The rains were late that season, and many nomads had moved south towards the desert fringes. For several days Rafig and I had not found pasture for our camels – the grass we came across was blackened and brittle, and the thorn trees stood out like skeletons One morning, passing through a region of rocky knolls, we met a party of nomad women and children with camels and donkeys laden with empty water pots. They told us they were taking the pots to the a high place so they would fill up when the rains came. Rafig asked how come they were so sure that the rains were coming.
‘Drums For Rain has arrived,’ they said. ‘He is drumming in our camp right now.’
As we continued towards their camp, Rafig told me that Drums For Rain was a nomad of the Rainmaker Clan – al-Hayy – the family whose duty it was to preserve rainmaking ceremonies, and who were guardians of the sacred drum, flute and firesticks, handed down over generations. Drums For Rain would wander around on his camel, visiting any place where rain was needed – sometimes it would rain just by his presence alone.
We heard the drumming before we reached the camp, and when we arrived the men welcomed us. They showed us a place to sleep, brought us food and tea, and later called us to listen to Drums For Rain. He was sitting by a fire – an old man with a wispy beard, grey rat-tails hair, wearing a faded jibba, with coloured patches stitched into it. He did not speak, but regarded us through half-closed eyes as he his small, calloused hands played over the drum-head – a powerful, almost mesmerising beat.
‘The drumbeat resonates with Earth Mother’s heartbeat,’ Rafig told me, ‘so it takes the drummer across the veil, and connects him with the Great Spirit. He can then intercede and ask for rain.’
I listened to the rhythm of the drum: it seemed to absorb my whole body, and after a while my eyelids fluttered and closed. In a moment I was somewhere else entirely, sitting alone on an open plain, with blue mountains in the distance. Suddenly, I saw a great snake rise out of the dust, quiver, and coil away; I saw a jumping mouse as big as a cat bounce across in front of me, pursued by a even larger wide-eared fox with deep black eyes; I saw a tawny eagle soar over me, and as my eyes followed her I noticed dark clouds over the distant hills, and streaks of dry lightning. At that moment, Rafig nudged me and said it was time to sleep.
As we retired to our place, we ran into the women we had met earlier, returning from placing their pots.
When we awoke in the morning, the camp was silent – Drums For Rain had gone. There was no sign of the rain, though. The sun came up like fire, and one could feel the latent heat. As we travelled on with our camels, and the sun rose higher, we saw that the landscape was even more arid than previously. By late morning we had run into a dust-storm – waves of fine grit that lodged in our nostrils and burned in our throats.
All afternoon we battled with the storm, bent over into the hot wind, pulling our camels behind us. When it blew out at sunset we were tired and thirsty, and there was nothing for the camels to eat. As we unloaded them, Rafig scanned the darkening skies – there was still no sign of rain.
‘So much for the drummer,’ I felt tempted to say – but I refrained.
I was glad I had kept silent. In the middle of the night, the air shook with rolling thunder: forks of lightning ripped open the darkness, and the rain came lashing down in torrents across the sands. As we had chosen a low place to camp, most of the night we had to sit in a stream of water up to our thighs. The rain did not stop till the sun came up like a bleary eye, and then we saw a desert transformed.
Rafig and I stared at each other’s bedraggled figures for a moment, then burst into raucous laughter.
‘Thank the Great Spirit,’ said Rafig.