Muhammad Saves Me

When I started “earthprobing” a few years ago. I wanted to cross Africa by land from west to east as near the equator as possible. By bus, peanut truck and train I reached Niamey in Niger, but since unusual rains had flooded the desert to the east, I was stranded for a while in that town. My visitor's visa was about to expire so I took the first available transport—as a well-paying passenger in a Land Rover filled with “rich” local travelers––our destination: N'djamena, Chad.

Stuck in the mud alongside the road leading out of Niamey were dozens of trucks and busses. Drivers and passengers had set up temporary camps next to their mired vehicles and it looked like some of them had been there a long time and intended to stay for quite a while.

My Land Rover was the first machine to try the muddy trip to the east since the heavy rains, but the driver skillfully navigated the slippery ruts and after a few miles we seemed to leave the worst of the mud behind. Scrawny trees decorated the flat, tan landscape. The dirt road was definitely getting drier by the mile and I thought that the $35 fare was probably money well spent when the Rover suddenly lurched into a sandy depression and there was a loud “clunk!” from the rear. The driver got out to inspect the damage and when he re-appeared at the door he was gloomy. The transmission was broken. This was the end of the line for this excursion and no refund.

The other passengers, mainly women, made distressed noises, but I thought we had traveled quite a long way and I suspected the border of Chad was near so I asked the driver how far I would have to walk to reach the border. His French was pretty bad and mine was worse but I thought he said five kilometers. Five kilometers? No problem for a tough backpacker like me! So I hitched on my pack and walked jauntily off. The other passengers, staying with the broken machine, gave me three cheers.

The Rover left behind, my footsteps on the sandy track make the only sound. Large, shallow rain puddles reflect the cloudless, blue sky. There are no birds, no villages, no people—nothing but scattered gray desert trees and me.

I'm happy. I love the solitude and the peace and I love to walk, but after four hours of steady plodding, I realize that something is wrong. No border.

I carry a little food and water for emergencies and I am almost sure the border must be quite near.

Hours later I am still walking. The sun sets and the mosquitoes awaken. Oh, my do they awaken!

As long as I am moving they hover, but if I stop they land and feast.

I walk a few hours after sunset—passing by a darkened mud hut village with music playing from a battery-powered radio. I am a little nervous about walking over to the village to ask for shelter—I am 100 per cent sure there are no hotels there and I am not at all certain of a friendly welcome, but there is plenty of moon and starlight and the road is flat and smooth so I walk a few hours more.

Now I'll just lie down and get some sleep.

My word! When I lay down, the mosquito hum increases to a roar! It's like I am trying to sleep near a busy airport runway. No sleeping here! Stay on the feet and keep moving! I walk until I am totally exhausted, then lie down and wrap up in a sheet of plastic I carry. It's so hot I am suffocating! I open a little hole near my face to get some air and the mosquitoes swarm in! It's impossible! I walk some more—and the sun rises.

Here's a mud village. I walk in, take off my pack and gesture for water. The town bully arrives and wants to see what's in my backpack before I get any water. I have a bit of uncooked macaroni he wants. First some water? No, first the macaroni! I have no idea how far the border is and no one here speaks even rudimentary French. The noodles are my only emergency food. I won't trade. He looks like he might want to fight me for them—that's all need! I pack up quickly and walk out of the village. No one follows, lucky for me!

Back on the road. Lonely walking––and it soon gets hot. Really hot.

There are no more puddles either—in fact it looks like it hasn't rained here for months! Maybe years! No. There are trees here and trees need water…but these trees don't seem to have proper leaves. They don't cast any shadows like trees are supposed to! Well, anyway, there are no mosquitoes—but now it's too hot to sleep! Walk, walk, and walk.

Some hours later my feet are hurting. Blisters. I put on my other pair of socks—maybe they will help cushion my feet—no, that doesn't seem to help. The backpack has also started to make blisters on my back. This is not good!

Late in the afternoon I come to another village and I find the chief's hut. I buy some bread and am given some water and some advice. “Don't walk alone at night. Wild animals and bandits.” And the border is another 35 kilometers.

But it's too hot to walk during the day. I plan to go on at nightfall despite the danger since my visa has expired and I don't want to see the inside of a Nigerian jail! The village chief comes over to where I rest bringing two young men who are also walking to Chad. The chief says they will take me along and it will be safer. Good.

At sunset we start. The two jolly fellows set a high-speed pace. They carry their things in neat packages on their heads. I try carrying my backpack on my head. After a little practice I learn to balance it too—this unusual technique relieves my back and shoulders and generally feels more comfortable.

About midnight we stop at a village. My companions seem well known and they get a room to sleep in. We lie on the dirt floor—no windows or screens, so myriad mosquitoes feed on any exposed skin. The noise they make is incredible. The heat is beyond belief too. I thrash about hoping sleep will come and shortly before dawn, it does. Too late. My fellow travelers are up and eager to leave before the sun rises bringing the heat of the day.

I try, but I can't keep up with them. At first they wait for me and shout encouragement, but soon they disappear in the distance and I am alone again on the dry road. The sun gets higher and hotter and my plodding gets slower and slower. I begin to pass concrete kilometer posts showing the distance to the border—nine km, eight km…I reach the four km post with the sun directly overhead. I am utterly exhausted and fall on my back near the post, too tired to seek the meager shade of the trees.

I lay there, semi-conscious, for some time. Then I hear a noise and open my eyes.

Looming over me is a horse and on the horse is a rider straight out of “The Arabian Nights”. A black Arab dressed in flowing white robes with a scimitar at his belt and a rifle at his side is looking down at me curiously. I look up at him trying to make sense out of the apparition.

He dismounts and I sit up. He asks, in French, if I need help. I reply that I am terribly tired. He reaches into his saddlebags and finds a small can of condensed milk and some doughnut-like sweet-cakes, which he offers me. I accept gladly. He says his name is Azarak Miriam from Cameroon, wishes me a pleasant day, mounts and rides away. I stand up and limp to a nearby tree, open and drink the milk and eat the cookies. Immediately I feel immensely refreshed.

I am just finishing the food when I hear a motor. A big dump truck appears on the road heading toward Chad. Waving wildly, I run into the road and the driver stops. The cab is jammed with boys and men but the driver offers me a free ride in the truck-bed. The travelers help me up and in, toss my backpack in after me and we rattle off with me bouncing around the vast, empty truck-bed like a loose bit of gravel. Here's a big, muddy river to cross by dugout canoe and here's a policeman: “Welcome to Chad.”

A few months later, when I am studying Islam with a Sufi teacher in Lebanon, I tell him of my harrowing adventure in the African desert and of my strange meeting with the horseman.

“When a person is in desperate need of help,” says my teacher, “Muhammad sometimes appears and gives him the help he needs. Muhammad rescued you.”

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