Darfur Letter:The rebel commander throws his arm in the direction of a low range of volcanic hills, writes Rob Crilly.
"This area is all native Fur. That is why it is so difficult for the government of Sudan to have spies and it makes it safe for us," says Gen Elsadig Elzein Rokero, high on the hillside above the town of Gorolang Baje.
Behind him, orange groves, apple orchards and fields filled with potatoes and onions stretch into the distance.
Here and there ice-cold mountain springs bubble from the ground, almost as if to complete a land-of-plenty cliche.
This is not the Darfur of scorching heat, sand and flies.
Jebel Mara is a place where fertile volcanic soil and fresh water make life bearable in a country slowly being consumed by desert.
But it also makes the traditional homeland of the Fur tribe - the people who gave Darfur its name - a glittering prize in the region's bitter conflict.
Today, thousands of civilians live inside the rebel-held mountains waiting for the next assault by government bombers and their allies in the Janjaweed militia.
They survive without the support of aid agencies. Most evacuated their staff last year as fighting closed in once again.
Visitors to Gorolang Baje must endure a spine-crunching donkey ride through mountain passes and steep valleys purged of their human population in the early days of the war.
The road starts in Feina, a village that did not exist four years ago. Today it is peopled by hundreds of families burned from their homes elsewhere.
Its thriving market is replenished by aging trucks that risk hijack to bring plastic sandals, Chinese radios and sacks of beans from Nyala, the capital of South Darfur.
Two or three of the hardier aid agencies have also started to re-establish a presence here in the past few months.
At first, the road from Feina was filled with people. Children with jerry cans, some riding donkeys, trudged backwards and forwards to the muddy holes that pass for wells here.
But then, as the track twisted its way up the first hill, the people disappeared. We passed a tumbledown village. What was once a collection of stone-built homes was now a patch of rocks and pebbles scattered on the soil. The thatched roofs were long gone.
Fifteen or so minutes later, we passed another collection of deserted homes.
Mohammed Abdul Wat stopped his donkey at the third ghost village.
"All Janjaweed," he said. "People used to live here, but then the Janjaweed came and burned this place."
We moved on again, the two donkeys placing their hooves carefully on the rocky ground that will become a river when the rains come later in the year.
Gradually the track began to climb once more, twisting and turning in a series of narrow hairpins and air cooling all the time despite the midday sun.
Somewhere behind us - to the south - the drone of an aircraft's engine was coming closer.
Mohammed brings his donkey to a standstill once again and twists in his wood and cloth saddle, trying to see if it is a government aircraft on a bombing raid.
"It is African Union," he said, and we were on our way again.
Four hours later, we crested our final hill and the donkeys stepped up their pace as they recognised journey's end.
Gorolang Baje has become something of a haven for thousands of Fur villagers.
Many have arrived here in the past four months. They have trickled in from the town of Deribat and its surrounding villages in east Jebel Mara, which was bombed by Antonov aircraft in December.
Sudan Liberation Army (SLA) commanders estimate that 7,500 people are now living in simple shelters built from sticks and plastic sheets in the town or the surrounding hills.
Most are women and children. The men are fighting with the rebels.
"We feel safe here but we have a food problem," said 16-year-old Fatna Adam Hamis.
She was raped during the attack on Deribat. She thinks her father is dead and has not seen her mother since fleeing the conflict. "If my village is safe we will go back, but only Allah knows when that will be."
A crowd began to assemble as word circulated of a visiting foreigner.
Many were children carrying sheets of paper decorated with simple slogans: "Welcome UN" and "Up ICC", in a reference to war crimes investigations by the International Criminal Court.
"You have heard our problems," said one elderly woman. "When will you help us?" I began to explain that I was journalist with no power other than the ability to take their stories to the outside world. Maybe then things will start to change, I suggested.
It satisfied the women. They began ululating and dancing as more children joined the throng, banging drums, coconut shells and anything else they could find.
The din was deafening.
And I felt like a liar.