"Memories of the Marsh Arabs" by Patrick Treacy

June 20, 2009 - PRLog -- The setting sun was pouring golden footpaths along the narrow reed beds as Sayid edged the mashhuf closer to the shoreline. We were reaching the end of our journey, and I began to see the humped-backed houses of his village through the blanket of fog that had settled along the island. A pied kingfisher rose from the rushes and warned the inhabitants of our approaching craft. As we came closer to the settlement, I could see how the wispy white smoke rising from little flickering fires in their doorways mixed with the marsh fog and hung like a murky mist above the island. We landed the craft beside a fleet of other small mashhufs that were laden with green grasses and fodder for the village animals, which were still grazing in the shallow waters. A small boy appeared from the twilight shadows of the reeds and helped to pull the prow of the mashuf ashore.

“Salam alaikum” I ventured feebly, unsure of what language they spoke in the marshes.

“Alaikum as salam” he replied, eyeing me over with some curiosity.

          Sayid disembarked, and pulled the front of the small craft a little further into the vegetation. The marsh boy then bade us goodbye and hastily scrambled onto the back of a nearby water buffalo calling to the others to follow him home for the night. The evening air was scented with the bitter smell of fresh roasting coffee. I walked with Sayid towards his dwelling which lay at the near edge of the marsh island.

“You know, the Ma’dan are still like the Bedouins Arabs…they gather together in the long summer evenings to drink strong coffee and talk about their problems!”

“I’m sure that our people came from the west, and still have a lot of Bedouin blood running in their veins” he continued.

“I don’t think so!” I replied,

“Biblical history shows that your people probably came from the north!”

“No that is not right, we have the traditions and religion of the people from Arabia!”

Well, I’m glad that’s the only tradition you maintained, as you won’t find much use for a camel driver in these parts!” I jokingly replied, consciously aware that the Marsh Arabs despite what they thought, had much closer connections to distant culture of the ancient Sumerians.

      We entered Sayid’s dwelling through a small platform that had been constructed from fence poles and bundles of tied reeds. There was a woven reed partition hanging above the doorway that appeared to separate this structure from the sleeping and cooking quarters within. I imagined that this flap could be tied in position in the wintertime to resist the cold icy winds that would blew south from the snowclad Hakari mountains in Kurdistan. The interior of his mashuf was much smaller than I had expected, and I began to wonder where I was going to spend the night.

“This is my mother, and my sister Nadam!”

Sayid’s chadroned mother then approached me, devotedly kissing the back of my hand and repeatedly gripping it tenaciously against her wrinkled forehead. His sister, a young woman with attractive facial features, was baking bread in a small pan by the fire. She smiled at my embarrassment and continued stoking the glowing fire to give it more strength. The yellow flames jumped and twisted, casting golden reflections on her exposed olive skin and her eyes glinted with Arabesque titillation and mischievousness.

I watched her as she kneaded the bread in her bare hands, and the time slowly ticked away between us to the sound of the crackling embers. She returned my gaze, and even blushed as turned around and lifted some more pieces of fuel to throw on the open fire.

I am sure that Sayid seen my horrified expression as I looked enquiringly at the pile of buffalo dung beside the fire as he said,

“It’s great because it burns very smoky and keeps away the mosquitoes”

“And Patrick!, just be thankful to Allah we didn’t bring our camels!

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The author is a travel writer with Ireland's 'Social and Personal' Magazine and an invited video contributor to many travel websites including TripFilms, Backpacker magazine and National Geographic's 'Everyday Explorers'. See website www.patricktreacy.com