two: honey and hatalis of bir

O chillen, run, de Cunjah man,/ Him mouf ez beeg ez fryi pan,/ Him yurs am small, hi eyes am raid,/ Him hab no toof een him of haid,/ Him hab him roots, him wu’k him trick,/ Him roll him eye, him mek you sick—/ De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man,/ O chillen, run, de Cunjah man!
De Cunjah Man, James Edwin Campbell

Bir was soaked in the kind of humidity that comes when you think it’s about to rain but doesn’t – there’s just that much water in the air. Your glasses go foggy, and everything gets a shade darker. We all sat soaked on the carpet, and Suleiman dangled a bead of perspiration from a large, aquiline nose. Every tree that grew around the 24 houses and government-built well was a sidr, host to the bees that make the best honey. “They should be parched,” Suleiman said, “but they’ve turned green with the rains.” Indeed, Bir looked like an enchanted village from never-never land, all lush green vegetation and soaked rock under grey skies.

It wasn’t always so serene. All you have to do is look up at the ancient watchtowers, perched high on the cliffs along Wadi Bani Auf. They tell of tribal warfare, little, ever-present feuds rather than epic battles. This was for the sure survival of the tribe, for the little that mattered in the little sliver of flat ground that snakes between canyons: goats, agriculture and water. Such enmity was typically present between the Aufis and the Hatalis, but you wouldn’t guess it if you sat down today over sweet melons. “We are all brothers now,” insists a Mohammed of the al Aufis. “We have no quarrels. We eat together, even inter-marry. There is peace here now.”

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