfalls. After hiding in the pools at the base of Shannan Falls, the warrior finally tracked Say-Noth-Ka down and slew the beast. Shannan Falls thus became a sacred site for the Squamish people. Today, with the glaciers bare and the rivers dry, the falls are reduced to a trickle. A line of bolts goes the whole way up the Black Dyke.

Down from the wall and back at work, I sit in my little glass cabin, moving French fries, once again, up through the mist. Working in logistics means keeping the summit fridge stocked. I arrive at the top. The crowds are thronging as usual – a camera lens between iris and panorama. There is the sound of French fries in the deep fryer, the chink of glasses at the bar, the rachet and jingle of the cash register as another North Face jacket goes into a shopping bag. The customer, his pockets a little lighter, his stomach a little fuller, steps outside into the mist. He rips the jacket from the shopping bag and pulls the new jacket around his shoulders. He struggles with the sleeves but then zips it up tight to the neck. The shopping bag and receipt goes straight into the garbage…

Eager are we to armour ourselves against Nature. So eager, in fact, that our armour has become inescapable. It has smothered us. It is only by breaking free from this armour, by leaving Civilisation behind us on the trail of the known and the comfortable, and by exposing ourselves, our whole selves, to Nature and her rawness, that the worth of Man can truly be found.

On the gondola ride back down, I gaze up at the mountains – Garibaldi and Atwell and the Coastal Range beyond – hanging white and wild and mighty. The Mother is calling me to be with her children amongst the tops.

At the Rubble Creek trailhead, I slide an ice axe into the straps of my backpack. I watch the sun rise over the Douglas Firs, and with my gear stripped down to the bare essentials – the minimum I need to survive – I shoulder my pack and walk into the wild.


The New West

Words by C August Elliott

Photos by John Price (check out more of his amazing photos here and here)

cave route

It is spring which means that winter is over and the ice is all gone. So you leave your settled life on the East Coast of Canada because even though you are comfortable and well-fed and happy enough I suppose (all things considered), you head west on the Great American Road Trip to live out of a van and go climbing and not eat as much as you did before, because travel is good for you and travel is about pushing beyond the frontiers with which you are familiar.

You don’t really know much about “the American West” other than what you know from people’s general soliloquizing and from the idea that America was born on its western frontier. So, because of its unknownness, you want to go discover what the West is all about. And someone told you that “the Wild West was only a construct anyway” which may be true but isn’t the same true of all ideas – including the names we give to the clusters of houses we call “cities” and the labels we give to the ultra-high points on the orogenic zones called “mountain ranges”. So you pay no attention to this “it’s only a construct” argument and you start driving – off in search of the Old West.

The big motorways running along the underside of the Great Lakes are four-lanes wide and pockmarked with the fast-food restaurants with which everybody is familiar and you stop for gas and then walk over to Dunkin’ Donuts™ because a two-donut and hot chocolate combo is only three dollars ninety-nine and because “America runs on Dunkin’™”.

You reach the end of New York state and look at Niagara Falls and look at the town surrounding Niagara Falls which is also called Niagara Falls and you look at the last of the remaining snow from winter, banked next to the footpath covered in the dirt kicked up from the wheels of a passing car. It is a grey, windy day and you stand on the footpath behind two barriers – because they erect a second barrier for the winter to keep people away from the dangers of Nature, because Nature is too dangerous to get too close to. And you look at the water falling off the edge of the cliff and you wonder what this place must have looked like when Jack London saw it and stared at it all night. And inside it makes you feel a little sad to be imagining what the thing used to looked like when you have the real thing in front of you.

So, with your hour-long visit complete, you walk away from the falls and walk back to your car and you can’t help but notice that the photos on the billboards next to the visitor’s center don’t show the buildings around the falls because nature photographers sometimes use deception when selecting the photo’s angle.

Then you drive through Ohio and Pennsylvania. And then you drive through Indiana where you learn from the billboards over the motorway that “Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior”. And then you pass through lower Illinois and it is still early spring so there is not much to look at as you drive down the motorway next to the stubbly wheatfields. And finally you reach St Louis and you cross the Mississippi and even though you marvel at the amazing bridge-like sculpture that they’ve constructed on the west side of the river, you wonder where are the steam boats that you think of when you think of Mark Twain and the Mississippi and the state of Missouri.

But then when you turn off towards Jefferson City, you are in Mark Twain country because there are rolling green hills and trees with pink flowers and there are towns with “Population 409” on the signposts which even though you know comes from the town’s last census, you can’t help but think that with a number so small and so specific someone must have gone and changed the sign from “Population 408” when such-and-such’s daughter had a baby. And there is the sound of a light drizzle on the tin roofs of the houses when you stop to sleep.

And the next day, you drive through Kansas and it is springtime so there is no corn to look at and you don’t see any tornadoes either which makes it seem like there is no such thing as Dorothy. But there is a Wendy’s. And as you drive between corn towns, the road is dead straight and on the left side in the distance you see a curtain – an actual curtain of falling rain – fluttering and shimmering and behind that there are darker clouds riven by intermittent lightning and on the right side of the road the sun is setting and rays of yellow-white light are piercing through a layer of clouds and resting on the roofs of the red farm houses. And you are driving between the storm on one side and the sunset on the other, toward the water tower in the distance.

And soon you will not be in Kansas anymore because you’ll be in Colorado. And then you cross the Colorado stateline and you’re in what you always thought was the “real” American West. But there is still McDonald’s and Steak ‘n’ Shake and Dunkin’ Donuts like in the other places. But you’re driving away from all that because you’re in search of the Old West and you’re quite sure that such a place still exists, just as the Old Elsewhere probably exists too if you’d bothered to stop and have a look, which you hadn’t because you were in a hurry like everybody else.

And the best thing about driving west is that at the end of every day you’re driving into the setting sun and you’ve seen the sun set over the Great Lakes, and the sun set over the Mississippi, and the sun set over Kansas, and the sun set over the Rockies and then finally when you arrive in the deserts of the New West, the sun setting over Utah. 11159996_10153278300206974_4280406062366980568_n

A lonely see-saw in the American West

A lonely see-saw in the American West (Elliott collection)

And you head straight for the Canyonlands and you pass through country that looks like it’s been transposed from a John Wayne movie or a Cormac McCarthy novel and your destination is Indian Creek where thousands of crack climbs split sandstone mesas for miles and miles either side of a lush belt of desert grasses and cottonwood trees where an old rancher herds cattle sometimes on horseback and sometimes in her four wheel drive.

And you climb there for weeks and weeks, jamming your hands into the cracks and placing cams above your head and taking big lunging whippers on the ropes you’ve bought with you. And at the end of every day you watch the sun setting over the North Six Shooter and the South Six Shooter and you can’t help but think how lucky you are that you – you of all people – are finally in the American West, climbing in the desert as one of the desert crack climbers which has been your dream for so long.

Moab - Red stone and Rednecks

Moab – Red stone and Rednecks.  (Photo) John Price Photography

The Cave Route (5.11)

The Cave Route (5.11).  (Photo) John Price Photography

Generic Crack (5.10-)

Generic Crack (5.10-). (Photo) John Price Photography

Supercrack (5.10), the first route climbed at Indian Creek

Supercrack (5.10), the first route climbed at Indian Creek. (Photo) John Price Photography

And last of all, you head into the Castle Valley to climb one of the classic desert towers and you follow a cracked, dry creekbed for many hours passing by wild desert flowers still blooming pink in the last few weeks of spring. And you ascend a steep moraine wall and reach the base of the tower you have come to climb and you begin climbing it. And you struggle up it – grunting, groaning, falling, resting, but climbing nonetheless. And then you reach the top and you can see all the other desert towers all around you – an impossible number of future objectives. And the Colorado River, winds its way, cold and brown and fast in the valley below. And you descend back to your car by the river and head back to town for an ice cream and a beer.

The Castle Valley

The Castle Valley. (Photo) John Price Photography

Larry Shiu and the author high on Sister Superior

Larry Shiu and the author high on Sister Superior (Photo) John Price Photography

Jah Man (5.10+), Sister Superior, Castle Valley

Jah Man (5.10+), Sister Superior, Castle Valley (Photo) John Price Photography

Larry Shiu descending from Jah Man

Larry Shiu descending from Jah Man. (Photo) John Price Photography

And you arrive back in Moab and you step out of your van and smell the desert air and you feel it hot against your skin and you feel like a cowboy getting off his horse next to the saloon and pulling his neckerchief from his mouth even though you’re not really a cowboy and you know it.

And you see across the street from you a police officer who is looking at you and your van. And you feel a little bit like an outlaw – because you’re a climber and he’s the Law and you’ve heard that the Law don’t much like the climbers because the climbers are a bit like Jack London’s “hoboes” or Jack Kerouac’s “beatniks” – poor and unemployed and free. But there’s nothing wrong with being an “outlaw” because being an outlaw is a bit different to being a criminal because criminals are nasty crime-doers and outlaws are just “outside of the law” and whose to say that the Law is always right? And the police officer (or the sheriff as you might call him) – he’s got a bag of food in his hand which says Dunkin’ Donuts™ on it.

And then you open the back doors of your van and look inside at your cams and karabiners and they are gleaming like stolen gold in the dying sunlight. And if the Utah desert was a veritable goldmine for a climber then you’ve cleaned the place out. And then you realize that the Old West still exists for anybody who might want it to. 11205109_759555617491119_2808043510074725849_n

Hajj Al-Sahara – A Ride on The Iron Ore Train of Zouerat

Some train journeys take place in rolling green countryside. Some trains have air-conditioning and some trains have snack carts. Some trains have seats and benches and bathrooms with toilets that flush. Some trains are smooth and fast and sterile, like space shuttles moving between orbital stations. The train I was on was nothing like that. I was in the middle of Mauritania on top of a freight train bucket cart piled high with iron ore.

Supine and covered in fine black dust, I gaze up at the night sky. Like every night I’d spent in the Sahara it is black and it is forever and it is filled with uncountable stars. My glimpse of purity is unimpeded by the contours of a landscape. The desert is dark and flat and silent and the train is long and noisy and dusty.

Encased, mummy-like, in my thin, discount-bin sleeping bag, I close my eyes. A gust of wind blows along the train, whipping spindrift off the iron mounds and I am blanketed in dust. I can taste the faintly ferrous texture of mineral grit between my teeth. No, I wasn’t travelling first class across the French countryside. But I was travelling for free. There are a lot of superlatives that can be said about the iron ore train of Zouerat. The longest train in the world on the longest railway in West Africa. The least clean train in the world. The cheapest train ride in the world. But with dust blowing in my face and the endless night above me and the empty desert all around me and the wheels of the carriage rattling and sparking beneath me, only one superlative comes to mind – this has to be the most adventurous train ride in the world.


I arrive in Choum, a railroad outpost at the heart of the Mauritanian desert, in the tray of a pickup truck. I’ve been travelling through the desert for almost a month now and a deep fatigue, a primal exhaustion the likes of which I’ve never experienced has begun to set in. In the last few weeks I’d slowly made my way across the Sahara by foot, by hoof and by wheel. On the horrendous bus rides between African capitals, I had been privy to more ear-splittingly loud African gangsta rap than I cared to remember. I haven’t showered in two weeks and I haven’t seen a Western toilet in six. My clothes are torn and filthy – the sleeves of my once-blue shirt are brown and the legs of my hiking pants are little more than an array of threads without patches.

The driver, a wiry Berber man in a tan-brown turban unloads my baggage and shakes my hand. He knows very little French and the Arabic (called “Hassaniya” here) he speaks is different to any of the Arabic I recognise. I look around at the tiny town – little more than an unpaved, sandy plaza girded by a few cuboid middens. I spy a railway track and the carapace of a decommissioned train carriage. Beyond that, there is only desert. Interesting spot. I look back at the driver and point at the ground.


He nods. “Choum.”

I shake his hand again and watch as he sidles back into the truck, revs the engine and speeds off across the sand. He’s in fifth gear by the time he’s spanned the railway track, and that is the last I see of him.

I return to my surroundings. Bienvenue à Choum. I’d read somewhere that Choum was the stepping off point for “the most adventurous train ride on Earth” and since riding in one of the iron-ore carriages was supposed to be free, it seemed like a logical way to cross the Western Sahara on a shoestring budget.

I walk across the dusty square to a small mudbrick building where everybody seems to be congregating. The word “restaurant” is written in Arabic on a placard out the front. A bowl of rice with a sloshing of brown sauce awaits me within. I hazard an attempt at speaking in my high-register Arabic to see if anybody knows what time the train will be coming. Just as English is the result of a tryst between the Germanic tongues and The Romance, Hassaniya is not so much a dialect of Arabic as it is a conglomerate of many Saharan languages with some loan words thrown in by the descendants of Mohammed. Being a linguistic universe away from the formal Arabic I learned in the classroom, I wonder if I’m the equivalent of a new arrival to a Western country trying out Shakespearean prose in the queue for a bus ticket.

Everybody seems to have a different opinion about the arrival time of the train. I take an average. If I’m at the train station before five o’clock I should be on time. But where do I board? Everybody seems to have a different answer for that too. I’d read somewhere that the train, depending on how much iron ore it is carrying can be up to three kilometres long, so I don’t want to ruin my chance at getting a free ride to Nouadhibou by waiting in the wrong place.

Presently, after a short game of mimes where I’m playing the part of a failed Arabic linguist, an old man comes along and speaks to me in what seems like perfect Parisian French. I learn that the tiny shelter-like structure which serves as the train station is three kilometres east of town and up-track, just “au-delà des arbres”… “beyond the trees”.

I shoulder my bags and begin walking down the railway tracks to the little building in the distance. I pass a small hut where a gendarme sits with his Kalashnikov in his lap, smoking reds. Behind him, his friend is asleep on a small cot. He asks for my passport and I hand him a photocopy. He nods and I continue on my way. I can’t help but notice there are no radio antennae exuding from their little outpost, unlike the others I’d seen. I suppose their commanders in Nouakchott weren’t very interested in what was happening in Choum.

As a country built by the descendants of Bedouin who had wandered in from as far as Arabia, Mauritania today resembles not so much a “state” but a “confederacy” – a group of tribes who got together for the sole purpose of agreeing on a name for the desert in which they dwelt. On paper there is a small country called Mauritania in Northwest Africa. But in the real world, though the government had recently made the notable decision to become the last on earth to abolish slavery, Mauritania is anything but a centrally-governed country.

Ruling from Nouakchott, a city which in itself has been described as an exercise in “capital-building nomad style”, the government seems to have very little actual interest in what is happening in the desert. The police, the military and the gendarmerie had all formed their own little mini-tribes out here. They formed just another clan in the confederacy – the Ouled Militaire.

Despite this, in piecing together just the bare essentials of a state, Mauritania had succeeded in its search for peace – an island of security compared to the Nietzchean tragedy playing out elsewhere in the Sahara.

A Typical Gendarmerie Outpost in Mauritania

A Typical Gendarmerie Outpost in Mauritania

I arrive at the little shelter where I meet Saidou, Alioune and Moustapha – three Reguibat fellows from the Adrar on their way to Nouadhibou by the Atlantic. In the late-afternoon shade, they sit around brewing sweet yellow tea (the traditional way, over coals) as they hum to Phil Collins swooning from the speakers of an MP3 player. The coals are glowing red as the song reaches its crescendo.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life,” Monsieur Collins is singing. Drumbeat. The pot boils. Tea’s ready.

I am invited to sit with them and they pour me a glass and we chat in French about our favourite music. It seems that the lads are fans of the classic sounds of Francis Cabrel and Rod Stewart. And Phil Collins is their favourite.

The Railway

The Railway “Station”

Everywhere across the Sahara, I am met by these fusions of two worlds – the Western with the Islamic; the Old with the New; traditional society with encroaching modernity. I’ve met goatherds with smartphones; tribesmen who’ve visited Paris; imams in Real Madrid jerseys. The anthropologist Ines Kohl writes that the Tuareg often refer to their Toyota pickup trucks as “alam n japon” – “Japanese camel”. This 80s-pop-rock-themed nomadic tea party is just another snapshot of the truly global village that is the Sahara.

Indeed, it is in the very existence of tea here, that we can see globalisation at work throughout Mauritania’s history. In the 15th century, tea came from China in the cargo holds of the Portuguese fleet. The mint came from Morocco and the sugar from Senegal. The objects of the tea-making ritual – the tiny glasses, the teapot, the pyx in which the sugar is kept are all venerated and are all foreign. Everything about mint tea, a centrepiece of Mauritanian society, is imported. But all the same it has been indigenized, such that the Mauritanians have made tea and its cultural meaning their own.

A cloud of dust appears on the horizon, followed by the serpentine form of a diesel-powered train. It approaches quickly and the lads reach for their smartphones to snap a few pictures. The conductor is hanging half out the window as he rolls past, heralded by the hiss of pistons and the screech of scrap-iron. The bucket carts trail behind, slag-heap upon slag-heap. The train shows no sign of slowing. I shoulder my bags as the carriages roll by. Hundreds of them. In the time it takes to see the back of the train I could have savoured another glass of tea.

Finally, with the sun dropping lower in the sky, the train comes to a stop, all three kilometres of it. People start running, frantically shouldering big sacs of food aid and scrabbling for prime position in the passenger carriage. The passenger carriage – where the luxury traveller can scrabble for a bench – costs about $9 but we’re travelling for free.

The train arrives in Choum

The train arrives in Choum

Arrival in Choum-3 Arrival in Choum-2

I’d read of travelling in the ore cars that they were dusty “on the way into the interior” and “impossibly dusty on top of the ore heading to the coast”. As we sprinted along the tracks looking for a vacant cart, the shapes of soot-clad riders were profiled against the sky, kings of their castles, staking claim to their own little black mound.

We find a free cart and clamber aboard. The train begins to move and we carve out foxholes for ourselves amongst the ore. We pass a chain of sun-baked mountains on our left. Shrouded by dust coughed up from the parched earth, the sun appears not as an orb but as an expanse of brilliant light. Sunset happens in hues of orange and white, hovering over the mountains for a moment, before sliding below the horizon, leaving behind the purple night. Moustapha, headphones-on-turban, lights up a cigarette.

Bound for the Atlantic!

Bound for the Atlantic!

Mustapha smoking reds

Mustapha smoking reds

Sunset from a bucket cart

Sunset from a bucket cart

With the going down of the sun, Saidou and Alioune unroll a little prayer rug, and, sharing half each, they inch in close to conduct their maghrib (evening) prayers. I look to my left towards the mountains where the sun disappeared. Soused now in the cool darkness, the earth and its inhabitants, have finally found reprieve from the burning heat of day. I give thanks for this as I reach for my water bottle. The intonations in Saidou and Alioune’s prayer give thanks for this too.

Of course, Islam cannot be thought of in isolation to the stark and inhospitable desert from which it sprang. Indeed, as the geographer William Norton reminds us Mecca itself was once but a lone, alkaline well amongst barren mountains. Even in the pages of the Qur’an we see not only an image of Mohammed the Prophet but also of Mohammed the Bedouin – the mirage as the faith of the unbelievers; the rain as a reward for Submission to His Will and thirst as His Reckoning. And finally, there is Allah himself, seated on the throne of the universe as the cameleer at the head of his caravan. The essence of the desert is travel because to linger in one place for too long is to die. Thus, the essence of Islam is also that of travel – a religion for the eternal pilgrim, ever on the road, ever on his hajj to Mecca.

At some point near midnight, we pass by the lights of a rail-side resthouse. A pair of bleary-eyed Mauritanians board the bucket cart behind us and dig out their sleeping spaces beneath the light of a lantern. The A-carriage is changed, and the train, with a new engine and driver ploughs on. Wearing all my clothes and with my face tightly wrapped in an indigo turban, I roll over and shiver in the nighttime chill. Beneath a layer of black silt, I sleep very little.

Dawn breaks in colours of pink and I emerge from my foxhole. I take a #selfie, and, after reviewing it, realise that I am covered head to toe in black soot.

#Selfie #Mauritania

#Selfie #Mauritania

Saidou and Mustapha after a dusty night

Saidou and Mustapha after a dusty night

The train veers left and passes between two tall sand dunes and then, with neither pomp nor warning, the ocean reveals itself before us – my first view of the Atlantic. I feel like Xenophon emerging from the deserts of Persia, gazing upon salvation in the blue beyond.

Thalassa, thalassa. The sea, the sea. It was Xenophon who said that right? I’m sure it wasn’t Phil Collins.

Later, on the shores of the Cap de Beguin, I gaze out at a graveyard for abandoned ships, hundreds of them dragged up on the beach. From the different makes and sizes, the ships had been sailed from all around the world to be disposed of in the nautical grey area that is Mauritania. Their rusty hulls are illuminated by the early morning light, shades of russet brown against the white sand. I wonder what this beach would have looked like in an age before fraudulent insurance claims. I look across the bay as the sandcastle wall of a crumbling cliff falls into the sea. This was the end point of my desert journey. My own little hajj. My hajj al-Sahara.

The train turns south towards Nouadhibou

The train turns south towards Nouadhibou

The essence of the desert is travel

The essence of the desert is travel

For your own Hajj Al-Sahara on the iron ore train:

Train Information: The iron ore train runs from the mines at Zouerat to Nouadhibou on Mauritania’s Atlantic coast and stops in Choum where all desert travellers should get on and off.

Getting There: From Atar, after you’ve been on your camel ride through the Adrar desert, reserve a spot in a vehicle travelling to Choum (minibuses and 4WDs are available. From experience, don’t travel in the tray).

Departure Times: For west-bound travellers heading to the coast, the train leaves Zouerat at noon and stops in Choum at about 5pm. For those on their way into the desert, the train leaves Nouadhibou at around 2pm for a journey of around 12 hours.

Onward Travel: Onward connections to Atar and Chinguetti are available in Choum’s main plaza. From any of the local garages in Nouadhibou you can take a bush taxi across the Moroccan border to Dakhla.

Seating Arrangements: A bench in the passenger carriage is UM2500 (about US$9). “Berths” are also available for UM3000. Or, you can ride in the ore carriage for free!  

Hajj Al-Sahara – Prison

The door was a rectangle of solid ironwork and it bore a big, heavy lock. I suppose alot of doors to prison cells look like this. The lock itself was a rusty crossbar. Most locks are designed to keep people out. This one was designed to keep me in.

The peephole at headheight was covered by another bar of metal, bolted in place. It didn’t seem like it was designed to open, so I figured no one would be checking in to see how I was doing. By the time I got to the point of madly shouting out for attention the guards would be long past the point of ignoring me.

On the wall adjacent, stretching roof-to-floor, “MNLA” had been graffitied in big, black, block letters. The passing braggadocio of a since-vanquished victor.

As he unlatched the lock and motioned me through the open doorway, the guard, thin and hungry-looking, said nothing. I asked him how long I’d be confined for. No response. How long would it be before I was able to see someone from the embassy. Nothing.

I stepped past him.The room on the other side of the threshold was colder than the room behind me. Bare. There was nothing in there. No basin, no mattress, no prison library brimming with the well-thumbed pages of Penguin classics. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a copy of a Dostoyevsky novel, but I figured they might have a Qur’an or something in there.

The room was a four-walled cell with a thin film of red dust coating the once-white tiled floor. An adjoining “douche” sported not a shower but a squat toilet, the shit-hole sealed over by a plank of wood. I had nothing with me. No belt, no shoes, no book to read – not even a filthy mattress to sleep on. At once the freedom of the traveller on the road had been replaced by the inertia of the prisoner, my liberty reduced to the circular pacings of my three-by-three room. A choice between sulking in the corner of my bare-floored cell and looking out on the world from the ledge of the iron-barred window.

I was suddenly aware of an inherent falsehood in the old cliché “when one door closes another one opens”. There were no magically-opening doors awaiting me in here. No biblical Paradise. The man ushering me through the doorway was too ugly to be an angel. And even if he was some kind of desert mala’ikah then where was the garden full of houris?

Armstrong-like, with just a few short steps I had made the transition into a new and alien world. With it my horizons had been infinitely broadened, delimited only by the boundaries of these four corners. I had made the transition from the World of the Free Man to the World of the Prisoner. And, in making the transition finite, it was less in the clanging shut of the door behind me but in the act of walking (of my own volition) into the cell that this realisation really hit me. The self-propulsion of my own legs had carried me into captivity. That’s irony I suppose.


In the days following my solo on the North Pillar I chat, natter and relax with the locals in Garmi. All of them have become close friends. There is Amadou, my trekking guide and water-boy. There is Sooleiman, my cook. There is Idrissa, Mohammed and Ibrahim. Then there are the endless hordes of children – boys and girls alike – begging for me to take their picture (see video).  They waft in and out of my small mud hut, rifling through my belongings. I count the hours in the shade with Sooleiman and Amadou, and at the base of the bed we brew sweet yellow tea.


Enjoying my first reprieve of shade and water. Noon after returning from my climb

Children in the village of Garmi

Children in the village of Garmi

I’ve spent a week in the massif now and though I wish I could stay longer I know that it will soon be time to go. I have two countries, a disputed region and the world’s largest desert to cross. I’m supposed to be in Casablanca in three weeks. It is late afternoon on New Year’s Day (my birthday) and by the time I return with Amadou from Kaga Tondo I know for sure that I am going to miss my deadline.

Sooleiman is ecstatic to have me. His meals are simple – “riz avec des condiments” – but he cooks with passion, sitting on his haunches in the corner of the room, fastidiously tending a fire lit from animal dung. Today, my birthday and the day of my return from the mountain, he has killed a chicken to go with the rice. With wide eyes, he watches me take a spoonful and place it in my mouth. He doesn’t hold his breath but his eagerness to please is uncomfortable. It has been three years since the last group of foreigners passed through Garmi.

“Before la crise,” he says. “Many climbers came here. But you are the first to climb for many years.” He pauses for a moment. “And we would like to erect something in your honour.”

I ponder this a moment, disturbed. Garmi is a fascinating place, but Sooleiman’s words show a darker truth of modern life in rural Africa. The growing embryo of “liberal development” mean Garmi now has a well, a school and hither-scattered signs listing all the things that USAID has given to the village.

The flocks of nomads from elsewhere graze what little grass grows near Garmi because development has given the villagers books and the French language and what need is there for tending to the flock when there is a whole “national economy” awaiting? Sooleiman’s dream is to run an “auberge” – a guesthouse for passing Western travellers treading lightly across West Africa. There are no Western travellers passing by Garmi anymore.

On the other side of the mountain, Daari (the start point of my village-to-village traverse of the massif), in the shadow of Kaga Tondo, lies in the shadow of inexorable development. There is no school. There is no French language. There is only the village. And life in the village. They do not prosper in the harsh Sahelian desert but they do not go hungry either.

The village of Garmi from the Kaga Pomori col

The village of Garmi from the Kaga Pomori col

As the urban core grows, like an “embryo of good”, the periphery is transformed. We are told that the meaning of “education” is “emancipation”. But with education, conversations of “daily subsistence” fall by the wayside and cash not goat’s milk becomes the currency of the day. After the djihadiste advance in 2012, Mali’s tourist economy collapsed. Sooleiman and Amadou left their village and sought out the fabulous wealth of mythical Bamako. They found nothing there but abject poverty. And now, back in Garmi with neither the promised riches nor the know-how to tend the flock they had waited for a white man to come along with fistfuls of tourist dollars and change things.

Plastic slippers donated by various aid group make for soccer boots in Garmi

Plastic slippers donated by various aid group make for soccer boots in Garmi

In orange - Gourou Abu Amadou (Amadou's father), chief of the village of Garmi

In orange – Gourou Abu Amadou (Amadou’s father), chief of the village of Garmi

In the way that he spoke to me, it seemed that Sooleiman saw me as a person who could drastically change his circumstances. I knew he was serious when he talked about erecting a statue – and it concerned me. It seemed that in some way or another, European colonialism’s parting gift to Africa was to leave behind a discourse that despite the ruinous civil war that would engulf the continent, personal contact with someone like me was the same as a ticket out.

Or as Amadou had put it: “quand nous voyons un blanc, c’est comme l’or.” “When we see a white, it’s like gold.”

To Amadou and Sooleiman, our relationship represented an opportunity for wealth, an opportunity for a visa maybe. In many ways, the reality of the global economy and the emancipatory discourse of development had created this relationship. “Development” engulfs, like a red dwarf, all bodies that orbit it, and once it implodes, those same bodies, transformed, are sucked down, down into the black hole that remains. The black hole at the core.

A week in the massif had left with me an overwhelming sense of the grim. But with only two days left, I set off with Amadou to scout out some more climbing possibilities. In the late afternoon, we sit on the rooftop of the encampement détruit in Daari, scoping lines, plotting a skyline traverse of the massif.

A trail of dust appears on the horizon. A black ute, printed with white letters bounces down the highway. It veers right off the road, trundles through the village and pulls up at the moraine wall below the base of Kaga Tondo. A man in a black, collared shirt and a woman step out, followed by a young boy and an older man in a white boubou.

Curious, we observe these newcomers, and then, identifying the man in the white boubou, Amadou tells me that he is the mayor of Hombori. The boubou belongs to Amadou and the mayor had stolen it from him. He recounts this tale as if it was normal to have your possessions taken from you by local officials.

The man in the black-collared shirt was the commander of the local gendarmerie, Amadou explained. No one seemed to know much about him except that he was a Bembera bus-in from Bamako.

The mayor approaches Amadou smiling. “I did not know you had a white here,” he says. He offers a hand and Amadou takes it. They begin speaking in rapid Fulani. The mayor scrutinises me as they speak. I wonder if there is a “guichet automatique” sign above my head and sit in silence on the rooftop.

The man in the black-collared shirt approaches Amadou. “C’est qui?” he demands, pointing a me.

“Un canadien.”

“Est-ce qu’il parle français?”

“Yes I speak French,” I intervene with a broad smile.

“Come here.” His tone is severe, officious.

I descend the creaky, mud-steps from the rooftop terrace and stand before him.

“Comment allez-vous monsieur?” he says to me. He emphasises the “vous”. Formal French.

“I’m alright thank you.”

“Je suis la commandante de la gendermarie nationale à Hombori,” he says to me. He introduces himself with the frank self-adulation of words on a business card.

Enchanté.” I smile. I offer my hand. He doesn’t shake it. I want this conversation to be over quickly.

“Do you have authorisation to be here?” he asks me.

I nod. I reach into my pocket for my passport and hand it to him with the visa page already open.

Like Wangel Debridu behind him, the commandant stands embossed by the setting sun, rays of light making fine particles of dust dance across his epaulets. Bureaucracy in silhouette, he flicks through the passport pages.

Wangel Debridu, encircled by light from the setting sun

Wangel Debridu

He looks at me. “You must come with me. You are here illegally,” he says simply.

I point him to the page with the Malian visa affixed, stamped by the border police at BKO-Sénou International Airport.

He shakes his head. “Je suis le chef de la poste à Hombori,” he reiterates in case I missed it the first time. All pfiefs demand obsequiences from time to time. He pulls a government-issued ID card from a tatty old wallet to underscore his point. “You will come with me to the post now. Where you will be charged and prosecuted.”

We are herded into the utility tray of his vehicle. Disturbed, I cast a look at Amadou. On the surface he seems unphased.

He shrugs. “Aller-retour,” he assures me. “We will go and then we will come back.”

A cowboy sunset hangs in the west behind the Hand of Fatima as we speed towards Hombori. Aggressive behind the wheel, the gendarme with the mayor, his wife, child and us in tow, hits every speed bump and pothole along the road.

Hombori is a nothing town in the middle of nowhere. At last light, as we approach the brigade post, a draft of wind blows red dust across the road. A duststorm gathers in the distance and the Wild West colours splashed across the sky are choked by a Martian smog.

The gendarmerie often show up to spoil people's day

The gendarmerie often show up to spoil people’s day

The Hand of Fatima massif backlit by the setting sun as we sped toward Hombori

The Hand of Fatima massif backlit by the setting sun as we sped toward Hombori

The commandant pulls up in front of the building, a small desert fort backing onto a plain of dessicated grasses and thorn trees. He leads me and Amadou inside and we follow him down a darkened corridor into an office marked “CB” (chef de la brigade).

He switches a light on in the office and we are sat down. He is God in Hombori, he explains to me. It is illegal for me to be here without him knowing. I humour him for a time, trying the age-old ego-stroking method of escape. He explains to me that the threat of kidnapping is so high that only he can guarantee my safety and that if I had come here on the first day in the area and paid for an armed military escort (the gendarmerie doubled as freelancers it seemed) than my presence would have been legally permissible. None of the soldiers manning dozens of road blocks on the way into Hombori had explained this to me as they checked my passport, of course.

“How much would the escort have cost me?” I asked the commandant.

“Six hundred Euros,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And since I didn’t request one you say I didn’t have your permission to be here?”


“And this is a crime?”

Presque un crime,” he said, emphasising the “almost” part. He was an important guy – the commandant of an African police force at a remote desert outpost. Holding an office like that, it would be too much to grapple with the ins and outs of silly things like “what did and didn’t constitute a crime”.

I asked him how I would be punished. Lady Justice had offered me two options. I could pay a sum he referred to as “la defence” or I would be put in prison.

“How much for la defence?”

“Six hundred Euros.” There was a certain congruity in the figures he was quoting me. I wondered what his kid wanted for Eid.

I didn’t have that kind of cash and the closest ATM was in Bamako where I certainly couldn’t go (lest I be able to fact-check the offence he alleged I had committed) so he told me I would be put in prison instead. But first, I would have to “confess”.

I am sat down in a four-walled room with a tiny square window looking out on the red beyond. A gendarme is seated opposite me. He is junior to the commandant, but older than him. My interrogator.

“Vous êtes un tourist?”


“Service militaire?”

“Non.” Not necessarily true but my response was a reflex and the question wasn’t relevant.

“Why are you here?”

“To climb the hand of Fatima.”

“Why are you in Mali without authorisation?”

“I have authorisation… I have a visa.”

“A visa does not give you permission to be in the country of Mali.”

I was confused now. A second man entered the room. He was to be my English translator for the confession statement I was about to make. I read French fine and of course, the English translator explained who he was in French. He said a few broken phrases in English to me about how I had committed a crime until we both silently acknowledged that his English was terrible and we switched back to French.

The first gendarme continued. “So you admit that you have done something wrong then?”

“I don’t think I understand,” I told him. “I have a visa. This is enough to be here in Mali. If you want to go to my country, Canada, all you need to do is apply for a visa from the embassy then you can visit Canada.”
“No,” the gendarme shook his head. “This is not how it works in Canada.”

“Have you been to Canada?”


“So then how would you know?”

He pondered on this for a moment considering how and if he might know the details of Canadian immigration procedures. Then, still impervious to my bullets of logic he deflected and began firing back his own hollow-points.

“You are a spy aren’t you?” he said. Deadpan. Frankly, you had to admire him for his bluntness.

“No. I am a student and a climber.”

“How can you prove to us that you are not a spy?” intervened the “English translator” in French.

In the Gun-Toting Gendarme’s Court of Hombori, it seemed, the onus of proof was on the suspect. More to the point, there was a bona fide miscarriage of logic going on around here. How could I prove that I wasn’t something which I was not? It was like disproving the existence of God. Logically, you can’t do it – because in order to prove that something isn’t (as in “God isn’t real”) you have to know everything that is.

I could show them my student ID cards or the remnants of my climbing equipment post-Kaga to show that I was both an anthropology post-grad and an expedition big-wall climber but would that be enough to prove that I wasn’t a spy? Even I couldn’t possibly know everything about myself. Who knows… I could be a whole number of things of which I was not aware – a doomed man hiding an insidious brain tumour; a child of adoption who was actually half-Mohawk; a deluded egotist masquerading as a traveller of the world.  To my knowledge however, I wasn’t in Mali spying for anybody.

It felt like a very philosophical question, one which I doubted they were capable of grappling with. So I showed them my student ID card and my membership card to the ANU Mountaineering Club and left it at that. The questions didn’t end there.

“You are a djihadiste aren’t you?” Was the next of the gendarme’s Sherlock Holmesian questions.


“Are you are here because you have been invited to fight in the djihad?”


I signed some statement, after correcting a few of the words he had written down as if they had come from my mouth.

The commandant burst into the room. “Maintenant,” he said. “Je vais te boucler.” He pulled a set of keys from the table. Being told that you are to be “bouclé” literally means you’re about to be “buckled and chained” which in a medieval or Alexandre Dumas novel kind-of-way seems a lot more severe then simply being “put in jail”.

“When will I be able to face la justice?” I ask, wondering if there was such thing as a magistrate around here.

Bientôt,” is his cryptic, creepy reply. They take my belt, my shoes and my wallet from me. I am led to my cell.

Now, bewildered and alone in my new-found accommodation, I pondered my predicament. I had come here driven by some soteriological fascination with the sandstone fingers of a rock massif called the Hand of Fatima. I had come here in search of the sanctity of space, desert sunsets and stark and empty skies. The freedom of the open air. I looked around at the irony I had found instead.

A pair of finches flitted in and out of the window grate. Just as I had been imprisoned below the crux pitch of the North Pillar looking up at the birds surfing the gusts of wind, I now watched these finches, moving between my depressing wold within and the free world without. For a bird, I mused, a prison is but a perch, and a cliff but a cradle. I empathised with the birdman of Alcatraz.

With my bare toes I swept a little sleeping space in the red dust and lay down on my back, hands behind my head. The ground was cold and hard against my shoulder-blades. Time passed and with it, the sure knowledge of Amadou’s promise that we would be let go today.

I turned onto my side, my spine curving awkwardly as I jostled at once with my head on my hands and then with my bony hip on the hard floor. I felt something pinch into my right side. I reach down and felt a coin, tucked into the small watch pocket that sits zipped and stitched into the main pocket of my trekking pants. A twenty riyal coin, minted in Sana’a. A circle of gold-coloured metal girded by a ring of silver. The tails side is the number twenty in Arabic numerals and the heads side is a Soqotri dragon’s blood tree. Just two weeks after leaving Soqotra, I suddenly felt an overwhelming nostalgia for it. The “why” was self-evident.

I had nothing to do so I flipped it, asking the coin questions as a child does of those magic 8 balls. Heads was “yes”. Tails was “no”.

“Will I get out of here tomorrow?” Tails.

Fuck. Alright let’s try that again but word it differently. “Here” must have been “Mali”? And I wouldn’t be leaving Mali for another week.

“Will I get out of prison tomorrow?” Tails.


“Will I get out of this cell by next week?” Tails.

I sighed. Alright let’s change things up a bit. Tails was “yes”. Heads was “no”.

“Will I ever get out of here?” Heads.

I’d had enough of flip-the-coin for now and I put it back in my pocket. The light went out and I was swathed in darkness. I rolled over and went to sleep.

I awoke, stomach down on the floor of my cell, and gazed out the window again. Dust filled the air – a thick and total cloud replacing the clear blue skies of yesterweeks with a drab and pale brown. The morning sun was a dull lightbulb, a sullen white circle suspended amidst the haze. With the dregs of some far-off harmattan choking the air, today would not have been a climbing day anyway but with no means to escape my earthly prison and no rays of warmth and light to brighten the morning, a sunless sense of the grim hung in the air.

I stood up again and moved over to the sill. I looked out. A nomad passed with his flock of goats, texting on his phone. Often, I had found something wholly frustrating in observing someone owning and using a mobile phone while one’s children wafted around fallow grazing grounds with swollen bellies (a tragic phenomenon worthy of a structure-versus-agency debate). But now this young nineteen year-old goatherd was my best friend.

I waved him over. Curious, at the pair of hands reaching through the metal grate he placed his cell phone in the pocket of his boubou and approached the window. “I will give you ten-thousand francs if you can call the Canadian embassy and tell them I am in here,” I said. He nodded and asked a few more questions. I gave him my details and he left.

A short time later, the commandant returns to my cell, berates me about “having spoken to Bamako” and then orders me to return with an armed escort to Garmi where I will pick up all my belongings and return to prison.

They place a pair of leg chains on me and I am led out to the ute. We return to Garmi, me, in my chains, giving the road directions to the driver. We collect my belongings and while the commandant spends a bit of time berating some of the villagers that were “harbouring me”, I snap a few photos, hide my camera and I am back in my cell and without any shoes or belt within the hour. Alone again. Alone and afraid.

In the back of the ute after collecting my bags

In the back of the ute after collecting my bags



The hours pass with no sign of clearing skies. The sun had gone. Dust blew across the yard. Wind scoured the dead earth. The ground under-gust seemed not to care. Submission. Giving up seemed inevitable here. Man is a social animal and alone in my cage I was neither social nor animal. I was a solitary life form without company. With every metre gained on Kaga Tondo I had felt myself leaving the world of Man but fingering the gossamer hem of a new state of consciousness. But here, in solitary confinement, though aware that I was still alive, beyond the confines of my mind I was aware only of a world outside of which I was no longer apart. I was a vegetable in suspended animation. Loneliness is a dark place to exist. Solitary confinement is torture.

By late afternoon, without any contact since our little ballad around the village, I hear the latch unlock. I stood up, walked over to the door and waited next to it, like a dog excited to see its owner. The door opened and I saw the hungry guard again, his head poking through the doorway. I tried to say something to him but he simply placed a bottle of water beside me and some food and then shut it again, saying nothing. I heard the latch lock again.

Alone once more, I looked down at my supper. There was nothing to go with the rice – just plain white grains, cooked into a mushy conglomerate with no sauce.

The sky darkened. The sun did not set because today the sun had never come. There were no lights in my cell tonight. I didn’t bother shouting out for an answer why – an answer would not be given. I roll over in the dust, and make another attempt at sleep. The desert night is a cold one and I shiver on the hard floor.

At ten p.m, the cell door swings open and the light from my headtorch shines through. I place my hand over my eyes as I adjust to the bright light shining in my face. The commandant has been going through my possessions it seems.

“What are you doing?” he says to me. “Don’t you want to leave?”

I stand up and follow him out the door, still shivering.

He sits me down in his office and explains to me what has happened. “The chief of the djihadiste rebels has called me,” he says. “I don’t know how he got my number but he has called me and asked about you.”

It was all becoming a bit surreal and farcical, like the first draft of a divine comedy that’s missing a few key pages. But then again… I’m sure that Mokhtar Belmokhtar, currently on the run from French special forces in the Algerian desert, had every reason to be on a mobile phone talking to a low-level police commander in Hombori.

“He asked if you were here,” he tells me.

I play along. “You didn’t tell him where I was did you?”

“No of course not,” he says. “But I called my superior and they informed me that we must get you out of here tonight, away from la zone d’urgence.”

I nod, feigning gratitude.

“You are to leave now, clandestinement,” he continues.

Another man enters the room – the same thin and hungry-looking guard that had led me to my cell the day previous. He is standing there in a big trench-coat, sunglasses-at-night, like some starved, schlock, Third World rendering of Morpheus from The Matrix.

The commandant introduces us. “This man will escort you back to Mopti. He will travel undercover with you and shoot anyone who tries to kidnap you.” He reaches for his desk drawer again and procures a pistol holster – the leather concealable kind worn by the protagonist of a detective show.

He hands it to Morpheus. An hour and a hundred Euros later (“for your food and lodgings”) the guard and I sit together on a bus headed back to Mopti. The commandant’s attempt at saving face in the midst of obvious pressure from above had been pathetic. But I had humoured him as a serf does his pfief and it had worked. I was out. The bus ride back to Bamako would be a long one, as it had been on the way out.

Half an hour later, as the bus passed by the massif, I peer out the window at Fatima and her hand for what I know will be the last time, the five fingers of rock a perfectly dark silhouette – blacker than the black sky. An alpenglow des ombres – what Herzog, gazing up at the nighttime skyline of the Gasherbrum range, called “der leuchtende berg” – the dark glow of the mountains.

Living up to the khamsa‘s reputation as protection against the evil eye, the Hand of Fatima had let me in, showed me her world, and then spared me from it. I’d survived the climb and a stint in prison and now I was off across the Sahara. When I left Mali, I heard that Amadou had been put in prison for not paying some bribe to the commandant to work as a tourist guide in the area. I have no way to contact him and so I have no idea if he is still in there. Voila, l’Afrique.

Amadou, above the access gully to the Hand of Fatima plateau

* Amadou, above the access gully to the Hand of Fatima plateau

The Hand of Fatima, throwing a protective blank of shadow over Daari

The Hand of Fatima, throwing a protective blank of shadow over Daari

The Hand of Fatima massif

The Hand of Fatima massif

Hajj Al-Sahara (Video)

Check this video I put together of a recent trip to Africa. Featuring my solo climb of the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo in the Hand of Fatima massif and my subsequent crossing of the Sahara by foot, camel, back of a 4WD ute and in the mineral carriage of an iron-ore train. More about the rest of the trip incoming. Stay tuned.

Hajj Al-Sahara – The Hand of Fatima

Sunburnt, thirsty and four pitches from the summit of Kaga Tondo, I look up at the blank wall above me and despair. I have been climbing for the better part of two days now, a cumulative total of one thousand metres of rope-soloing and jumaring in the burning heat of the Malian desert.
Even in the shade, the temperature is thirty-five degrees. Beyond on either side, the sun blasts the rock like sculptures in the kiln. My roasted nape is hot and blistered, the once-pink flesh transformed from medium-rare to a dark and well-done.
Without let, the climbing has been sustained and constant – dead vertical to overhanging – and now, just shy of the top, I wonder if I can really do this. I am four-hundred and fifty-metres up the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo, the index finger of the Hand of Fatima massif, the tallest standalone sandstone rock tower on the planet.
Perched upon “La Brèche“, a five-metre by two-metre platform between a free-standing gendarme and Kaga’s summit headwall, I am utterly spent and all alone. Maybe out of my depth.
The next pitch is the hardest pitch of the entire route. At 6a+ in the jargon of the French rating system it is not particularly difficult for me when climbing out of the car – but now, severely dehydrated with spasming muscles, it seems impossible.
The rock is sleek and mostly featureless – the good holds separated by sections of run-out traversing blankness. Nigh-on impossible to protect a fall save for a few tiny horizontal breaks and a single rusty piton, hammered in-situ. The crux of the pitch, the most difficult section, will bring me up eight metres above the ledge without a single piece of protection (enough to break my legs in a fall) and then left and out above the void. Nothing below me but a sickening drop – half a kilometre, uninterrupted to the ground.
After two days in the heat with the bare minimum in water, I am approaching the margins of control. My arms are spent. My brain is fried. Of the six litres I had started with, I’ve now only eight sips left. Eight sips. That’s it. Two sips per pitch to get me to the summit and the thirsty bivy that awaits. Nothing for the descent.
The descent… the descent.
Fully-committed now, I dream of that fucking descent. Down the West Face, accessible only by the summit. A summit that is reached by traversing across and up the blank headwall above me. Do or die.
 They call this pitch “La Voie Pujos“. Named for French mountain guide Alain Pujos – one of the massif’s early explorers. According to the history books, Pujos was a talented climber – among the best of his day. And yet. And yet, one sunny February day, after setting out to free-solo the shady North Face of Mt Hombori, Pujos reached the summit, sat down next to a rock and died. It was the dehydration that got him. He’d simply climbed himself dry.
I’d been stewing on this the past two days – the historical fact of Pujos’ untimely end filtering through the bottleneck every time I took a sip.
I look to my right at the other digits of Fatima’s hand – Wanderdu and Wangel Debridu, the stumpy middle fingers; and Suri Tondo, away and across the plateau, the broadest of the summits. Together with Kaga Tondo and Kaga Pomori (the slender thumb, out of view) they form a rock massif, which when silhouetted dark and brooding against the setting sun resembles the venerated icon known across North Africa as “La Main de Fatima”.
The Hand of Fatima with the setting sun behind

The Hand of Fatima with the setting sun behind

Looking up at the final headwall from La Breche

Looking up at the smooth final headwall of Kaga Tondo from La Breche

“You wanted this,” I mutter to myself, tongue dry, throat parched. It was true. I had wanted this. I’d wanted to be here so badly that I’d made two attempts in less than two years, packing a heavy bag full of ropes and climbing equipment and muling it solo halfway across the world. All that, just to get myself up a giant rock in the middle of Mali.

“You wanted this,” I mutter again.
I go through a quick inventory in my head. I’d finished my bag of dried mango yesterday afternoon and feasted on the can of sardines that Suleiman had packed me the night before. Saving the bread for my breakfast this morning had been a bad move. It was already stale – at least three days gone – at the time of purchase. Dry and floury, it had given me cottonmouth. A few bites were all I’d managed.
What I really needed though was water. Water, water, precious water. After these eight sips, there’d be nothing left. I look up again at the summit headwall. A trio of birds surf the air currents, suspended in nothingness. Suddenly a black swallow, wings tipped with flashes of fire-like orange dive-bombs through the breach above my head, skirting along the side of the cliff before disappearing around the corner. I think back to my first solo climbing experience, in a similar precarious position, halfway up one of the cliffs of Mount Arapiles.
The day is at full bloom and the yellow wheat fields of Wimmera shimmer on the horizon. I’ve spent the morning in the shade on Dunes Buttress, methodically working my way up the direct route. Tracing a path over a slab, beyond a little ledge and up towards the summit – seizing this beautiful line in my fingertips. There’s a recurrent theme in the route-log here – “Arab”, “Saracen”, “Lawrence”, “Dunes” – all the names whispering of sandy somethings in faraway desert-scapes. A fine place to be lost in geologic time.
On the third pitch, hanging from a web of metal contraptions, a breeze blows across my nape. I move away from the belay and, pulling over the lip of a little rooflet, I scan the rock above for a good hold. Where the eyes see little, I feel around with hand and fingers, leveraging my tactile sensors in the search for something positive. Still, I clutch at nothing so, pausing, I reassess and remind myself to enjoy the view.
A robin whizzes by. A rotund, little scarlet thing – bobbing up and down with each flutter of its wings. Like a breast-stroking fat man trying to stay afloat.
Below, the shapes of a few climbers on neighbouring buttresses. The familiar sounds of “on belay!” and “safe!”.
Here though, on this patch of rock, there is quiet. There’s no call-outs on a solo climb. No commands for more or less rope. No laughter. No sound. Only the climber, his rope, rack, the rock and an inner monologue – a monologue dithering between the fear of loneliness and the bliss of silent solitude. No miscommunication, only an error of judgement. No waiting for your second, only idling. No one else to blame – only the self. Everything is in my hands.
Thus, alone on Dunes Buttress, I pause for a second longer, feed a handful of slack through my belay device and reach out higher, higher, higher – piano-fingering at a distant hold. With tenuous approval, it accepts my grasp.
I ee-adjust my right foot now, swinging my heel high onto a tiny horizontal ledge. The rubber finds purchase and I rock my weight over. I climb. A few more metres and I emerge into the sunlight at a place called “the Oasis” – a heavily vegetated ledge two thirds of the way up. It hides a little cave amongst the debris of fallen spires, lush by comparison to the rest of the buttress. I set my belay and rappel down to retrieve my pack and gear.
As the sun reaches its zenith, it disappears behind the summit and my route is soused in shade. Jumaring back up to my belay, I pause for a muesli bar on the ledge, drinking in the near-eastern vibe up here. Luscious life hidden amongst red, sun-roasted rock. It could be an oasis in the Sinai, Palmyra, Azraq. I miss that part of the world.
I continue on, moving quickly now that the sun is gone, recharged by a muesli bar and a sip of water. I clamber over a roof and traverse right over a finicky corner crack.
A few moves later and I am standing beneath a bulge of smooth rock. The summit lies just beyond. My hand feels for a positive edge. I seize the hold and place a cam. A fall here would be long and unpleasant. The top is no place to die. I pause again, counterbalanced on one foot, one hand in the chalk bag, the other attached to the cliff. I crane my head, left and right – complete exposure, nothing but air all around me. For a moment, I smile. I realise that I am happy. Alive as never before.
Emerging into the sunlight, I look up into the cloudless sky. I’ve company. Two peregrine falcons flying wing-to-wing, silhouetted black against the burning orb. Everything seems perfect –  the summit, the sun, the birds, the final move. I stand on top and hoot a victory hoot, drinking in the experience. A rope-solo of Dunes Buttress. Nothing noteworthy at all, really. People go ropeless on this thing all the time. Still content, I pick my way down towards camp.
Two years of marking time. Calendars filled with study, work then travel. I find myself in Mali. Once again. This trip has been a long time coming – an allotted few weeks carved out in the gap between postgraduate research and moving to the other side of the world.
I drag my bags to the front gate of The Sleeping Camel in Bamako. The lobby is bustling. The usual kinds of foreigners one expects to find in a country in the midst of a civil war. A Swedish freelance journalist tapping away on her laptop. A pair of Dutch police officers seconded to the UN. A crew of British military de-mining contractors with not a word of French between them. Hordes of aid workers belonging to a whole menagerie of development agencies. A loud-mouthed African-American with mining interests in the Congo. Like a caricature, he walks around in a scarlet velvet jacket. A rogue’s gallery of expats-in-Africa stereotypes, this lobby.
Then, of course, in the corner courtyard of the compound, the slightly-insane German quintegenarian camped out beneath an army-issue groundsheet under a mango tree. He ports a long grey beard and a karakul. He’s ridden here by motorcycle from Munich, he says. On a journey “to find the kingdom of Heaven”
Next morning I check out, board my afternoon bus to Hombori and settle in for what is sure to be a long and bumpy ride through the night. We pass Douentza at first light and the distant shape of the Bandigara escarpment glows black against the changing sky. We have entered “la zone d’urgence” – what the Malian defense ministry has deemed “the dangerous north”.
I’d first visited Mali the previous June, six months after Islamist extremists in the dunescapes of the Sahara had taken half the country. They came from the north – black turbans, indigo veils, severe expressions, touting freshly-oiled Kalashnikovs looted from vaults of Gaddafi’s sprang-open armouries. From their refuge on the Algerian-Malian border they struck out across the desert, riding the wake of a nationalist uprising amongst disaffected Tuareg nomads. They hit Timbuktu, the age-old desert oasis once the centre of Islamic teaching, with rifle and whip. There, they set to the task of destroying the tombs of Sufi saints and thousands of medieval tomes.  Idolatry, they called it. Nothing the world hadn’t seen already from the denizens of jihad.
Gao, Hombori and Douentza. Three key towns on the road south were the next to fall. The ill-equipped Malian army was driven out. Tourists kidnapped, murdered. Adulterers stoned. The standard narrative when jihadists come to town. Needless to say, the foreign tourism industry was wiped out. In the towns they captured, the jihadists instituted a juridical order based on the strictest interpretation of sharia. The reduction of the north of Mali into a war-torn hellscape was instantaneous and total. Northern Mali had become yet another sunburnt Sahelian sore.
This sign captures the Timbuktu experience of recent. A sign warning travelling cameleers of the dangers of AIDs, the faces of the camel and rider were spray-painted over by the djihadistes during their reign over the town

This sign perfectly captured Timbuktu, 2013. A sign warning travelling cameleers of the dangers of AIDs, the faces of the camel and rider spray-painted over by the djihadistes during their reign over the town

A few months before my first tour of the country, the French had arrived to take the north back. Operation Serval had moved quickly, rolling toward Timbuktu with a rapid mechanical fury. One-by-one the towns at the edge of the desert were reclaimed. The occupying djihadistes fled and the Gallic offensive continued. Airborne assets in full swing, the French brought the fight hard and fast against the enemy, right to their desert sanctuary in the Adrar des Ifoghas – a complex natural labyrinth of canyons and sandstone bitter from which they had launched their war.
Then, like djinns at dusk, the jihadists had disappeared into the sands, packing up and shipping out almost as quickly as they had arrived. Onwards to Libya. To regroup. With the Islamists scattered, and the nationalist fury of the Tuareg temporarily restrained to a grumble, the French had done a decent job. Now, the harder task – winning the Long Peace – lay ahead.
 This was the hard part.
Since Serval, suicide bombings and roadside ambushes had become the mode du jour in all the former tourist hotspots. All across the north, gunfire could still be heard at night. Mali was anything but a safe country.
At the house of one or other of the European explorers who "discovered" Timbuktu.

2013 found me at the house of one or other of the European explorers who “discovered” Timbuktu.

But something was drawing me. Something big. The Hand of Fatima. Five sandstone rock towers, arranged like the fingers of a mighty hand, rising out of the desert. Two hundred kilometres from Timbuktu and a long way from anywhere else. It was like climbing in a different galaxy – extra-planetary wall climbing.
Since 2013, following my first trip to Mali, I could think of nothing else.
That trip had been an adventure in itself. A summer hike through the Dogon villages at the base of the Bandiagara Escarpment had seen me go down with heatstroke in fifty-five degree heat.
Later, a visit to Timbuktu had culminated in a breakdown on the return journey. A waterless walk back to the next town. Sips of water-tasting-of-battery-acid siphoned from the engine.
A carte-carte on a border crossing from Burkina Faso into Mali.

A carte-carte on the border crossing from Burkina Faso into Mali.

A Fulani woman, clad in a hijab, publicly breastfeeds in the back of a carte-carte. Islam (and its rules of modesty) are very syncretic in West Africa.

A Fulani woman, clad in hijab, publicly breastfeeds in the back of a carte-carte. Islam (and its rules of modesty) is very syncretic in West Africa.

A typical hellish day during the Sahelian summer. The harmattan blowing from the south.

A typical hellish day during the Sahelian summer. The harmattan blowing from the south.

The view of the Dogon villages from high on the Bandiagara Escarpment. The previous inhabitants of the area - the Tellem Pygmy - built their domiciles high up in the cliffs crafting tiny doors and miniature windows as portholes looking over the rest of the world.

The view of the Dogon villages from high on the Bandiagara Escarpment. The previous inhabitants of the area – the Tellem Pygmy – built their quarters high up in the cliffs crafting tiny doors and miniature windows as portholes looking over the world.

A typical mud mosque at the base of the Bandiagara Escarpment.

A typical mud mosque in Dogon Country at the base of the Bandiagara Escarpment.

All packed and ready for a failed expedition

All packed and ready for a failed expedition

A vehicle breakdown on my return from Tktu after some ethnographic fieldwork culminated in...

A vehicle breakdown on my return from Tktu after some ethnographic fieldwork. The breakdown culminated in…

... a long, long walk

… a long, long walk

This time though, leaving Bamako in the late afternoon to travel through the night, I was Hombori bound – on the road to my final destination, the Hand of Fatima massif. The sun rises slowly, a shy new dawn.
The bus stops in a small village near Boni and with the sun poking its nose above the horizon it is time for fejr prayers. Ahmed, the Malian soldier in the seat next to me shoulders his rifle and steps outside. Behind him, two brown-robed Fulani men, dressed in bone-white turbans. Conducting wudu, the ablution of washing, he touches the red earth with bare hands. Pensive, methodical, thorough – he cleanses his body with the dust. One of the enturbanned men leads the prayer and they line up, performing their raka’at, facing the rising sun.
The bus carries on into a clear desert morning – onwards through a scene ripped from a pictogram of the Old West. A clear day, a blue sky, citadels of red rock in contrast with the starkness of the plains. With every passing castle of rock, a dozen more appear on the horizon, the scrubland between each buttress teeming with desert life. A trio of camels, drifting across the road. A goatherd and his servres, moving between the thorntrees of a sparse, dry brousse.
And finally, growing out from a horizon of nothing – les Aiguilles de Garmi – the famed Hand of Fatima – a five-fingered escarpment of vertical sandstone. The summits reaching skywards, backlit by a blazing morning sun.
As the Hand comes closer, the contours of its rugged cliffs become clearer – palisades of rock formed from the compaction of millions of years of shifting sand. In the summer heat, the blasting harmattan, the waves of conquering armies and the ravages of recent war, the massif has remained aloft, uncaring, indifferent, a sentinel unto itself. A rocky hand raised, open-palmed. Fashioned by some geologic Lah.
Dost thou not then believe? he’s saying.
Wangel Debridu, flanked by Kaga and Wanderdu, encircled by an angelic halo of light

Wangel Debridu, flanked by Kaga and Wanderdu, encircled by an angelic halo of light

In all, the Hand of Fatima comprises four rock towers, with a fifth subsidiary rocktower Suri Tondo (Suri being a man’s name and tondo meaning “rock”), sometimes included as a fifth finger – a polydactylous pinkie on the far end of the plateau. After Suri, there is Wanderdu (“wheat” in Fulani), the ring-finger; Wangel Debridu (“the pregnant woman”) the middle finger; Kaga Tondo (“the grandfather rock”), the mighty index finger; and Kaga Pomori (“the grandmother rock”), the escarpment’s thumb.
In Fulani, the etymology summons the home and hearth of an ancient metamorphosed family – Suri the farmer, his wheat field, Suri’s pregnant wife, his father, the wisened Kaga and the grandmother, Pomori, wife of Kaga.
Throughout much of the Islamic World, the “open hand” is palpably culturally significant – sometimes referred to in Arabic as “the khamsa” (Arabic:  خمسة, literally meaning “five”, as in, “five fingers of the hand”). In North Africa in particular, especially Morocco, the “khamsa” has been co-opted into a popular palm-shaped amulet – an open hand inset with an eye – worn by pregnant women as protection against the evil eye.
The five fingers of the Hand of Fatima massif. From left to right Kaga Pomori, Kaga Tondo, Wangel Debridu, Wanderdu and Suri Tondo

The five fingers of the Hand of Fatima massif. From left to right Kaga Pomori, Kaga Tondo, Wangel Debridu, Wanderdu and Suri Tondo

The "khamsa" or Hand of Fatima

The “khamsa” or Hand of Fatima

Certainly, it seems, for the inhabitants of Garmi and Daari, the two villages spilling out from the base of the massif, the mountain has played the role of protector. The djihadistes never stopped there, I’m told as I leave the bus. The rocks were too intimidating and they never lingered long in the area.
As the bus takes off down the well-holed road, I am left alone with two and a half packs of gear. Two children emerge from a small shelter in the distance – a dome tent-like structure made from sticks. Fulani hut.
Children are always the first to notice changes in their environment, always the first to notice a newcomer, the first to greet an outsider.
They dance around me with happy smiles, laughing and nattering. I understand nothing. A woman emerges from the stick shelter, shouting after the children. Then, noticing me, the strange white man with more bags then he can carry, she pauses.
Even though she spies my ropes and knows me a climber, she looks confused. Why am I here? Now? With things the way they are in the rest of the country?
I’m extrapolating here of course, because without a common tongue, I understand nothing she says. Maybe she’s just wondering why I’m stood on her front porch.
Locals in the village of Daari chatter in Fulani, gathered outstide my stick-built tent

Locals in the village of Daari chatter in Fulani, gathered outstide my stick-built tent

Children are gathering in greater numbers now and in the distance I hear the sound of a moto, fanging down the highway. A thin man in an FC Barcelona jersey arrives. Messi jersey of course.
“Bon matin,” he says. “Ça va?”
At last! Someone who speaks French.
“Ça va bien maintenant,” I say, emphasis on the going-well-now part. “Tu parles français et ça me fait plaisir.”
He nods. “Oui, the people here in Daari,” he says. “They do not study at the school. But over there in Garmi-” he points to the shoulder of the massif, and a narrow rocky path leading off to the left of Kaga Tondo, the index finger. “-we all speak French.”
With meals and a village of French speakers less than a kilometre away, it doesn’t take much for Sooleiman to sell the idea. I should stay with him.
Sooleiman, le grand cuisinier

Sooleiman, le grand cuisinier

Curious kids in the village of Garmi

Curious kids in the village of Garmi

Children in Garmi pose for the camera

Children in Garmi pose for the camera

The next two days are used to scout the area, recceing the possibilities, stringing along Amadou, the son of the village chief of Garmi, as a walking guide around the massif.
On the second day, Amadou and I team up for an ascent of Mariage Traditionel (6a+), the classic line on Wanderdu, the stumpy ring finger of the massif.
As a boy, Amadou was taught the basics by Salvadore Campillo, a Spanish mountain guide who lived twenty years in Daari. The climbing with Amadou goes along well.
At the belay ledge of P2 Mariage Traditional (6a+), Wanderdu

At the belay ledge of P2 Mariage Traditionel (6a+), Wanderdu

Amadou stems his way to glory on the final crux pitch of MT

Amadou stems his way to glory on the final crux pitch of MT

Amadou on the Deuxieme Terrasse of Mariage Traditionel

Amadou on the Deuxieme Terrasse of Mariage Traditionel

After lunch and a long guzzle of water during the hottest part of the day we scout out the other possibilities. Foremost in my mind is the route that has become a two year obssession for me – the “obscure object of my desire”. The region’s most striking line.
Towering six-hundred-fifty metres above the Sahelian desert, the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo. A red sabre of perfect grès. A well-ledged yet flawless line following a series of gendarmes up the world’s tallest stand-alone sandstone rock tower. In the literature, both oral and written, it is known by many different names – “l’eperon nord”, “l’arête nord”, “la voie Pujos”, but the locals know it only as “La Grande Voie”.
In their guide to the greatest big wall climbs on Earth, well-known French climbing pair Stephanie Bodet and Arnaud Petit say of the route – “une voie incontournable sur un sommet unique, sans contestation parmi les plus belles grandes voies longues et adventureuses de la planète”. Basically, it’s pretty fucking rad.
A climb of the North Pillar would bring me to the highest point of the massif, the descent requiring a traverse across the summit and a long chain of abseils down the west face. As we pass beneath Kaga, Amadou points out the fall-line. He’s never climbed the peak himself, but verbatim, he describes the specifics of each ledge and rap-station.
I walk away content with what I’ve learned. The reconnaissance, I’ve come to realise, is just as important as the climb’s execution.
As in war, where information transmitted from a forward observation post is critical for an army’s “intelligence preparation of the battlespace”, the penchant for scoping the lines and descents of a big wall with eye and spotting scope are what gave the great wall-climbers of yesteryear – Robbins, Bridwell, Ewbank, Chouinard – the chance to succeed on their own “impossibles”. The Salathé, the Sea of Dreams, the Muir, even the Totem Pole. All scaled from afar for their first time.
Now with a recce of the all the approaches under my belt, I know that a point-to-point traverse of the Hand of Fatima is also possible. Starting in Daari, following the North Pillar to the summit of Kaga Tondo and descending to Garmi. All as part of one great knowledge-seeking expression of movement.
The village-to-village traverse idea came from a common interest in both horizontal and vertical movement – moving from A to B via a beautiful mountain summit. Ever intrigued by human migration, the idea of linking population centres via an aesthetic mountain summit had always appealed. Kilian Jornet’s “run” from the Italian village of Courmayeur to the French town of Chamonix via Mt Blanc’s Innominata Ridge could be held up as the immortal standard for a point-to-point traverse of this kind.
My planned village-to-village traverse of the Hand of Fatima massif

My planned village-to-village traverse of the Hand of Fatima massif

Splitting the wheat grains in the village of Daari. "La Breche" can be seen between the final gendarme and the summit of Kaga Tondo.

Crushing the wheat grains in the village of Daari. The fine powder is sometimes mixed with sugar, water and goat’s milk to make a delicious thick health drink. In the distance, “La Breche” can be seen between the final gendarme and the summit of Kaga Tondo.

Kaga Tondo from Garmi

Kaga Tondo from Garmi

My grand traverse project would bring me from the old climbers’ camp in the village of Daari to my cosy abode in Garmi. There, shade, sleep, food and most importantly, water, would await.
Content with my reconnaissance, I put my camera away and trot off down the trail, ghosting Amadou on a circuitous track through the boulder-fields at the base of the mountain.
Walking back to Garmi in the dying sunlight, Amadou recounts to me the myths of the area. Unlike the stories told in other mountain ranges where I’d climbed, the Hand of Fatima seemed to have a rather confused mythological history.
Indeed, much like the history of the region itself, with its mixing of cultures and its syncretic brand of Islam, the story of the massif is an assembly of scattered tales – a tapestry woven from many threads.
One tale figures the massif as the hand of some primordial woman – an outcast who, as she lay dying in the desert, reached her hand towards the sky. The rest, they say, was consumed by shifting sands.
Another tale tells of an ex-cannonical pilgrimage by the Prophet Mohammed – who, in no short order, named the massif after the dainty hand of his favourite daughter.
Where the imagery of the hand is concerned, others contend, it was the French explorers, reminiscing on the khamsa amulets they had seen in Moroccan marketplaces, who were the progenitors of the name.
And finally, there is the myth of Suri and Fatima – the tale which seems closest to the original local story.
“Fatima was a young girl,” Amadou tells me. “She would hunt the animals of the escarpment with her father. When all the animals were hunted, Fatima and her sister began climbing the cliffs to take the eggs from birds’ nests. One day, she fell but catching her hand on a crasse in the rock, had it severed. When a wandering marabout asked where her hand was, her father, Suri replied, rather that it was there – the five fingers of rock dominating the skyline above the village.”
The glove fits, I muse, reflecting on that final story as I fall asleep that night.
Inquisitive kids in the village of Garmi

Inquisitive kids in the village of Garmi

Sooleiman's sister, Fatima

Sooleiman’s sister, Fatima

 At five a.m, I hear the rumble of Amadou’s moto. In the distance, beyond the mudbrick walls. Supine but with eyes open, I peek up at the gaps between the metal shutters. Beams of approaching headlights refracted across the room.
As a méhariste waking to the sound of approaching camels, I know that this, my transport away from safety, has arrived.
My bag already packed, I down half a litre of water, stuff an orange in my pocket and mount the moto behind Amadou. Together in the pre-dawn darkness, we take the pot-holed, bombed-out highway to the other side of the massif. Reach my starting point. The old climbers camp.
Kaga Tondo, profiled darkest black and in grisaille, towers above us. We pick our way up the boulders to the base of the éperon nord.
From Amadou, I relinquish three bottles of water – five-point-five litres sum total. I shake his hand and bid him farewell. The last person I will see for the next two days.
I charge up the opening pitches, leading, fixing, cleaning, jumaring, reaching the first terrace at daybreak. Check the watch. If I want to be off this thing in two days, I need to do every pitch in about an hour. I’m slower than that.
“Just flattening out the speed bumps. Just getting the system dialled again.”.

Climb another pitch, return to my bag and guzzle some water. The early morning sun burns hot and bright and I retire to a pocket of shade. Devour an orange. My mouth is already dry. Another long pitch leads me to the base of a chimney and I look at my watch again. I check the topo and confirm my position.

I’m moving too slow. This route is going to take me two and half, maybe three days, at least. I have five litres of water left in my pack – one-point-seven per day. A survivable ration. But barely.
I do the math again, hoping I’d been too pessimistic with my first set of calculations. The math is good, my figures right. Continuing the push is going to bring me to the edge of thirst.
I look at my watch again.
Looking at your watch isn’t going to make you climb faster!
Sunrise on Kaga Tondo

Sunrise on Kaga Tondo

Racing up the opening pitches

Racing up the opening pitches

Lovely view of the Sahelian plains from the first terrace

Lovely view of the Sahelian plains from the first terrace

Jumaring, Icarus-like, towards the burning sun

Jumaring, Icarus-like, into the burning sun

Back to the awaiting pitch. A loose, blocky, flaring, squeezy horror chimney. The kind of pitch that makes you happy you remembered your helmet. The kind of pitch you send your mate up on the sharp end to suss out the death-potential.
I’d heard the faintest whisperings from the villagers in Garmi that “la Grand Voie” had once been free-soloed. I couldn’t comprehend it. Most of these holds looked like they would rip at any minute. A vertical sand dune. Not unlike the choss you’d find on the  Dog Wall in the Blue Mountains. Pure misery. Though misery, I suppose, is what it’s all about. In the end.
I pull a few metres of slack and commit to the looseness.
Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall. I’m through.
On two good ledges now, I spread my legs into a stem, suspended like a gymnast above the sickening void. Snap a photo, continue up to the belay.
Looking down at the horror chimney

Looking down at the horror chimney

A pitch or two later and I reach the base of the first gendarme. Typical for multi-pitch sandstone, the way up the North Pillar does not take a clear path up a series of corners and cracks, but wanders hither and thither across an arête of red rock, winding a way skyward like a snake coiled around a caduceus. Route finding and not the climbing, is the crux of this voie. Per Bodet and Petit.
The next pitch is a traverse. Then a series of roofs – one, two, three – to the ledge above. The French, on their topo, call the pitch the “traversée aérienne“. In elite French alpiniste speak: “terrifying shit for mere mortals”.
The Petit-Bodet topo I had with me.

The Petit-Bodet topo I had with me.

Departing my perch, I quest out onto the pillar’s exposed face, finding that indeed, this pitch involves some sketchy, terrifying shit. Uncomfortably long run-outs above questionable protection.
At the crux, on the lip of the third and final roof, I pause for a time, dilly-dallying to see if there’s an easier option. Difficult to tell.
Fuck it, there’s a good handhold higher up.
I commit to a “deadpoint”, throw for it, stick it, cut loose with both feet and continue climbing.
That felt pretty heroic.
I fix the rope and get ready to clean.
The sun lowers in the sky. It drops behind the massif, sousing the North Pillar in shade. The shadows of Fatima’s fingers creep across the desert plain below, the dark, nebulous digits slithering over Daari. Protection from the evil eye, watching over the village.
IMG_2173 IMG_2165
In the dying light I charge up some blank, black slabs. Making the most of the cooler hours. And my dwindling water supply.
Fixing two pitches, I return to bivouac on a broad and comfortable ledge. The ledge is encircled by a small stone corral. The work of unknown climbers-by.
The pitch before the bivouac ledge

The pitch before the bivouac ledge

Bivouac ledge selfie.

Bivouac ledge selfie.



Night falls. I procure a nut-tool from my harness. My spoon tonight. A tin of canned chicken is consumed. Then a can of sardines à l’huile argan. I learn that olive oil is not nearly as refreshing as a bottle of chilled water. A bivy ensues. I toss and turn, thirsting some.

The following morning I pack my bag, sip some water, and jumar into a racing dawn.
I run it out in the interests of speed. I reach a sloping ledge – la terrasse inclinée in Bodet and Petit’s topo – turn an exposed columne aérienne and am welcomed to the pillar’s upper third by a howling wind.
I look at my watch again, feeling a rising sense of urgency. The sun is high now and it will soon be on the descent, the route now totally swathed in shade. Below on the plains, the mighty shadow of Kaga Tondo lengthens over Daari. Same as yesterday, with its crescive forcefield.

I move. I thirst. I climb. Then, finally, from my perch in La brèche, I look up at the crux pitch and the final one hundred and fifty metres of the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo.



la brêche

La brèche

I despair, yes, but all too soon I am left with only my rope, my rack and a ticking clock. I commit to the traverse. Up the blank wall, crimp, crimp, smearing with my feet, the rubber on my shoes scraping desperately to find purchase on the smooth rock. My footwork is rubbish, like a stumbling drunk. I’m still attached though – somehow – and I reach a horizontal break, plug it with a wobbly cam, and continue questing out left.

A howling easterly blows across a smooth face and the heat of a setting sun nips on my red-raw neck. I reach the anchor. Carry out some “unorthodox” back cleaning for expediency’s sake and lower out into the void.
The crux pitch traversing left and up away from La Brêche

The crux pitch traversing left and up and away from La brèche

Getting high on the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo

Getting high on the North Pillar of Kaga Tondo

The next pitch is a hand-crack splitting the headwall, shadowy fingers lengthening across the plain beneath me. On autopilot now, the despairing gone, committed to the shadows. Handjam over handjam, feeling like Webb in the English Channel, swimming towards the summit, swimming towards victory. I am going to make it. I know it. The crux is way down below, a mere memory beneath my shoe rubber.

Darkness approaching. Swiftly.
I reach a large broad ledge, traverse right, stem up the final corner and fix the final pitch. I scramble up a pile of boulders, ripping the metal accoutrement from my harness and sprint to the summit bloc, eager to scope the sunset and descent before the dying of the light.
The shadow of the massif over Daari. The wall of the destroyed camp seen below.

The shadow of the massif over Daari. The wall of the destroyed camp seen below.

Summit snap

Summit of Kaga Tondo

Summit. And broadside, first rappel spotted.
I love the smell of aluminum in the evening. Smells like, survival.
The wind howls. The sleeping bag comes out. I feel the cold of a stark desert night. I thirst. Away and in the darkness of the plains, I see the diesel-powered fairy lights of the French military base. Directly below, the glowing red dot of a solitary campfire. Some nomad, who, like me, is up for another night out. Another waterless summit bivy – the second waterless bivy in as many weeks.
 It is New Year’s Eve.  11:59am. The clock strikes midnight. January 1st is my birthday. Somewhere on the other side of the world my girlfriend is probably cosied up in front of a movie and my mates are downing cold ones on the beach. My parents are having an early one. Not me.
“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me… Fucking idiot”.
I roll over, miming sleep.
Sunrise. A tricolour sunrise. Red, white, and blue. The French flag to greet me this morning. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Away and down on the goudron, a truck rambles along, its gleaming headlights shining like a beacon of hope through the darkness. With this, the harbinger of the new day, I feel good – like I’m going to live. Even in my dehydrated state.
Papery skin and dry retinas. A thirsty bivouac.

Papery skin and dry retinas. A thirsty bivouac.


A tricolour sunrise. Red, white and blue. The headlight of a camion on the left.


Descending from the summit of Kaga Tondo

 I begin my descent, thirsting hard. It seems like days since my last drink.
“Keep going. Get down. Think about what you’re doing.”
I reach a notorious abseil station, a nasty crack littered with the rap tat from one of Salvadore Campillo’s abseil disasters. I clean up his mess but then encounter the same problem on the same pitch.
Stuck rope.
I can’t re-climb it so I cut my rope, using Salvadore’s rope in conjunction with what remains of my own. The next abseil doesn’t quite reach the next abseil station – I only have enough rope to get to a small stance above it. There aren’t many spots for another abseil anchor here – it’s a blank face. I could jumar back up but I need to get down. I need water. Desperately.
Fuck it.
I pull the rope and eyeball the ledge below me. It’s wide and broad with good run-outs either side even if I missed my mark.
“You’re not thinking about that are you.”
“You can make it…All those parkour videos you watched as a teenager, looking for things to do in your urban jungle…”
“No way. If this was a guide’s exam you’d have definitely failed.”
“It doesn’t matter… get down.”
I jump. I stick it. There was never really any doubt. But it was a stupid thing to do.
“This is some crazy shit..”
In my dehydrated state, my judgement is definitely skewed.
“Don’t do that again!”
  I need to keep moving. To keep making decisions. To keep doing. Water. All I want is water.
Looking towards Suri Tondo soused in the early morning light.

Looking towards Suri Tondo soused in the early morning light.

The first abseil to descend down the West Face

The first abseil on the descent down the West Face

Enter Amadou. He is waiting for me at the base of Kaga Tondo with a backpack full of water. The first person I’ve seen in two and a half days.
“La grande voie,” he says to me as he shakes my hand. I manage a smile, a gaunt and desiccated grin that pries itself from cracked, swollen lips and a red-gummed cottonmouth.

I mutter a few words about my epic descent. The stuck rope. The sketchy half-length abseils on marginal gear. The jump. Then, between spasms of dehydration, I unwrap the bag’s contents. The glee of a child unwrapping a birthday present.

Perchance, January the first is my birthday. As I look up at the headwall and the summit above, I am thankful for the gift.
The water, that is.

Soqotra – A Reconnaissance of Girhimitin

The morning after our return from Mashanig, Ben emerges from his tent with a swollen red foot, open sores soused in iodine solution – a garish scene. We spent most of the previous two days, adding nicks and cuts to our limbs and ankles, and with the granite flanks of the mountain’s north face a shady breeding ground for an array of plantlife, dirt and greenery had clogged our wounds.

Coming down off the mountain, I had made a point to wash vigorously in the stream by the campsite, thorough in my efforts to scour the dirt from the open wounds on my hands and feet. Ben it seems, despite the best efforts of his travel medical kit had missed a spot”.

After lunch and a few rounds of fire-boiled shai, Abu Maryam and I slip off into the thick foliage on a mission to explore the western approaches of Girhimitin – the shining wall of granite looming to the left over the campsite. A proud face of vertical rock, it is big, intimidating, awesome, embroidered by dragon blood trees at its shoulders with a circlet of cloud, a coronnade for the summit.

Girhimitin rises in the distance from a rest stop on the way into the Hajhir Mountains

Girhimitin rises in the distance from a rest stop on the way into the Hajhir Mountains

Abu Maryam boils tea and goat in camp

Abu Maryam boils tea and goat in camp


Abu Maryam in his mountain domain

Ahmed Abu Maryam is a goat herd. He has ten daughters and a wife in a tiny village on the other side of the range … honorific “Abu Maryam”(eldest daughter is Maryam) after the mother of the prophet Issa – “Mary” in English… he wears a blue furtah and a red-and-white keffiyeh – the pattern distinctly Jordanian. He is nimble and lean with a strong weathered face – dark and bearded in a repose which belies years of enduringh the harsh elements of the Hajhir mountains. We communicate in classical Arabic but where my linguistic ability reaches the limits of its complexity, his thick jabali  Soqotri begins and so often communication becomes jumbled, riddled with aphorisms and punctuated by befuddled smiles.

The day previous after sampling the leg shanks of one of his goats, I had asked if he knew of a way to get to the base of Girhimitin from camp. Descending from Mashanig I had looked west to see if the grassy meadows at the base of the west face could be reached on foot. Like some inviolable altoplain – Soqotras answer to the Nanda Devi Sanctuary (of Tilman and Shipton fame) – the way looked difficult and treacherous – a thickly forested base surrounded on all sides by steep fluting peaks. The wadi flowing away from the mountains base also looked like it would be difficult to access. A negotiable boulder-stream up high, it was flanked by thick vegetation (the kind you might want to bring a machete for) and at its terminus, where it met with the main approach wadi for the Hajhir it dropped into a steep limestone cliff; riven by a small waterfall.

From the summit of Mashanig, the west face of Girhimitin looked like it would have to be a rappel-in, climb-out affair – abseil on a fixed rope from the col to the north which can then be used as a bail option if the granite folds of the mountain proved too much for a single push.  But as I discussed my thoughts on how to reach the mountain’s base, Abu Maryam is insistent.

“Fi tareeq! Fi tareeq! Bess neruh ala al-tareeq lil-hawanat wel-genem.” There is a road, he tells me. But it is an animal track, and we will be following in the footsteps of the herd. Indeed, the steep limestone cliffs, hide a narrow route, a thin goat track moving between the trees, which weaves its way up and onto a plinth of rock to follow the river-boulder moraine to the mountain’s base.

I don my sandals, wincing as my infected toe rubs against the  footstraps. He goes barefoot, as he Always goes, the soles of his feet a tough leather, gleaming grey and impenetrable as he boulder-hops the stream – the underfoot like the hide of a musk ox at the turnstile. He moves swiftly and surely through the trees, adamant that he knows the way, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches, weaving between the vines of coiled, impenetrable scrub. O

n the moraine he is light and fast, hopping delicately from rock to rock like a ballet dancer bouncing across a stage. As I lumber clumsily behind, ham-footedly picking my way through the loose scree I observe him, marvelling at his speed in this kind of terrain. Every mountaineer could learn a valuable lesson of moraine navigation from him – I turn rocks, he doesn‘t… and in watching, learning and mimicking, my body learns why. He stops from time to time spotting a root he knows well. He rips it from the ground, excitement writ across his face.

“Al-ud hina,” he says, pointing at with a long-nailed finger. “Good for cleaning the teeth.”

We continue on. Within a few minutes however, he has spotted something else – a root he knows well. He reaches for a stick and begins to dig. Within a minute he has uncovered a brown-white bulb.

“Seefid! Seefid!” he shouts. Soqotri potato. He rips it from the ground, splits it in half, swallowing his part whole and offering the rest. I chew thoughtfully. It is indeed a potato. The thought suddenly occurs to me that if Ben and I were lost up here for a month we would probably starve. It also occurs to me that he most certainly wouldn’t.

Abu Maryam locates a familiar root.

Abu Maryam locates a familiar root.

A sign to begin digging

A sign to begin digging


Seefid (Arabic:  سيفد). Soqotri potato

Seefid (Arabic: سيفد). Soqotri potato

In Ahmed Mohammed Abu Maryam I see all the traits of a traditional mountain culture that has survived the sweeping changes of the modern world. He walks barefoot – always – and moves faster over the stream-scattered boulders than I do even after years of moving over this sort of terrain as a climber and a soldier. He is a goatherd and lives a simple life, almost totally moneyless.

He asks for nothing as he guides me to the base of the mountain, and I know he will not accept it, perhaps be insulted, if I offer him something at the end. He drinks his tea, he does his salat, he sings his mountain songs, he tracks his goats across the granite hinterlands and thinks little (though not nothing) of what goes on in the world of below. But we would would be wrong think him a man from a lost past – a Noble Savage – a primitive in-portrait.

Indeed far from cut off completely, far from a man without a stake or an interest in modernity, Abu Maryam is an example of globalisation personified, a reminder that as the core of urban culture expands into the periphery, the mountains, the deserts and their peoples respond in kind. He wears a red keffiyeh in a style known from Jordan; he owns a mobile phone and he is deft with the camera when I ask him to take photos tourist snaps of me; he wears a cotton shirt, a gold watch made in China and talks of the Houthi iin Sanaa as if he tunes into Al-Jazeera 24. Indeed, as we flow up the wadi towards the base of Girhimitin I muse that just as this Soqotri goatherd moves from mountain pass to mountain pass, so moves culture – for culture is fluid not static.

Abu Maryam holds a root traditionally used by Soqotri Bedu for cleaning the teeth. He wears a cotton shirt, blue furtah, Jordanian keffiyeh, Chinese counterfeit watch

Abu Maryam holds a root traditionally used by Soqotri Bedu for cleaning the teeth. He wears a cotton shirt, blue furtah, Jordanian keffiyeh, Chinese counterfeit watch

Abu Maryam models Black Diamond's latest 200 lumen head torch.

Abu Maryam models Black Diamond’s latest 200 lumen head torch.

When the cliché emerges of “untouched culture” (indeed, I’ve read this cliché in the context of Soqotra) I am reminded that in Abu Maryam we see not only the survival of the past in the present but proof of the dynamism of human behaviour – to adapt, to shift, to respond to changes in the environment, in the world beyond – a true being of ecology. Culture is a behaviour and like all animal behaviours it coheres to the rules of biology. Man exchanges what does not fulfil a vital function and ingests what will fulfil the function best. Why send a messenger when a mobile phone will do? Why wear rags of olive-tree twine when the workings of an Indian sweat shop are cheaper and stronger? But then a mobile phone will not feed Maryam and his other nine daughters…. and cheap knock-off shoes from China will not grip and smear to a sloping granite slab the way a toughened leathery bare foot will do.

He drinks his goats milk and eats his seefid because a change in diet, even a turn to reliance on footwear would mean a requirement for money – sacrificing one’s autonomy, one’s autarky and a reliance of provisions from outside. It would mean dependence on a system which may not be so accomodating to a drift-in from the mountains. (I would later see this difference starkly illustrated in the Malian villages of Garmi and Daari some weeks later).And so life persists – as i it always has – with only the amount of change that makes living the same life the much easier.

We arrive on top of a wide granite plinth overlooking the boulder stream. Abu Maryam stops and turns and like a pair of wanderers from a Caspar Friedrich painting we gaze out over the hills and plains below, a view of Hadibo and the Indian Ocean in the distance. A stream of water spruces from a crevice above us forming a little pool in a bowl-like indent in the rock before the trickling to the edge and dropping off into the void.

Abu Maryam, taking note of this little trickle-eddy dammed into a little wash basin, looks at his watch, stops and turns to me. “Salat,” he says. It is time to pray. He conduts wudu, washing his hands, his mouth, his feet, his faxe, purifying his soul before the sacred rite. A muezzin unto himself atop his minaret of rock, he sings out the call to prayer, nasal, loud with the same vice that shouts to his goats and sings round the campfire. Then he performs his rakaát p- the sacred movements the standing, the heeding to his lah Lah, the bowinng, the kneeling and ultimately sajadeh – the culminion of hjis prayers – his forehead touches the bare granite – submission to God.

Sans titre

Ruku “Bowing” (Arabic: رُكوع‎). The second major position of Islamic prayer

Sujud "Prostration" (Arabic: سُجود‎). The culminating act of Islamic prepare in touching the forehead to the ground and submitting to God.

Sujud “Prostration” (Arabic: سُجود‎). The culminating act of Islamic prepare in touching the forehead to the ground and submitting to God.

Tashahhud (Arabic: تشهد‎). After submitting, the worshipper kneels, facing Mecca, and bears witness to his Creator

Tashahhud (Arabic: تشهد‎). After submitting, the worshipper kneels, facing Mecca, and bears witness to his Creator

We continue up the wadi and he asks me about my ascent a day previous of Mashanig – the highest point in Soqotra. He is curious about what we found up there, about the mysterious cairn and stories that the skull of a cow is still up there, wondering if we have seen sign of the mythical Nazouzeh.

He tells me a story of how Ali, one of the goatherds down in camp, had found himself halfway up the smaller Mashanig and unable to climb down. Ali had been chasing a goat, near the col beneath Mishifo, the bridge, and when they had fled up the sides of the smaller Mashanig he had given chase. He scrambled up the steep sides until the goats, realising they were being hunted, continued always to the summit, leaving him precariously hanging from the cliffside.

Here, he descended, leaving the goats for another day. I imagined Ali returning to Hadibo for his supper, before hiking back up the next day with an expedition-worth of supplies wrapped up in the folds of his amameh like a haversack. No goat, no food and no food would bring the goatherd back to town.

I ask Abu Maryam if he visited Hadibo, the main coastal town, very often. He shook his head citing problems between the goatherds of the mountains and the black piscatorial groups (technically of Somali descent) inhabiting the fish-rich seaside. “Fi qariyatee, ma shee – al-aswad,” he says. There were no black people in his village. “Until today, if I go to Hadibo there will be problems and I must return to the mountains”. This conflicting dynamic between peoples of the mountains and peoples of the plains (elsewhere I have described this as the dialectic between the core and periphery) is common across the Islamic world and I don’t doubt that some of his concerns are valid.

I ask him about his family. His wife, his ten daughters, and his eldest daughter, Maryam, from which he gets the honorific Abu Maryam (Arabic: أبو مريم) – “the father of Maryam”. She is a rather naughty child it seems. Remembering having read somewhere that fathers who are physically powerful or extra-macho like mountaineers or Special Forces soldiers often tend to have lots of daughters (perhaps for some hormonal reason), I tell him that perhaps he is very manly for only having daughters.

He responds that in Soqotri culture he is viewed as weak for having borne no sons, that others in his village think him far from strong. But I can tell he loves his children, and he tells me about his happiness when Maryam (Mary in English) was born.

“My mother‘s name is Mary,” I tell him. “The odds!”

“Mashallah,” he says. “How old is she?”

“Tabarak allah,” I intone. “Still young,” I say.

“And may she live many more years,” he says. “The secret to a long life is in the tea and the meat of a goat. And walking… lots of walking.”

Then he tells me about the special properties in the sap of the dragon’s blood tree – the mystical remedy which brought centuries of traders, merchants and medicine men to these fabled shores. The drqgon’s blood sap stops bleeding, he tells me. And is a wonderful remedy against female bleeding. With mortar and pestle he mixed up a solution for his wife to stop the post-natal bleeding after Maryam’s birth. He casts a hand towards the summit, at a pair of goats moving up the gentle north ridge. Goats eat the young saplings of the dragon’s blood trees, he tells me. But they stop once the umbrellaing of the tree begins.

“Maybe you will find the sapling of a dragon’s blood tree growing on the summit.”

Dragon's blood trees (Soqotri: Aharia) are difficult to age as they are pulpy with no concentric rings inside. Instead botanists measure age using the number of branches, a few other features and a complex algebraic formula

Aharia. Dragon’s blood tree.

With our thoughts turned skyward, we crouch together on a rock beneath the mighty face. Girhimitin (Soqotri: جرهمتين, “the sure throw”). In a previous age, so goes the story that Ali and Abu Maryam had told me in camp a few nights before, two warring tribes* waged battle in the plain between Hawari and what is now Hadibo. The story goes that a Bedouin shepherd scaled Girhimitin and launched a spear at an oncoming host of marauders from the south. The height of the mountain and the observation it provided made the volley from the summit a sure thing – a ”sure throw”.

The plain beneath Girhimitin with Hadibo, the town, and Hawari, the mountain we had earlier climbed, in the distance.

The plain beneath Girhimitin with Hadibo, the town, and Hawari, the mountain we had earlier climbed, in the distance.

The West Face, unlike the gentler summit approaches on the back side, was anything but a sure thing. Immediately, as I gazed up at it, I knew I would need three days and a portaledge to complete this route, even if Ben was in good health. Chatting with Abu Maryam, I point out a potential line up the face – not a direttissima – but a mind blowing line up the face no less. An offwidth crack and a foliage-clogged chimney on the left side of the mountain leading into a series of rooves then into the west face proper.

“Shoof al-kitab al-muftuh,” I say, pointing out the next section. I trace my finger up a proud granite corner, a dihedral, the shape of an open book – a Quran with a path writ to Jennat. “This is where we will do our climb,” I say to him… This is where we will write our words. “Bess hada al-tereeq khetr,” he replies. But this way is dangerous.

“La,” I shake my head. “Hatha al-tareeq mitl hadiyet min Allah.”  This route – its like a gift from God. I know he will appreciate the religious undertones. He nods knowingly.

Abu Maryam looks up at the West Face of Girhimitin

Abu Maryam looks up at the West Face of Girhimitin

The descent gully off to the right

The descent gully off to the right

The opening chimney and offwith at the base of the wall

The opening chimney and offwith at the base of the wall

A set of rooves and complex slabs bar access to the Quranic corner

A set of rooves and complex slabs bar access to the Quranic corner

The splitting corner topping out near the top of the South Ridge

The splitting corner topping out near the top of the South Ridge

The West Face of Girhimitin (~400m)

The West Face of Girhimitin (~400m)

We are not ready for the West Face of Girhimitin. This big wall will not be going down on this trip. We have no portaledge, no time and Bens foot resembles something I mightve read about in my grandfathers war diaries (he was a surgeon). But this is what the reconnaissance is for. For looking and for pondering. For dreaming and deliberating… Is it possible?

Finding the goat trails to the base of the approach wadi was the first step. Then, with Abu Maryam, I had penetrated the limestone cliff blocking access to it. Then, together, we had scoped the line, pondered the descent, considered the bail options, an itinerary and a time frame. This is the history of how mountains are climbed.

When Eric Shipton and Bill Tilman penetrated the Nanda Devi Sanctuary (being arguably the pairs finest exploratory achievement, summit or not) they laid the path for future climbs, future success on Nanda Devi. Tilman‘s return and lightweight first ascent. Will Unsoeld‘s ascent of the difficult north buttress. And finally the return to a pristine state with the Sanctuary declared an inviolable reserve by the Indian Government.

And so too with the West Face of Girhimitin. All that remained now was a strong team and a portaledge. Then it would be climbed. Then one day the same route would be free-climbed. Then, after that, some long-haired, loping Californian would come along and climb the thing without a rope…

On the way down we stop at a small shepherd‘s shelter and he asks me when I will climb the big wall we have just recced.

“Not on this trip,” I tell him. “My friend is sick and we need more supplies. When I return to Soqotra”.

He nods, getting up to move. “When you return I will show you the way again.”

Abu Maryam at a goatherd shelter near the entrance of the wadi

Abu Maryam at a goatherd shelter near the entrance of the wadi

One the way back, as he bounces down the moraine, he pauses, turns and looks back up the stream of boulders, piles of littered granite leading to the base of the West Face of Girhimitin. He mutters something to himself in Quranic Arabic and, curious, I ask him to repeat it slowly, word-for-word so I can translate.

He is quoting from hadith, the collected sayings of the Prophet. “Inn al-jebal min al-hasa.” (Arabic: ان الجبال من الحصى)*

“And from rock upon rock, a mountain is made.”

I ponder this for a moment, thinking about the meaning of this reconnaissance and of exploration – to build knowledge, to bring Man forward to new frontiers. This expedition was my first true expedition abroad and I had learnt a great many things – about logistics, about airline baggage policies, about the importance of time in the mountains, about weather, about bivies, about suffering and about the people of this remarkable island. I was growing, bit-by-bit as a climber.

“And from rock upon rock, a mountain is made.”

So too like the climber, I muse. So too like the Man.

Abu Maryam spinning his stick

Abu Maryam spinning his stick


* = perhaps the two tribes were the Somali fishermen and the Arab goatherds, but this is conjecture

** = the whole quote in hadith reads: “Do not belittle the small things (e.g. small sins, little things in life) for is not a mountain made from small stones?” (Arabic: لا تحقرن صغيرا ان الجبال من الحصى )

Soqotra – Mountains, Myths and Heroes

(Warning: Images of halal slaughter)

“One day we reached a strange desert island… many of the passengers decided to go ashore and I sat down on the bank of a river and fell fast asleep. When I awoke there was not a soul in sight. The ship had sailed, for the captain had forgot about me… The sun had not yet set and the sky was a fiery pink. Suddenly, everything went dark as though night had fallen. I looked up and saw an enormous bird with outstretched wings, shutting out the sunlight. I remembered then of hearing about a bird so huge it fed its nestlings elephants. The bird’s name was Rukh” – The Second Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor, 1001 Nights

Bad weather on my last night in Canberra. Thongs of lightning lashing the tops of Mt Ainslie as a rose sunset mixes with the gunmetal greys of a storm cell. The storm follows us north to Sydney. Isolated showers. Patches of clear. Then heavy thick globules of water, orbs of wet hammering against the windshield.

All the standard tourist traps on my last day in Australia. Darling Harbour. Circular Quay. Another sunset over the Harbour Bridge. Seats for the ballet at Sydny Opera House. The Nutcracker. Christmas theme. I hold Ellie’s hand as Drosselmeyer, the dark magician, presents the children with their gifts. No Christmas for me this year. No birthday either. Then, the airport. The rain persists. I hold Ellie close. She cries. Rain runs down the windows of the terminal building like tears on a cheek, a thousand trails of racing water framed against the grey darkness of a gathering evening. I check in. Clear customs. Wait. Board. Fly.

I meet Ben in Kuala Lumpur. He’s in loose clothes, light threads. His hair is long and he ties it in a top knot. Not quite hippy – not quite clean either. He looks like he’s about to go on a holiday to Thailand. Which he is. In a few weeks time. For now though the sullied paradise of South East Asia – the dirty beaches crowded with backpackers; the seaside karsts bustling with climbers-on-holiday; the busy, polluted streets full of leering touts – that can wait.

Today we’re in search of an escape from that. An island of unclimbed summits lost in the clouds and coral reefs girt by azure water. A distant paradise perched between the heel of the Arabian peninsula and the horn of Africa. We’d heard tales of teetering granite towers and remote wadis brimming with bizarre flora and fauna. Endemic species of snakes and “dragon’s blood trees”. An evolutionary isolate. A lost piece of old Gondwanaland, left adrift, like an oceanic breadcrumb, in the wake of the last split of the continents. A geologic and biologic anomaly.


The name itself hinted at wonders. Like that of some fictional kingdom ripped from a Schezerzadian sura. “Suq al-qutra” – “the frankinscence market”.

A bare-faced Orientalist had been awakened in me, shamelessly beckoned by the allure of the exotic. In my mind, I had already made myth of the place, positioned it “lovingly on stage”. A colonialist fantasy, perhaps. The dispassionate anthropologist in me would have been unimpressed.

But there we were. Off to partake in the drama of our own imagining. Myths, after all, will keep being written, with or without our participation in them.

Where the island’s past theatrics were concerned, the cast of the “History of Soqotra” was long and storied. Sinbad, the fabled sailor of Sindh came here on his fifth voyage; Thomas the Apostle; Abu Muhammad al-Hamdani, the astronomer for the Abbasids. Throughout time the island has changed hands over and over. A fleet of Portuguese venture capitalists captured the island’s “soq” in the early sixteenth century. Then came the Mahra sultans. Then the British. With independence the Russians arrived, lining the beaches with dug-in tanks – specimens of realpolitik to be left to rust in the aftermath of the Cold War.

Alone in the rolling waters of the Indian Ocean, the Soqotra of today lies in the eye of a regional political conflagration of veritably cyclonic proportions. Marauding fisherman-turned-pirates scour the nearby Somali coasts at the helm of skiffs full of Kalashnikovs and on mainland Yemen a failing government lies at the centre of an ethnic maelstrom of competing insurgencies – a Shi’a uprising borne out of the dry and rocky hills of Sada’ah and an Islamist insurgency cresting a wave of Sunni discontent away and beyond in the Hadramawt. Yemen’s history is one of turmoil – a constant to and fro between a shakey peace, isolated gunbattles and brutal violence capped by terrorism, suicide bombings and drone strikes.

Despite the rough neighbourhood, however, Soqotra has found solace in its geographic isolation. A lost paradise in a rough neighbourhood. Misty mountains. Unclimbed big walls. A distant island culture waiting to be apprehended.  The choice was ready-made for us – me, an Arabist with an interest in remote places and remote people, and Ben a geologist with a penchant for rocks more generally.

We board our Yemen Airways flight to Sana’a. Trudging into the metal tube, the hostess double checks our boarding passes.

Ben, in tropical-patterned boardshorts, sweeps a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Sana’a?” she asks him.

He nods.

She gives him back his ticket and laughs. Take-off happens without event but later, as the plane passes through a thick bank of cumulus it jumps and rattles – long drops through air pockets punctuated by violent lurches through turbulence.

Sana’a International Airport lies in a varying state of disrepair – torn down walls, roof panels missing, stolen or broken, exposing the raw cabling within. An eerie late night quiet lies over the terminal building. A tense calm, punctuated by the omnipresent assault rifle. Had we been wrong to exoticise our destination? A flatscreen television hangs from a beam in the centre of the room. Behind a pall of cigarette smoke, the screen broadcasts images of a Yemen fit for a luxury travel magazine. Sandy beaches, palatial hotels, ancient medinas.

“Hodeydah – the Cinderella of the Red Sea,” reads the ticker tape on one television set. No mention of how she fares after midnight.

“Your first impressions are false,” it all seems to say.


Arrivals lounge at Sana'a International Airport

Arrivals lounge at Sana’a International Airport


A mixture of uniformed military and leather awaits us at the immigration desks – vague jacketed types with stern, sullen faces. A month ago, the capital had been seized by the Houthi and now it all seemed very unclear just who at the airport was an agent of the ancien regime and who was an out-of-towner taking up a new post behind the immigration desk.

We have our visas stamped, and pass through to the baggage claim. One bag, two bags… they float down a decrepit conveyerbelt unloaded from an open-backed ute on the other side of a broken wall – the luggage handlers like fish-mongers tossing crates of frozen mackerel around a soq. One of the bags – Ben’s bag – never comes. It contains ropes, borrowed climbing hardware, a harness and Ben’s rubber shoes. It also contains all of his spare clothes.

I begin hounding the airport staff in white guy Arabic, stumbling on my “ayns” and stuttering with my “alifs” as my brain does its best to re-enter third language mode again. The bag is in transit in Jakarta, I am told.

“Is it really in Jakarta?” I ask.


“You’re sure?”


I’ve learnt from other travels in the Arab world to treat any declaration of certainty with healthy suspicion, so I probe further. “Wal shunta, ana beheselha bukara?” “So the bag, it’ll be here tomorrow?”

Inshallah”. If God will’s it.

In the Middle East, nothing happens unless He has willed it – luggage reaching its intended destination included.

Later, of course, I learn that the bag was never lost in transit in Jakarta… it never left Kuala Lumpur.

Finding a corner in a nearby mushollah, I wriggle into my sleeping bag, hand Ben a prayer rug and my other pair of trousers, an overnight transit between us and our flight from the Mainland. We board our flight with promises the bag will reach us in Soqotra. I hold no high hopes, so my brain begins troubleshooting. The plane is full of stern-looking Arab men in business suits on the way to a half-way stop in Mukalla. When they are gone the plane is suddenly flooded with laughing chattering dark-faced men sporting a colourful array of gowns, headdress and the traditional dress worn by Soqotri men, the “furtah“.


Flying over the canyon-riven “badlands” of the Hadramawt

The plane taxis along the desert runway takes off and an hour later we are soaring over Soqotra. An unknown granite scylla during the wet season, the high peaks of the Hajhir massif lie hidden amidst a swath of burgeoning rainclouds, a mystery mapped by NASA but unseen as our plane circles. Below, a fierce northerly blows powerful waves against the island’s sandy shores. On a quiet day the azure water is a tourist trap for snorkelling – today the island is like a weather-beaten lost world – something out of a Michael Crichton novel.

We land and meet our guide Issa. Issa is short and wiry with dark curly hair and a cheery smile. He carries himself nimbly through the crowd in the arrivals lounge, plucks one of my bags from the carousel and leads the way to the car. Our driver Ahmed, always in blue, is warm and portly, his hair ever-encircled by a tribal amameh – the headcloth known elsewhere as “keffiyeh“, “shemagh” or “dish-dash“. “Ahlan we sahlan ila Soqotra,” he says. He speaks only Arabic and Soqotri and it is in the former tongue that I will piece his story. The road from the airport to Hadibo runs abreast the cliffs of a rocky shore. Ahmed, deft behind the wheel of the rickety vehicle, navigates the turns with precision. There are no number plates here, no road rules. The only people in uniforms we see are a pair of soldiers, one of them stripped down to his undershirt, the other, on Kalashnikov duty. Both of them seem to be soaking up the warmth of the island sun. Everything here feels beyond the reach of the mainland – beyond the reach of the State. We are in the Periphery, and it feels free.

Hadibo is dirty, squalid, Third World. Mud roads choked with piles of rotting rubbish crawling with skinny bleating goats chewing cardboard. We will return intermittently to the island’s population centre but for the most part we stay away from the hub of Soqotri life. We move to an “eco-campsite” on the outskirts of town. I dump my bags and Ben dumps what he has left in our reed huts, then we move to a larger reed hut, a sitting area, for tea.

Food comes and as we nibble of the thin, many-layered Soqotri khobz we gaze up at the dramatic west face of Hawari, a prominent limestone peak to our east, looming over the coast. I turn to Issa who notes me marvelling at it. “Bukara nehnu netsleq hada al-jebel,” I say. We want to climb that mountain.

The afternoon, we assess the lot we’ve been cast. Without Ben’s bag we are down a harness and Ben’s climbing shoes. But we still have my harness, a rope and a rack (hardware to keep us attached to the cliff). With about 20 metres of tubular webbing at the bottom of my backpack, I start fashioning a diaper sling rig, a makeshift harness designed to be used in an emergency – say if a hiker without climbing equipment falls from a height and needs to be extracted by rope and pulley.

Reared in the sterile environment of the indoor gym, we are initially skeptical of the integrity of our system. Freedom of the Hills (the mountaineering textbook) recommends 2 inch webbing for a diaper sling harness. We’ve used 1.5. Our variant has all the hallmarks of a Tillman-Shipton tie-a-bowline-around-your-waist adventure, which puts us in a category where a fall isn’t really an option. But with Ben lacking shoes to climb in we know we won’t be climbing anything particularly difficult. With one actual harness between us we decide that the person climbing in “the good harness” will lead all the pitches and the diaper sling-wearer will follow along, trying not to fall.

We set off the next morning on an exploratory climb, a cruisey foray up a set of cliffs below Hawari to test the system. Ben gets first dibbs on the diaper sling. The climbing is easy enough so on the second pitch, I swing the lead over to Ben, who, with his sandals clipped to his belt and the rack hanging from his chest leads away on a pleasant barefoot traverse. Another wandering pitch and a half follows and topping out we realise that we might have pioneered a unique climbing style, albeit one definitely not worth emulating. Climbing barefoot, in a home-made harness with sandals for approach shoes. We call it Bedouin-style and name our fun little climb “Sandals and Scimitars”.

Ben leading away barefoot on Sandals and Scimitars (5.7, 70m) with a diaper sling harness fashioned from 1.5 inch tubular webbing.

Ben leading away barefoot on Sandals and Scimitars (5.7, 70m) with a diaper sling harness fashioned from 1.5 inch tubular webbing.


A lonely jetroufah tree (used as a medicinal coagulant) arcs over the Indian Ocean

Our system adequately tested, we set our sights on the longer routes up Hawari

Our system adequately tested, we set our sights on the longer routes up Hawari

An early lunch of spiced fish, bread and rice follows and with the hours of the day running away from us we retrain our sights on our main objective – Hawari (~400m). Slinging Issa along as a guide and rope-carrying sidekick, we trudge off through a thick of forest of jetroufah trees to the base of the technical climbing.

It is my turn to wear the dodgy harness and peering up at the overhanging “choss” (loose, horrid-looking rock) above, a part of me is kind of thankful Ben gets to be the lead climbing guinea pig for this one. Indubitably, three metres off the ground on the first pitch, Ben takes a groundfall when he plucks out a handhold like a kid pulling smarties off a cupcake. Unphased however, he continues up, moving industriously.

A short time later, I hear a garbled shout from Ben some way up the wall and it is my turn to climb. I stem up a corner, pulling over a small overhang and gain a steep slab of smooth rock, riven here and there with small pockets for handholds.

When I reach Ben on the belay ledge I assess the anchor he has built for us. Nearing the stretch-limit of the rope, the ledge was the logical place to stop. But Ben’s anchor is less than ideal. A thin sapling girth-hitched by a sling, a camming device plugging the gap between two wobbly boulders and a tricam (a horned chock of metal shaped like a rhino skull) lodged in a small flaking pocket of rock. Three negatives don’t make a positive, even in mathematics. So I guess falling wasn’t really an option anyway, with or without the makeshift harness.

The next section leads Ben left on a sparsely-protected traverse into a wide chossy chimney. I hold my breath as Ben climbs on. Above us, a rookery of vultures, yellow-necked and sharp-beaked, circle our perch, wondering if the strange hominids passing through their vertical world will soon be but carrion. An endemic sub-species of Egyptian vulture, they are large and cruel-looking, probing us hungrily with low swoops. Their wings whoosh loudly as they dive past. As Ben disappears out of view, I study the birds, paying out rope slack as he climbs.

In the story of Sinbad the Sailor, the eponymous hero tells of having sailed to Soqotra and being abducted by a huge and monstrous bird, who, depositing him in its nest on top of a high mountain, set off in search of snakes to garnish its supper. Forced to fashion a rope from his turban, Sinbad descended into the valley only to discover that it was full of posionous snakes. With the huge vultures circling us on our mountain perch, I felt a strange affinity with Sinbad’s lot, although, climbing “Bedouin-style” or not, I was thankful that we were as yet some way off using a turban for a rope. With another garbled shout from Ben above, I traversed off the ledge and into the gully, picking my way through the conglomerate ruin. We pitch on.

Hawari in the distance rising out of a forest of jetroufah

Hawari in the distance rising out of a forest of jetroufah


Our perch on the first ascent of A’sh Al-Rukh (The Rukh’s Nest)

Ben contemplates a factor two fall off a poor belay as he commits to the choss gully from the belay ledge. A'sh Al-Rokh (The Rokh's Nest), 5.8X, 110m

Ben contemplates a factor two fall off a poor belay as he commits to the choss gully from the belay ledge. A’sh Al-Rokh (The Rokh’s Nest), 5.8X, 110m

Cresting the summit ridge, we are blasted by the cool ocean wind, surrounded on all sides by the strange Soqotri bottle trees and a troop of Egyptian vultures gazing over their domain. Met with a three-sixty view on top, we take in the horizonless Indian Ocean on one side and the mysterious cloud-covered hinterland of the Hajhir range on the other. With the loose limestone climbing behind us we descend on foot down the other side, naming our route “A’sh Al-Rukh” (Arabic: عش الروخ), meaning “The Rukh’s Nest”.

The peculiar bottle tree (Soqotri: triymu). One of many endemic arboreal species on the island

The peculiar bottle tree (Soqotri: triymu). One of many endemic arboreal species on the island)

The next day is a reconnaissance day as we still await the rest of our gear. We speed east along the coastal road to the wind-blown limestone cliffs of Homlil. We spy kilometres of limestone cliff faces, capping impossibly white sand dunes topped with the mysterious, umbrella-shaped dragon’s blood trees. The faces look amazing – featured, looming but utterly unprotectable except with artifical bolts. We loop around the escarpment and onwards into the green hinterland. We spy a prominent mountain in the distance, below the cloudline in the lower Hajhir. A spindly old man from a nearby village spits out a name… “Tjouf” (Arabic: تجوف )… A limestone fin on the horizon. Unclimbed. Endless potential on this island.

We lunch in a hidden oasis called Wadi Boraq, a wide canyon of blocky red limestone terminating in a swimming hole. It sits beneath a tall waterfall running fast and swift down a wall of lichen and we sample the rail-featured limestone, climbing barefoot for a few metres before leeping back into the deep, cool water. The secrets of this Lost World are slowly but certainly coming into view.

We head off in search of dinner, passing by a qariyat to barter for a goat. The right price and right kid materialises and we take it back to Hamri to be devoured. With Issa holding the goat’s head back at an an angle, Mohammed, a local fisherman runs a long sharp knife along its neck.

“Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem” I hear Issa utter as a torrent of dark red blood gushes from the goat’s neck. As the kid struggles for air in its final throes, it coughs its gizzard from the gash in its throat. The act of slaughter can be brutal, unsettling, to watch sometimes. But in taking the life of the kid, life will be renewed and the goats haunches will be seved with a sauce of onion and persimmon.

As Mohammed peels back the kid’s hide, exposing the pink hanging corpse one knows well from a Queensland pig hunt or the back room of a butcher’s shop, I muse that alot can be learned of a cultural group from the way it kills an animal – from the process of converting life into food. “Bismillah ar-rahman, ar-raheem,” Issa had uttered. In the name of God, the beloved, the merciful. “Into his hands you will go”. What seems unsettling to the outsider is only so because one sees not where the meat which sustains daily life come from. In my world, the act of converting life into food is simply a process, an industry… a conveyerbelt where an assembly line turns a calf into a Big Mac. Here, it is a spiritual act. An act of committing the kid into the hands of a deity so that other life may be sustained. There is no hierarchy in the diversity of culture – one custom is neither better nor worse – it is only context that matters and for a small-scale society living a life between pastoralism and the sea, everything about this practice makes sense. For us in the cities perhaps our way works best, but I don’t really know.

"Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem". Words uttered as the knife slides across the goat's neck

“Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem”. Words uttered as the knife slides across the goat’s neck

Mohammed prepares the knees for skinning

Mohammed prepares the knees for skinning

Alhamdu lillah lil'tai'm

Alhamdu lillah lil’tai’m

Over our meal, I talk culture with the Soqotri. I raise the topic of the veil. In the West, the subject of female dress in Islam is contentious – a heated debate infused with stereotypes about female subjugation and assumptions that modes of fashion are indicators of gender equality in human societies. In talking with Issa about his marriage, we learn that it is customary in Soqotri society to only see the face of one’s wife after one is married. While traditionally, daughters were effectively trade goods, Issa sees a certain equanimity in the veiling practice since the relative attractiveness of one’s potential spouse would remain a mystery until after the wedding. The argument here is that all Soqotri daughters are of equal value – since hidden behind the veil, all women look the same.

Alien as this logic might seem to a Westerner, I had never before considered that the veil, rather than hiding a woman’s “shame” could actually enable her to be desired, loved and respected in a way which goes beyond the physical. While in the West a hierarchical conception of beauty is used as a calculus of a woman’s reproductive fitness, Soqotra’s veil may in fact decouple “beauty” (the trait) from the female (the object). Here, a suitor falls for a woman’s personality and not her appearance.

On Thursday, we return to Hawari to climb another route on the seaside cliffs (an aesthetic crack we call “The Whip of Issa” [5.9]) but, hesitant to take our Bedouin-style system to the high peaks of the Hajhir, we hold out for hope that the bags will come on the Saturday flight.

We head west to Qlansiyet, a coastal fishing village and a similar size to Hadibo but devoid of the rubbish-choked streets. A boat ride to a remote beach on a gharab (Arabic: كارب ), brings us through rolling swell and violent lurching from the wind. A sheltered bay. A pod of dolphins. A scramble along the limestone cliffs and tea in a shepherd’s cave.

All rather idyllic really. Ben deep-water soloing near Shu'ab

All rather idyllic really. Ben deep-water soloing near Shu’ab

Then, the bags arrive. Finally. We crane our necks towards the Hajir mountains – the mysterious granite massif always in the back of our minds. We stop at a small village at the base of the mountains. Three men sift around in a narrow thoroughfare between the mosque and a small house. Issa yells out something in thick Soqotri and the three approach the car, attach themselves to the passenger step, skitching off the roof rack. We trundle on up the rocky road. This is how you get work in Soqotra.

We reach the end of the road and look upon the Hajhir mountains in all their grandeur, an incisor skyline, clear and cloudless. The walk in has all the hallmarks of high adventure – a pilgrimage to the sky. With every new peak that winds into view I ask it’s name, drawing a map in my mind… Girhimitin (Soqotri: جرهمتين, “the sure throw”), Herem Hajhir (Arabic: هرم هاجهر, “the Hajhir Pyramid”), Hazrah Muqadriyoun (Soqotri: هزرة مقادريون, “the false tooth”) and finally, Mashanig (Soqotri: مشنيغ, “the split one”) – two perfectly formed towers of perfectly vertical granite, the higher of the two being the highest summit on the island, rising some 1500+m above sea level. A new route on Mashanig is the ultimate objective for this expedition. If we can climb nothing else, we would climb this peak.

We follow Abdullah, his two sons and Fahad, a Bedouin shepherd who guides us up a precipitous boulder-strewn path. Abdullah, shirtless and lean, is the senior the group – a Bedouin born of the mountains who truly speaks his second language when I communicate with him in Arabic.

Ben, at the end of the road, racking up for a foray into the Hajhir

Ben, at the end of the road, racking up for a foray into the Hajhir

Ben and the porters walking into the Hajhir Mountains

Ben and the porters walking into the Hajhir Mountains

Lost in the Hajhir with Hazrat Muqadriyoun on my left and Mashanig on my right. Note the prominent fallen pillar, Mishifo, acting as a bridge between Mashanig's twin peaks

Lost in the Hajhir with Hazrat Muqadriyoun on my left and Mashanig on my right. Note the prominent fallen pillar, Mishifo, acting as a bridge between Mashanig’s twin peaks

We sit around the campfire long into the night and Abdullah is chatty, curious about these foreigners in his mountains. He asks many of the same questions one comes to expect in the Islamic world, lyrical in his jabali Arabic. “Are you religious? Do you have a wife? Children?” He is kind, curious and I am just as curious as he. I want to learn from him.

Between cups of sweet, red tea and fistfuls of potato and khobz, he tells us stories of the mountains. Our objective on the morrow is the north face of Mashanig, so Mashanig is foremost on our minds. In his rich Soqotri Arabic, Abdullah tells the story of the mountain’s origins, a single peak struck in two by a bolt of lightning.

Many years ago, he recounts, an old Bedouin woman named Naziyeh carried her baby to the base of the mountain and suspended a cradle between the two peaks. The child, Nazouzeh, grew to become a fearless man, unphased by the dangers of the mountain. When as a shepherd, his herd of cattle ceased to eat the grasses beneath the mountain, Nazouzeh carried his cows, climbing one-handed to the summit of Mashanig in order that they could feast on the fresh grasses there. After this, the story goes, with superhuman strength, Nazouzeh toppled a pillar of rock from the mountainside to make a bridge between the twin peaks, known as Mishifo (Soqotri: مشفو, literally “bridge”) so that his mother, Naziyeh, could milk the cattle from the col between the two peaks. Every few days thereafter Nazouzeh would return to the summit and take a cow down to be milked by his mother.

In 2011, when Mashanig was first summited by Mike Libecki, an accomplished American climber known for his exploratory ascents of remote big walls, he and his partner discovered a mysterious rock cairn. After the lichen between each stone was dated to be hundreds of years old Libecki concluded that either the cairn was placed by a real historical Sinbad (after being abducted by the Rokh) or a pre-modern shepherd must have scaled the peak. The rock pile as one shepherd, Abu Maryam, would later surmise, may have been the remnants of an old retaining wall, constructed to keep the cattle from wandering off the precipitous mountainside. With the tale of Nazouzeh and Naziyeh now coming from the mouths of the shepherds, the mystery of Mashanig became all the more captivating.

We leave with Fahad, the local guide, early the next morning and Abdullah, awaking to eat the small green fruits dropped from a sheger during the night shouts out to us. “Yallah!” he says. “Be safe! Dangerous there!”

We ply our way amongst the boulders upstream and before long we stare up at our objective – the unclimbed north face of Mashanig – an ever-steepening wall intercut with networks of cracks and tree-choked ledges. We waste no time with roping up.

A light daypack for the leader, filled with sachets of energy gel and an alpine climbing pack for the follower, replete with all the luxuries – water, rain jackets and an emergency space blanket (just in case). Ben leads away. He charges up a bushy chimney to gain the sleek stone above. We move efficiently for the first three pitches or so, route-finding quickly, following the path of least resistance up the north face. We swing leads one-for-one, and while Ben seems to get the crux pitches, I always seem to end up with the strange wandering traverses, zig-zagging and balancing my way between ledgelets.

The opening pitches of our new route. The Young-Elliott Route, Nth Face of Mashanig. 350m, 5.11 (or 5.10+ A1)

The opening pitches of our new route. The Young-Elliott Route, Nth Face of Mashanig. 350m, 5.11 (or 5.10+ A1)

Some way up the face, I pause at the base of a long line of rooves, pulling Ben up as I spy a line through. A crack is visible to gain a little ledge and after that the climbing appears to relent. The clouds swill around us. The weather is turning against us. Time is running out. We need to get through the difficult climbing as soon as we can. Ben storms up to the roof. At the crux he plants a left foot high, commits for a reachy handhold, misses, and takes a fall, a long arching plunge back to a ledge at half height. He pulls on a cam to save time, unholstering his aid ladders to mount the ledge above.

Ben unlocking the crux pitch with alpine aiders. I freed the pitch on second at 5.11.

Ben unlocking the crux pitch with alpine aiders. I freed the pitch on second at 5.11.

A few hours later we exit the face and move up the last pitches of the east ridge towards the summit. We are running out of daylight. Time gnaws at the hems of our cotton t-shirts. I route-find into a south-facing corner and mind’s eye a route to the top. A squeeze chimney, a few tricky mantles and we begin simul-climbing, chewing up terrain by climbing together, roped but not on belay. But as the rock tower goes on, the hours melange together and we know that tonight will not be a night spent sharing stories with shepherds back at camp.

We have been simul-climbing for many pitches now, chewing up terrain in a desperate bid to summit before dark.

I reach the top of another pitch and fiddle a tiny sliver of wire aluminum into a crack, cobbling together a hasty belay. The wind howls. The clouds hang heavy with rain. The rock becomes slick. Ben seems not to have moved very far and I am taking in only very little amounts of rope. I begin shouting into the wind, hoping he will hear something, urging him to climb faster. I hear a response – a few syllables, garbled amidst the roar.

Finally, he reaches me at the belay and we have just two short pitches to go. I cruise my pitch and he burns through, charging up a corner, slab and the last few metres to the summit. We’ve arrived. My watch says it’s sunset, but with the clouds all-surrounding, we won’t see anything. The howling wind is heightened by the folds in the granite. Acoustics in our alpine opera house.

Uponed by cloud after gaining the East Ridge

Uponed by cloud after gaining the East Ridge

When he finally reaches me at the belay we have just two short pitches to go. I cruise my pitch and he burns through, charging up a corner, slab and the last few metres to the summit. We are there… We are finally there. From lookng at the time I know it is sunset, but with the clouds completely over us, we would never know it. The clouds swirl darkly with the gathering night and the wind howls around us – the roar heightened by the folds of the granite like the acoustics in an opera house.

We contemplate the descent. The rappels. The boulder-hopping back to camp. Somehow, Ben has forgotten his head torch. “Without light, progress stops”. We aren’t going anywhere. We settle in for a cold one. It is often said that there is no sleep in an open bivy – only suffering. Indeed, when your perch is the summit of a granite spire in a mountain range in the middle of the Indian ocean and all you have to sleep in is a rain jacket, the skin of an ultra-lite backpack pulled over your legs, a space blanket between two and rocks and a wet rope for pillows, sleep seems an anathema – a diametric opposite to the cold, discomfort, fear and doubt that only a bivouacee can know. But sleep, like the wind and clouds circling round the tops comes and it goes.

Sometimes I awake to a cloudless sky filled with stars and the glimmering lights of Hadibo and Qlansiyet, far away and below. Other times I awake to a grey darkness and a bitter chill – the wind making a crackling sail out of our moonlessly-silver space blanket, threatening to blow everything away. We to and fro against the cold, spooning where no man has spooned before. A part of me hates the bivouac. But a part of me knows that the bivouac is crucial to the experience – the cold, long hours of a red-eyed night marking the difference between leisure and adventure. Ivano Ghirardini, the great soloist, called it “the essential ingredient”.

Summit of Mashanig and the highest point of Soqotra. The mysterious cairn behind (first documented by Mike Libecki on the FA of the peak up the W Ridge) may have been placed by the mythical Naziyeh, a super-strong Bedouin shepherd who it is said carried his cows to the summit (a vertical rock tower) with one hand.

Summit of Mashanig and the highest point of Soqotra. The mysterious cairn behind (first documented by Mike Libecki on the FA of the peak up the W Ridge) may have been placed by the mythical Naziyeh, a super-strong Bedouin shepherd who it is said carried his cows to the summit (a vertical rock tower) with one hand.

As Ben uncoils the rope to wrap around his legs, I settle in for a cool night on the summit of Mashanig

As Ben uncoils the rope to wrap around his legs, I settle in for a cool night on the summit of Mashanig

The night winds on and then, verily, it is over – first light uponing us. We take off in the early morning, locating some old rappel anchors. Back at the col on the east ridge we run a rope between us and down-climb an exposed gully into the gray depression. We wade through bushes, encircle a boulder and traverse across a slab for a clean run to the ground. On our way downwards. Ever downwards. The time has come to return to the World of Man. Down. Down. Down. Finally earth.

The harness come off, the ropes go away and a bag of fruit emerges from our cache. A pair of oranges are swallowed almost whole, plastic bag and all.

Going down

Going down.





And down

And down

And finally down

And finally down

Issa has picked his way upstream to see what had happened to us when we didn’t return last night. He worried through the night and expecting this when the skies were clear this morning I made a point to shine my headtorch towards what looked like the red glow of a campfire far and away below. He says he saw the glimmer of light amongst the swirling clouds and this makes me happy. Issa guides us down the river boulders back to camp, the clock striking midday.

When we arrive at the little glen by a tiny stream, an old Soqotri shepherd, black bearded, donning a red keffiye and blue furtah looks at me and begins speaking in fast, colloqiual Arabic as if no one else in the world could possibly speak something different.

Rohteh ila al’jebel?” he asks. “Mashanig?”

“Ah,” I nod.

Nazalna ala al-qemet khalal al-leel,” I say, miming the half-sleep of the night before and the wind-blasted cold. “You climbed the mountain? From bottom to top? Khatr. Dangerous. Keyf? How?”

Bil-aqdam min tehet we bil-hebel min fewq,” I say. By hands and feet on the way up and by rope on the way down.

His lips purse thoughtfully between sips of hot cinnammon tea, taken fresh from a boiling kettle. “Leysh?” He asks. “Why?”

I shrug, knowing not the answer and begin shovelling handfuls of rice, meat and olives into my mouth, happy at last to be back at camp.


Apres-climb meal. Freshly-slaughtered goat for dinner!

Testing the strength of an aharia branch

Testing the strength of an aharia branch

Dragon's blood trees (Soqotri: Aharia) are difficult to age as they are pulpy with no concentric rings inside. Instead botanists measure age using the number of branches, a few other features and a complex algebraic formula

Dragon’s blood trees (Soqotri: Aharia) are difficult to age as they are pulpy with no concentric rings inside. Instead botanists measure age using the number of branches, a few other features and a complex algebraic formula

Have you ever abseiled off a dragon's blood tree?

Have you ever abseiled off a dragon’s blood tree?

The North Face of Mashanig (the higher of the twin peaks on the right) at sunset. A storied peak in the oral traditions of the Soqotri Bedouin. Our line begins on the bottom right of the face, moving up and left to finish up the East Ridge just above the shoulder.

The North Face of Mashanig (the higher of the twin peaks on the right) at sunset. A storied peak in the oral traditions of the Soqotri Bedouin.
Our line begins on the bottom right of the face, moving up and left to finish up the East Ridge just above the shoulder.

Stay Calm but Be Afraid: On Self-Fulfilling Prophecies

A few weeks ago I published a long-winded rant about why the West should embark on a military campaign to unseat the Islamic State from its current rabbit’s warren (just to add another buzzword to the list of “safehaven”/“hotbed”/”breeding ground”/”Tora Bora” synonyms) in the Middle East. Within a fortnight this had magically happened.

Western special operations forces already operating on the ground in Iraq and Syria were thence declared forces, Royal Australian Air Force assets were re-assigned to the MEAO and military partnering has begun with the Kurdish Peshmerga and the Iraqi military. The good fight appears to be being fought. The very latest developments in the Middle East appear to be promising.

laser guided

Coming to a Muslim-majority country near you

The very latest developments on the home front, however, appear to be the exact opposite. In the wake of a speight of brutal beheadings conducted by ISIS against Western citizens in Syria and Iraq, groups of copycat Islamists and disturbed “lone wolves” have begun plotting similarly-styled acts of violence elsewhere throughout the world.

A beheading of a talented French mountain guide by a group of ISIS fan-boys calling themselves “Jund Al-Khilafah” (Soldiers of the Caliphate) was carried out in a usually-more urbane part of Algeria; an Australian soldier was attacked by unknown assailants in Sydney; and a bomb/beheading/baddie plot was unveiled in a string of counter-terror raids in Brisbane.

The response to the proliferation of ISIS’ methods and ideas in the West has been swift and decisive. Counter-terrorism operations have been stepped up a notch, new legislation has been introduced in parliament to give more powers to the counter-terrorism services and many of these services, particularly policing and intelligence services, have embarked on a media blitz publicising details of every terrorism-related raid in the past fortnight. ASIO and the AFP are at the forefront of the domestic push against Islamist extremism. Overseas too, the war against ISIS carries on.

The secret world is a vital component in the fight against violent Islamist extremism. This is indisputable. The ability for special forces and intelligence agencies to utilise selective violence in a secret manner (or pseudo-secret manner if we look at the Bin Laden raid in Abottobad as an example of what over-publicised secrecy actually means today) is crucial to ultimately purging the world of Islamist extremism.

Unfortunately however, while in a perfect world, the extremist problem would be a problem that the West could kill its way out of, this war is a war against an idea and, as history has shown, ideas can be very hard to kill. Herein lies the problem, and here too also lies the reason why this war seems not to have shifted much in either direction for the last thirteen years.
Most people are probably aware that ideas (and not just political ideas) can be very contagious. Indeed, as even Hollywood has caught on with Leonardo di Caprio’s highly cerebral comment in the movie “Inception”: “the most resilient parasite is an idea”. The waves of political change throughout history are driven by the rolling spring tides of new and infectious ideas. One man’s “dream” paves the way for another man’s presidency; a German sociologist writes a treatise that sparks a revolution in Russia; videos about some strange Pied Piper of child soldiers in Uganda go “viral” on Youtube and idealistic edicts about jihad and the ummah cause young men in the West to go and fight for a violent terrorist group in Iraq.

This is what the biologist Richard Dawkins was talking about when he coined the term “meme” which he conceived of, borrowing from evolutionary theory, as any cultural idea which might be considered a “replicator” – something which creates copies of itself in suitable environments.
Clearly, some of ISIS’ ideas and activities have struck a chord with groups and individuals outside of Iraq and Syria. Influenced by its emancipatory and pseudo-religious rhetoric, young Muslim men in the West are now beginning to answer the call to arms. ISIS has become a meme. In turn, Western governments like ours here in Australia have embarked on hard-hitting operations to root out these individuals and lock them away.

All of this makes for a great news story, and media organisations, as they must (for the function of the media is the reporting of a story), have lapped it up like kittens at the milk bowl. Suddenly, Australian public discourse is now dominated by “the ISIS threat”, by images of Westerners being beheaded in faraway Syria; by police raids in Brisbane and Sydney and declarations by prominent politicians regarding the presumed guilt or innocence of those facing terrorism charges.
While ISIS’ ideas are catching on with misinformed young men the world over, the current media cycle is causing another idea to catch on in the non-Muslim Western population.

Indeed, what this constant news reportage and speight of police press meetings does is reinforce the idea (shall we call it a “meme”) that 1.) “modern terrorism is predominantly caused by people who are Muslim.” Empirically speaking, it is true that the majority of terrorist attacks today (at least in the context of a peacetime Western country) are caused by fighting aged males indoctrinated into a radical political permutation of the Islamic faith. As such, as long as we are careful to use the adverb “predominantly”, the above statement is probably true.
The second thing the TV-watching public is reminded of with the constant reportage of counter-terrorism operations is that 2.) “terrorism is a threat”. This also, is true. Acts of terrorism constitute a direct threat to the lives of civilians in the areas where these acts occur.
While, as noted, both statement 1 and 2 are correct, we can also see from the police’s recent media blitz how the general public can, when thinking about Muslim people and terrorism in the context of the above two truisms, arrive at a very dangerous type of conclusion which logicians call a “syllogistic fallacy”.
“What on earth is a ‘syllogism’?” You might ask. “And how does a syllogism end up becoming fallacious?” Well, I’m glad you asked.
A syllogism, according to a dead Greek guy named Aristotle is an argument that uses logical reasoning to arrive at a conclusion based on two or more propositions that are assumed to be true. To enlighten us, Aristotle gave the following example of a “syllogism”:

All men are mortal. (This is the first proposition called “The Major Premise”)
Socrates is a man. (This is the second proposition called “The Minor Premise”)
Therefore Socrates is mortal. (This is the “Conclusion”)

This syllogism involves three terms (men, mortal and Socrates), which logicians will tell us is a prerequisite for a syllogism to be true. We might replace these three terms with the letters “A”, “B” or “C” just like swapping numbers for letters in high school algebra.
Thus, with Aristotle’s help we have the following structure.

The Major Premise: All A are B
The Minor Premise: C is the same as A
Conclusion: Therefore, all C are B

While the first syllogism about Socrates is true, if we ever-so-slightly tweak its wording we can end up with a syllogistic fallacy – a gross untruth or at the very least an unspecified truth. Let’s replace the word “all” with “some”, for example.
The Major Premise: Some men are mortal
The Minor Premise: Socrates is a man
Conclusion: Therefore, Socrates is mortal.
While you and I know that Socrates is (and was) mortal – the conclusion arrived at in this context is in fact unclear (it’s a syllogistic fallacy) because if the major premise is assumed to be true (that some but not necessarily all men are mortal) than Socrates’ mortality can neither be proved or disproved based on the information we have available.

A bit confusing? Well deal with it, because this is exactly what is wrong with the whole “Muslim-Terrorist” equivocation in the public imagination.

For starters, let’s take A, B and C, replace them with terms like “terrorism”, “threat” and “Muslim” and then, like dirty laundry in the wash, put them through a logical spin cycle and wait till the machine regurgitates them all twisted up. What is likely to occur if the media-police machine keeps on spinning in its current cycle (the cycle of mixing and mashing imagery of Australian Muslims, ISIS beheadings and counter-terror raids) is the emergence of a syllogistic fallacy in Australian public opinion.
The Major Premise: Some Muslims are Terrorists
The Minor Premise: The Man is a Muslim
Conclusion: Therefore, The Man is a Terrorist
Most people of reasonable intelligence can immediately see the syllogistic fallacy being employed here. The major premise explicitly uses the word “some” and yet the person has jumped to a false conclusion. The threat that this syllogistic fallacy poses to public law and order (in the form of new Cronulla-style race riots or tit-for-tat backlash between Muslims and Anglo-Saxon Australians) is the reason why Tony Abbott constantly reminds us on television (immediately after a counter-terrorism raid is made public) that “not all Muslims are terrorists”. People need to know that only some Muslims are terrorists because otherwise bad things would happen.
With the insertion of a 24 hour media cycle flashing words like “terror plot revealed” or “mosque raid” on our TV screens the public is constantly reminded that terrorist attacks are being planned by Muslims. The two terms are epileptically-flickered, transposed and ultimately confused until we end up with an even more dangerous fallacy which logicians might call a “fallacy of the illicit minor”. The fallacy is structured as follows:
The Major Premise: Terrorism is a threat
The Minor Premise: Terrorism is committed by Muslim people
Conclusion: Therefore, all Muslim people are a threat

Why is this conclusion and our thinking about Muslim people wrong? Because while the major and minor premises are correct, the conclusion is wrong because the minor term “Muslim people” is undistributed in the minor premise but distributed in the conclusion. That is to say, the conclusion refers to “all Muslim people” but the minor premise refers only to a vague, ill-defined and selective group of Muslim people who are committing the terrorist acts.
An anti-government conspiracy theorist using the format of “the ilicit minor” might look at the above media laundry cycle and, in tying it to some insidious plot being brewed up in the Orwellian dungeons of ASIO, start believing similar falsehoods:
The Major Premise: Conspiracies are evil
The Minor Premise: Conspiracies are committed by governments
Conclusion: The Government is evil
In this context, the minor premise talks about “governments” (that is, some and not all governments) so there is no proof for arriving at the conclusion that “The Government” – that is, this particular Government – is necessarily evil.
Finally, the fallacy of the illicit minor is also seen being employed by the at-risk demographic that is most affected by this media hoo-hah – the young, socially-aware Muslim male looking at the recent mayhem – the publicised raids, the trials by media and the inferences being made when the terms “terrorism” and “Muslim” are included in the same sentence in “breaking news” headlines. He too arrives at his own conclusion driven by a similar fallacy.
The Major Premise: Targeting Muslims is unjust
The Minor Premise: Police and the media are targeting Muslims
Conclusion: The police are unjust.
Here, we can probably guess what would happen to ISIS’ recruitment numbers if this easy-to-arrive-at syllogistic fallacy continues to be reinforced again and again.
It is perhaps necessary to emphasise that all of the above syllogisms are categorically false and their falseness stems from the absence of the word “all” in the minor premise (the first phrase doesn’t say “terrorism is committed by all Muslim people” nor does the last syllogism’s minor premise indicated that “all” Muslims are being targeted by police). But often the problem with syllogistic fallacies is that, at first glance, they often seem to make perfect sense, despite their inherent falseness.
When most people think really hard about it, they are fully aware that the idea that “all Muslims are terrorists” is false. There are 1.6 billion Muslims on Earth and the number of people involved in terrorism is, quite obviously, far less than that. But when press releases from police commissioners, from politicians and from attorney-generals are constantly updating the public about every minutiae of a particular counter-terrorist raid then it is easy to see how Islamophobia can become memetic in a hyper-aware, over-the-shoulder-looking public.
The unfortunate thing here is that with an increase in reportage about the latest “Muslim” bomb plot we are likely to see an increase in retaliatory violence targeted against Muslims. We are also likely to see an increase in young Western Muslims going overseas to participate in brutal, bloody conflicts. Any demand for the public to “remain calm” will have little influence as the media barrage increases.
While the violent ideology of the Islamic State is memetically replicating itself amongst disaffected Muslim youth in the Western world, we are seeing, in turn, the memetic replication of Islamophobia in the Western world as a response to this. This, in turn, creates more disenfranchised Muslim youth prepared to travel to Syraq to fight in the jihad which, in turn (again), fuels further anti-Muslim sentiment. Thus we see the formation of a vicious cycle, or, as I would term it, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
In the legislative domain, we see the emergence of a parliamentary push for greater powers for intelligence and police agencies. More than likely, ASIO and the police are pushing hard for these powers in the wake of the ISIS threat and are using these publicised raids to drive public opinion for the desired new powers in their favour.
It’s not necessarily conspiracy theory-esque to arrive at this conclusion either. If an organisation working in the interests of a public good wants more of something, it publicises its good works and then is rewarded with more of that something. ASIO and the police want more powers (and likely more money) to conduct domestic counter-terrorism operations.

It follows, therefore, that by publicising their counter-terrorism successes they will be given more powers (and $$$). The irony is that by publicising a raid, these government organisations are effectively negating the gains made by the raid. By publicising a raid, the police are unintentionally (through the media) reinforcing the Islamophobic syllogism being made by the public which leads to more hatred against Muslims and ultimately more angry Muslims.
Which leads us to our final syllogistic fallacy, the fallacy being committed by the government agencies involved in the fight against domestic terrorism. The structure of this fallacy is as follows:

Major Premise: Terrorists plots make people afraid.
Minor Premise: The government must keep the people calm.
Conclusion: Publicising terror plots will keep the people calm.
The police and intelligence organisations have worked long and hard to maintain a veil of secrecy by arguing that if the public were to get a hold of some of the details of these operations, the operations themselves would be compromised. Ironically however, the police, while arguing that the parliament should give them greater powers and greater secrecy, have in publicising the details of their own operations, compromised the efficacy of these operations.
The use of secrecy is necessary in the fight against Islamist extremism. The police and intelligence organisations should make the most of this hard-won secrecy. Maybe they should button-up a bit more.

Lost in the Classics: Or, Why John Ewbank was a Hardass

“Of these two rocks one of them reaches heaven and its peak is lost in a dark cloud. This never leaves it, so that the top is never clear not even in summer and early autumn. No man though he had twenty hands and twenty feet could get a foothold on it and climb it, for it runs sheer up, as smooth as though it had been polished. In the middle of it there is a large cavern, looking West and turned towards Erebus; you must take your ship this way, but the cave is so high up that not even the stoutest archer could send an arrow into it. Inside it Scylla sits and yelps with a voice that you might take to be that of a young hound, but in truth she is a dreadful monster and no one- not even a god- could face her without being terror-struck.” – Homer, The Odyssey

My entire existence hung from a piece of brass smaller than the nail of a pinky finger. The tiny piece of metal, connected to a thin sliver of aluminium wire, connected to a carabiner, connected to the rope was all that stood between me and the down-pointed nothingness of air. If the stopper wire ripped from the sliver of sandstone in which it was embedded, the force of my fall would rip out the tiny (the tiniest, in fact) of camming devices two metres below that. And when that pulled I would hit the ledge, bounce off and hit the ground twenty metres below. It seemed a paradox that in this moment more than anything in the world I wanted to be firm on the horizontal but right now I was thinking of every possible solution to keeping myself attached (somehow and with something) to the flaking cliff from which I hung.
With one hand, I began brushing litter from a band of shale at eye-level, burrowing through the choss in search of something solid wherewith to place another piece of useless, expensive metal. With each excavating motion of the hand, fragments off diaphanous stone disappeared into the night. My headlight shining through the darkness, I looked down at my bivy site below, rock particles showering downwards as though sucked down by some unseen vortex. With every rock I heard striking my haul bag, I wondered how my rope was faring beneath a shower of sharp conglomerate.
More and more I excavated. Digging, delving. Nothing solid. Just more choss. I turned my headlamp to the left and the right. The band of brittle rock extended the whole way along the cliff, a darker band of taupe beset against a tapestry of reddish-brown. Like some primordial line of same-coloured Tetris bricks, it constituted an entire sediment layer in the most fragile, flaking cliff in the Blue Mountains… the Dog Face. Unlike a completed line of same-colour Tetris bricks however, the shale band had not disappeared after completion.
I looked up at the rest of the route, a mighty, loose corner cruelly carved into a beautiful stone monument by ancient seas and centuries of wind and now a proud feature on one of the mightiest cliffs in the Australia. The route had been first climbed by John Ewbank, the father of Australian rock climbing in the 60s, towing along Mick Davis as his belayer. And now, fifty plus years later I was trying to solo this vertical sand dune with a second-hand eighty metre rope and a chestful of expensive metal. Ewbank had named the route Scylla, after the monster from Homer’s Odyssey.
I’d rope-soloed before… Bunny Buckets Buttress at Pearce’s Pass, Dunes Buttress and the Tiger Wall at Mount Arapiles. And I’d been spending a bit of time in the Bluies lately as well. John Price and I had done a pretty cool link up of Bunny Buckets (270m, 18/5.10b) and the West Face of Mirrorball (120m, 19/5.10c) in about eight hours in May and the Monday previous I had taken a monster lob after ripping a hold on the second-last pitch of an everything-but-free ascent of Hotel California (350m, 22/5.11b). All of these routes were sandstone too. But the Dog Face was a whole ‘nother level of sandy. It was literally a pile of choss – the remnant scar of a landslide a couple of decades ago – a playground for only the strangest of climbers… aid climbers.

Aid climbing goes hand in hand with the first rock climbing outings – bearded explorer types wearing hobnailed boots, hammering pitons into thin seams and threading home-made carabiners with hemp ropes doubled back around a scavanged car seat belt wrapped around the waist. You get the idea – these guys weren’t meditative, vegetarian types wandering around Fontainebleau with a bouldering mat. They were into getting up shit. In this golden age of climbing there was no such thing as a “crimp”. Sinking a good hand jam was as good as (you get the idea), scrounging about on your knees and belly was a valid form of mantling a ledge and shed-carved wood chocks were a legitimate prevention method against the leader falling to his death. In short, these guys had no technique but a lot of heart, they loved to grovel, hated the idea of falling (and who wouldn’t when you’re talking about wooden chocks as protection) and used any means to ascend. I could relate to these men. I enjoyed grovelling (because I did a lot of it), I hated falling and I often just gleaned satisfaction from topping out. John Ewbank was one of these golden era climbing men. His name was literally on the first ascent of every route on the Dog Face – constituting a grand total of more than a kilometre of choss climbed. Scylla, the crumbling corner on the far left of the Dog Face was almost an afterthought for a man like Ewbank. Sure, it had required five metre run-outs on knifeblade pitons, dubiously hammered into rock the texture of pizza crust, but this was nothing for Ewbank and whichever partner he had tricked into coming along for the day. His era of rock climbing wasn’t about chalked-up hands and fancy redpoint shoes. In the man’s own words: “it doesn’t really matter what you’re wearing on your feet when you’re shitting in your pants.”
And now here I was. Trying to repeat “Scylla”, one of Ewbanks’s Blue Mountains “classics” – here understood as proud lines which should never have been repeated. And I was trying to do it both solo and hammerless. Asking an aid climber to climb sandstone without a hammer was like asking a lumberjack to cut down a tree with a rasp. In Ewbank’s day a hammer was standard issue for a climber – along with the mullet and the moustache. Using the hammer, they would bury pitons into fused rock seams, nailing their way to the skyline and glory. In my day, with the thousands of dollars of equipment the aid climber had been duped into buying, climbing “hammerless” was the ethic. It didn’t leave ugly scars in the rock and ensured the cliff remained in pristine condition for the next ascensionist. I was also too cheap to buy a specialty hammer and too lazy to steal one of Dad’s and drill a hole in it.
As a vertical sand-dune, Scylla was the definition of poor-quality rock – the kind of poor quality rock that did not require “saving” from piton scars. Looking at the route from the ground it would be easy to surmise that I was the first climber on the route since Ewbank had put up the route since 1968. According to the guidebook however, the route had enjoyed a free ascent (that is, climbing with just hands and feet and a rope to catch your fall) which meant someone was even crazier than I was. I figured this would be the route’s first solo dalliance – not that this was particularly noteworthy… at all. Scylla was an ugly bitch and not something a normal person would want to climb… that much was certain.
The original Scylla, from Homer’s Odyssey was a six-headed, twelve-legged chthonic monster with three rows of sharp teeth in each head. Passing betwixt two cliffs within arrow’s range of each other, the sailors of passing ships would have to make a decision to hug alongside the cliff inhabited by Scylla or brave the whirling maelstrom of water, Charybdis, lying next to the cliff.
“Hug Scylla’s crag—sail on past her—top speed! Better by far to lose six men and keep your ship than lose your entire crew.” That had been the sorceress Circe’s advice to brave Odysseus on his way home. Needless to say, Odysseus had lost some of his sailors to Scylla’s maw.

I was making no progress with the choss band. There were too many geological eras to get through and I only had eighty years left of life. I would have to reach higher… higher than I could reach. I gulped. I would have to free climb this section… because I didn’t have a hammer. Thinking light thoughts I stemmed with my legs across the void, reached up and then back-stepped onto a higher hold. Wheedling my way into another stance from which I could place another piece… Another micro-wire. And the smallest of cams – a #0.1. In hindsight it seems ridiculous but I let out a sigh. A micro-wire was better than a shale band.
Above the crack became thinner again. A fused corner. Damn Ewbank and his pitons. I reached for a unique instrument of torture known as a cam hook. A cam hook is a type of aid hook which is inserted perpendicular to a vertical crack. When weight is applied to the other end, it torques downward and becomes cammed into the crack as long as body weight remains evenly applied to the piece. All this occurs while the aid climber prays to the Greek gods for mercy. Hera wasn’t listening to Odysseus’ prayers again, because I was still locked in Scylla’s grasp.
Standing on the cam hook I reached for the carabiner of microwires, fiddling another one into the crack. I was thinking about hammers again. Hammers and pitons. With the rope tat borne by every soloist and rack full of metal accoutrement dangling about my chest and waist, I felt like one of Odysseus’ sailors trapped in the folds of Scylla’s necks.
Too much crap to carry, I thought.
I eyed the micro-wire in the crack, wondering how and why it was supporting my body weight. I stepped higher on my aider and higher again. The wire wriggled. I held my breath, awaiting the plunge. Small granules of sand fluttered out of the seam as though from some unseen half-broken hourglass. It was letting me know time was running out. Time was running out. I’d been stuck on this pitch for two god-damned hours.
Two pieces later and I had mantled a small ledglet, facing up against another impossibly thin seam. I hooked three times off the ledge, aware with every metre gained that if one piece blew I would hit the ledge. It was an awful situation really.
Finally, as I turned left, better cracks appeared in the rock to fill with precious metal. I climbed methodically for the next half an hour. Place, test, mount, climb, repeat. I reached a small rooflet and set a belay. “Small wires,” according to the guidebook. It was correct. Above and left however… I looked on in horror. Another shale band. And above that… another.
I looked down and to my right at a multi-tonned flake of rock, suspended in mid-air waiting to drop onto my rope and sever it in two. It seemed unfair that gravity had spent most of the evening doing its best to rip me, a mere seventy-five kilo man from my perch, when a giant rock ten times my weight was allowed to remain impossibly suspended.
Who climbs this kind of rubble? I thought to myself. Oh right, me.
I’d had enough for the evening. I wanted to be on flat ground again. That was all I could think about. Flat ground… and bed. I had packed light though (to make pack hauling easier), so bed tonight was a jumper, a silk sleeping bag liner and the vinyl outer of my haul bag (just big enough to encase a toddler and/or my legs). But hey, suffering in a bivy was what it was all about.
I flicked off my headlamp and gingerly slipped into my silk liner. Winter in the Blue Mountains bit deep and cold, a gelid wind blowing from the east and across the wall. I wondered a few times if maybe I should wear a helmet while I slept too.
I woke again and returned to my highpoint. Time to proceed, I suppose, I said to myself.
A few moves later I was at a fixed wire and roof looking left at dubious looking flake. If I couldn’t onsight rope-solo a grade 24/5.12a move (which I definitely couldn’t) then I would be aiding this section. It was the free-climbing crux of the route. I tested the flake with a skyhook. It expanded, like a flag blowing in the wind. Then creaked. I actually heard it creak.
A song started playing in my head. The Victorian train safety ad… Dumb ways to die… so many dumb ways to die. (If you haven’t heard it:
I thought about committing. But then, I also thought about how sad Ellie would be if the flake pulled. Or how disappointed Brendan would be when he didn’t have a partner for alpine climbing in New Zealand this winter. Or what the Army would say if one of their soldiers died in a “freak” (read as self-inflicted) cliff climbing accident. Or how angry Dad would be when he found out I had borrowed his car. Then I thought about all the money that I would have wasted on climbing gear if I died on some ridiculous choss pile like this.
I did what I knew was always inevitable. What I should have done five hook moves ago. I bailed. Fifty-five metres. That was all I had done. Like a broken Odysseus, I threw off my harness and sighed. I hadn’t been resoundingly flogged in a while. But this was a resounding flogging.
As I shouldered my bag and prepared myself for the long trudge up the Furber Steps to the top of the cliffline I looked back at the crumbly shape of Scylla.
How on earth did Ewbank climb that? I wondered.
Well… with a hammer and pitons, I remembered.

The line of Scylla (120m, 15/5.7 A2/C3+) on the Lower Dog Face marked in red. My highpoint was the roof section just before halfway.