Teuns Stegmann stands at ease in front of the two guards guarding the tent of the chief of the Berbers. “I want to see the chief,” he announces in his best Arabic. “I have an urgent message for him.”
In the thick darkness that has descended, the two guards look momentarily at the tall Arab standing right in front of them, and then the one disappears inside. Moments later, he returns and gestures for Teuns to enter the tent. It is a very spacious tent, much higher than the other flat tents, and quite luxurious but not as elegant as the tents of sheiks and other Arab leaders. Beautiful cushions and carpets are on the sand, and the old, fat chief is half sitting, half lying, in one corner of the tent on his plush cushions. The stem of a long, Arabic pipe protrudes between his bearded lips. J
