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Title: The secret of the Sahara
Kufara
Author: Rosita Forbes
Author of introduction, etc.: Harry Johnston
Release date: September 30, 2026 [eBook #79696]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: George H. Doran Company, 1921
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79696
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET OF THE SAHARA ***
THE SECRET OF THE
SAHARA: KUFARA
ROSITA FORBES
[Illustration: ROSITA FORBES]
THE SECRET OF THE SAHARA: KUFARA
BY
ROSITA FORBES
Author of “Unconducted Wanderers,” etc.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
SIR HARRY JOHNSTON
WITH 54 ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration: GHD Trademark.]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
AHMED MOHAMMED BEY HASSANEIN
IN MEMORY OF HOURS GRAVE AND GAY, BATTLES DESPERATE OR HUMOROUS, OF
SUCCESS AND FAILURE IN THE LIBYAN DESERTS.
INTRODUCTION
BY SIR HARRY JOHNSTON
THE OASES OF KUFARA
Very nearly midway between the great mountains of Tibesti (which rise to
over eleven thousand feet in height); the plateaus of Fazan; the
mountainous ‘island’ of the Cyrenaica; the oases of Western Egypt, and
of Dongola; lies the still mysterious region of Kufara, visited and
described by Mrs. Rosita Forbes, the author of this book.
She has been seemingly the second explorer of European birth to
accomplish this feat; for although the Kufara district was first placed
on the map with no great incorrectness of location by Friedrich Gerhard
Rohlfs, after his journey thither in 1878–9, he was—as Mrs. Forbes
shows—the only European of his party to reach these oases, and his stay
there was very short.
Apparently he only revealed, only realised by sight or information the
salt lakes at Buseima and a rather problematical ‘Erbelma’ (_qy._
Erbayana, Erbelna?) to the south-west; and either he did not see, or he
did not record the more important sheets of salt or brackish water in
the comparatively large Kebabo oasis or collection of oases.
These lakes of Kebabo stand at an average elevation of about fourteen
hundred feet above sea level, an elevation which was divined or
calculated hurriedly by F. G. Rohlfs, but more accurately determined by
Mrs. Forbes and her Egyptian fellow-traveller, Hassanein Bey. By these
later figures the altitude above sea level of the Kebabo Oases may prove
to be slightly lower than in the estimation of the older maps (1614
feet). Still it cannot be much less on the lake levels than fourteen
hundred feet; therefore in considering the problems it is not possible
to attribute the Kebabo oases, the villages of Kufara to anything more
than the site of a largish lake in prehistoric times which sent its
waters flowing west into the great Wadi al Fardi, the course of which
seems to have passed through Taiserbo to Jaghabub and thence past the
oasis of Siwa into the Nile near Cairo.
The Libyan Desert through which Mrs. Forbes travelled, starting from
Cyrenaica and returning to Egypt, is classed by her and by most other
persons with the Sahara; which properly speaking lies to the west of a
long chain of peaks, ridges, and tablelands grouped in its central
section under the name of ‘Tibesti’, the mountainous country of the Tu,
Teda, or Tibu (Tebu or Tubu) peoples. But it would almost seem for
reason of its past mammalian fauna as though we must distinguish between
the Sahara and the Libyan Deserts, just as for similar reasons we do not
extend the name of ‘Sahara’ to cover the sandy and stony wastes of
Arabia. The true Libyan Desert—almost a more awful region of desolation
than the Sahara west of the Tibesti mountains—would seem in ancient
human times, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand
years ago, to have been the western area of the Nile basin. Its mighty
rivers, their courses still traceable, fed by the almost Alpine range of
Tibesti, by the vanished rain from the plateaus and ridges of Wanyanga
and Darfur, flowed towards the Nile between its nascent delta and
Kordofan. Its mammalian fauna and to a lesser degree its flora differed
in some important particulars from that of the Sahara (then possibly
much covered by shallow lakes and inland seas); and still more from the
beasts and trees of true West Africa or Central Africa. The White
Rhinoceros or a nearly allied form of it has left fossil remains in
Algeria and is still found within the equatorial Nile basin. It has
penetrated south along the eastern side of Central Africa, but it does
not appear to have passed into the Congo basin or to have reached the
regions south of Algeria or west of Tibesti and Darfur. The ‘Black’
Rhinoceros with the pointed lip has pushed westward to the lands round
Lake Chad and into the basin of the Shari, but seems never to have
travelled as far westward as the Niger or ever to have been found in
true West Africa. No zebra or wild ass, so far as we know, ever left
Algeria or the Nile basin to enter the Chad or Congo regions. Many
antelopes have in the near past and present ranged between Mediterranean
Algeria on the north-west, the equatorial Nile basin, and southern-most
Africa, but have not appeared in the western half of Africa.
The region therefore into which plunged the author of this book, with
the concurrence and assistance of an educated Egyptian of Al Azhar
University, has been of great interest to all students of Africa.
Rohlfs’s visit had almost become legendary and at best its reports were
fragmentary and inconclusive. The Kufara oasis was the half-way house
between the mysterious and recalcitrant Negro kingdom of Wadai and the
Mediterranean coast. Wadai was the last of the great Negro States of
Central Africa to come under European supervision and control. But even
after Wadai—to the great benefit of North Central Africa—was conquered
by the French, and its slave trade abolished, the oasis of Kufara
remained for a few more years a legendary district, perhaps mainly
created by the excited imagination of a thwarted German explorer, who
had already crossed Africa from the Mediterranean to the Benue and the
Niger, but who had scarcely penetrated to this secret land of water and
palm trees in the centre of the Libyan Desert than he had to leave it.
We now realise from the work of Mr. Harding King in 1913 and from Mrs.
Forbes’s book, with its admirable photographs and both vivid and
circumstantial descriptions, what this series of oases, salt lakes, and
underground fountains means in the middle of the Libyan Desert. It is
one of the vestiges of a formerly well-watered country ten, twenty or
more thousand years ago. It was a more habitable region possibly at a
distance in time not exceeding five thousand years. To it came, long
ago, when the intervening desert was much more traversable, clans of the
Tu, Tebu or Tibu people, nowadays the dominating population of Fazan and
Tibesti. A few Tebu—one or two hundred—still linger in Kufara on
sufferance, the semi-slaves of the Zwiya Arabs. The author is able to
give her readers an admirable photograph of one of these lingering Tebu
of Kufara.
Who and what are the variously named Tu, Teda, Tibu, or Tebu tribes?
They are seemingly of considerable antiquity, the Garamantes of
Herodotos and the Romans, the Tedamansii of Claudius Ptolomæus, the
Alexandrian geographer of the second century. They represent one of the
numerous races between the White man and the Negro, but in their purer
and more northern extension they are a people with a preponderance of
white man stock. The skin is dark-tinted and the hair has a kink, a curl
about it; but the physiognomy is that of the Mediterranean peoples,
except for the occasionally tumid lips. They do not indeed differ very
much in appearance, facially, from the Hamitic peoples of North-east
Africa; but their language is utterly dissimilar. With this and that
corruption, change, and deficiency, it has become the speech of Bornu
(Kanuri), Kanem, Ennedi, northern Darfur, Tibesti, Tummo, and southern
Fazan. Commerce even carries its dialects into Tripoli. But this Tibu-
Kanuri group of tongues has no discernible connection with any other
African group and is utterly dissimilar in syntax and in word-roots from
the sex-denoting Hamitic, Libyan, Egyptian and Semitic languages of
North and North-east Africa. Neither does it offer any point of
resemblance with the Nubian group, with the Niger families, with Songhai
or Fulfulde. It is rather hurriedly called a ‘Negro’ tongue, which
explains nothing. There seem to have been many pre-Aryan, pre-Semitic,
pre-Hamitic forms of speech generated by the White man in Europe, North
Africa and Western Asia, which, like the original language-impulse of
the Bantu and Semi-Bantu, were introduced into Tropical Africa and
subsequently adopted by the Negro, who was at all times so easily
influenced by the White invader. The Tibu speech seems to have been one
of the several distinct groups of tongues (Fula may have been another)
spoken in North Africa before that region was invaded from the east by
the Hamites and from the North-west by the Libyans. It was pushed
southwards into Fazan and thence extended across the Libyan Desert to
the oases of Kufara.
But though ranking themselves as ‘white men’ or at any rate as a racial
type much above the Negro, the Tibu were not quickly on the White man’s
side in religion. The ancient Garamantes became Christian only a short
time before the Moslem invasion of Tripoli; and were possibly not
Islamized until the eleventh century. Probably the Tebu of Kufara were
of some vaguely Pagan faith when their oases were invaded by the Zwiya
Arabs of Fazan two or three hundred years ago. As they only had spears
and arrows to defend themselves against the invaders who were armed with
guns, they were soon conquered, semi-enslaved, and coerced to adopt the
Muslim faith. They seem to have possessed camels of what is known as the
Teda or Tibesti breed, taller, stouter, clumsier in form than the
dromedaries of the north.
On this point hinges a good deal of interesting argument. Was there a
native camel, a wild species of the genus _Camelus_ in North-east Africa
before the domesticated camel was introduced from Arabia and Palestine
into Africa at an uncertain period coincident with the downfall of the
independence and glory of Ancient Egypt—say three thousand years ago? A
wild camel, very near in form to the Arabian species, is found fossil
and subfossil in Algeria. It must have lingered there till the arrival
of Man who possibly aided in its extinction. Were there wild camels
similarly lingering in the Teda, the Tibesti country and in Somaliland
and Galaland down to quite recent times? And have they contributed to
the formation of the domesticated camel stock of Africa?
The Zwiya conquerors of Kufara opened up relations with the Sudan, with
Ennedi, Wadai, and Darfur; and on the north with Cyrene and its
Mediterranean ports. Their oases obtained wealth and importance by
becoming a halfway-house between Eastern Europe and Central Africa, and
grew rich during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries over the trade
in ivory and Negro slaves. The importance of the Wadai-Kufara road for
camel caravans increased greatly during the second half of the last
century because, meantime, Algeria and Tunis had become more or less
controlled by Europe. Egypt was likewise supervised, constantly watched
by European powers in regard to the Slave trade. Even Tripoli and its
sea-faring trade in slaves was hampered by surveillance from Malta.
Turkey, however, was left pretty much to herself after the Berlin
Conference of 1878, for motives of international jealousy. She
strengthened her hold over Cyrene and likewise garrisoned Crete, not far
away. So that long after the Sudan slave trade had been closed in all
other directions by British and French action it remained alive and
active by way of Wadai-Kufara-and-Benghazi, till, in 1912–1913, Italy
took Tripoli and Cyrenaica from the Turks and resumed the former
protectorate of the Roman Empire in this direction.
Then—as Mrs. Forbes relates—the followers of the Senusi Brotherhood
found themselves in lively conflict with a modern-tempered European
power, and had—eventually—to come to terms with Italy.
Mrs. Forbes tells us or reminds us of the main facts and changes in
Kufara history: its occupation at an unknown and probably distant date
by the Tibu people, who may have dwelt there when the surrounding
deserts were much less arid, and when the oases and their lakes were
considerably larger. They may have been there while the Pharaohs reigned
in Egypt and before the domestication of the camel. Then she alludes to
the conquest and occupation of Kufara by the Zwiya Arabs, who seem to
have come from the eastern part of Fazan, especially an oasis named
Leshkerre. Before their coming the Tibu inhabitants seem to have called
‘Kufara’ (which in Arabic means, ‘unbelievers’, ‘heathen’) by the name
of Tazerr; and in a valuable Appendix the author relates the subsequent
history of these oases when they came under the influence of the Senusi
dynasty.
The statements in this Appendix may be in all points accurate, but it
might be interesting to the reader to give an alternative version
derived from earlier French and British writers. Some of this
information was noted when the present writer was Consul General in
Tunis, and had commenced studying the results and aims of the teaching
emanating from the Senusi confraternity, his attention having been drawn
to this movement in Muhammadanism as far back as the ’eighties of the
last century, by the influence of the Senusi missionaries on Nigeria.
The first Senusi teacher was born at or near Mastaghanem on the coast of
western Algeria towards the close of the eighteenth century. He was
styled—for short, as he had a wearisome array of names—Muhammad bin Ali
bin as-Sanusi. [Because there is no _e_ in the Arabic language you will
find a world-wide conspiracy to use that vowel in the transliteration of
Arab names. There is likewise no _o_, so that _o_ is thrust into or
before Arab names of persons, countries, and mountains in their European
rendering with an unaccountable vehemence of contrariety].
Like so many Arabs and Berbers in the history of North Africa he was a
religious enthusiast, and like all such in every faith he was willing to
die or to doom to death in defence of his unprovable religious dogmas.
He resorted to Fez for his theological studies and worked at the so-
called university in that Moroccan city till he was past his thirtieth
year. He then felt inspired to preach reform in Islam, and to that end
set his face westward, expounding his tenets first in Algeria (about to
be distracted by the French entry), then in southern Tunis and Tripoli.
At last he reached Egypt and enrolled himself as a student at the great
Muhammadan university of Al Azhar in Cairo. But his tenets, when he
expounded them, were pronounced to be heretical, so he journeyed on to
Mecca, seeking further instruction.
At this religious capital of Islam he met among other pilgrims and
enquirers a remarkable personality, Muhammad ash-Sharif, a Negro prince
from Wadai who in 1838 became supreme monarch or Sultan of that
remarkable country in the heart of Africa. A great friendship grew up
between the white-skinned Berber (for though claiming to belong to an
Arab tribe, the first of the Senusi leaders was obviously of Berber
stock) and the black skinned Wadai prince, which affected for seventy
years or more the relations between the Senusi sect and the central
Sudan. But after the departure of the Wadai prince the relations between
Muhammad bin Ali bin as-Sanusi and the authorities of Mecca became more
and more difficult; and though the Senusi leader founded monasteries in
western Arabia he thought it better to leave that land of orthodoxy and
return to Africa.
He settled first—about 1844—near Derna in Cyrenaica.[1] This region,
once in far-back, prehistoric times a huge island, had, together with
Morocco, become the only portions of North Africa where Islamic
developments were unfettered. Yet even here, in the next decade Turkish
enquiries (after the anxiety of the Crimean War was over) irked the
first Senusi; so that in 1855 he moved from the vicinity of Derna to
Jaghabub, an oasis on the undefined borderland between Egypt and the
Tripolitan Pashalik. Hither he brought his two sons, born in 1843 and
1845. They were named Muhammad ash-Sharif and Muhammad al Mahdi, and
according to most authorities Muhammad ash-Sharif was the elder. Mrs.
Forbes, no doubt on good authority, reverses this order and puts forward
the Second Senusi—Muhammad al Mahdi—as the elder and all along the
rightful heir.
Footnote 1:
He is said to have paid another visit to Mecca in 1852.
The story related to me and preserved in several books is that one day
at Jaghabub, not long before his death in 1859, the First Senusi put his
young sons to the following test of faith. He pointed out a tall palm
tree near the mosque and ordered them to climb up it and then, putting
their faith in God, to leap off it to the ground. Muhammad ash-Sharif
shrank from the test; his younger brother had faith, climbed up the tree
to near the fronds, and then dropped to the ground and was not hurt.
Him, therefore, his father designated as his eventual successor.
Whether or not this was a true story and whether or no the Second Senusi
was the younger son of the First, he succeeded to his father’s position,
after a short interval of ‘regency’ conducted by trusty councillors;
though there seems to have been no ill-feeling between the brothers.
Under Muhammad al Mahdi, the Second Senusi, the political movement took
great amplitude. His emissaries spread far and wide over Negro and
Negroid Africa. Houses of teaching and prayer were founded in Senegal,
in western Nigeria, in Hausaland and above all throughout the Tibu
countries, Wadai and northern Darfur, as well as in Fazan, Tunis, and
Algeria. A little vague hostility was shown towards France, but not more
than towards Turkish rule, and the feeling among the Senusiya was rather
in favour of the British. When the other Mahdi, Muhammad Ahmad, the
Dongolese destroyer of the Egyptian Sudan, strove to enter into close
relations with Muhammad al Mahdi at Jaghabub his overtures were snubbed
very distinctly.
Unknown to himself, no doubt, the Berber blood in the Senusi leader’s
veins ranged him against violent attacks on civilised states. He did his
utmost to prevent the Arab fanaticism of the Middle Nile from spreading
to Egypt, or to Wadai and Bornu. His growing influence over Turkish
Africa attracted the interested attention of Abd-al-Hamid, Sultan of
Turkey. In 1889, the Second Senusi leader was visited at Jaghabub by the
Pasha of Tripoli escorted by an imposing force. This visit and other
actions of Abd-al-Hamid caused the Second Senusi perturbation.
Accordingly in 1894, he transferred himself and his funds and band of
officials to the Kufara oases, whither pursuit by Turkish troops would
be very difficult. From this safe retreat he intensified his relations
across the Desert with Wadai, Kanem, and Darfur. In 1900 the Second
Senusi pope (as one might by now call him) moved his headquarters from
Kufara to a rocky stronghold named Geru, in the district of Dar Gorani
in western Wadai. He did this partly in furtherance of an unfortunate
opposition to the French conquest of these perturbed regions in the very
heart of Africa. The Senusi dynasty was never enlightened enough to
perceive the wickedness of the Slave Trade, and it resented the efforts
of the French to put down the shocking slave raiding of the Wadai
Muhammadans.
The French armies however were victorious, and the Second Senusi died of
disappointment in Wadai.
The Third in succession was the son of his brother, Muhammad ash-Sharif
and was named Ahmad ash-Sharif. He was chosen by the confraternity
because the sons of Muhammad al Mahdi were deemed to be too young for
the cares and responsibilities of this Pope-like position. Ahmad ash-
Sharif re-established his capital at Kufara, but in spite of his
recognition as supreme head of the institution attempts were made by the
confraternity to ignore the death of the Second Senusi, to announce that
he was travelling on secret business, that he would one day return to
resume the supreme power vested meantime in his nephew. It is possible
this fiction was set about by those who were led to distrust the wisdom
of Ahmad the Third Senusi.
Ahmad apparently decided that the Brotherhood should offer unstinted
opposition to the French in Central Africa, and that they should ally
themselves with the Turkish Sultan whom his grandfather had derided and
opposed as an effete and heretical ruler. Between 1902 and 1909, Senusis
were fighting the French advance on Wadai and contiguous countries. In
1910 Turkish troops advanced for the first time beyond Fazan into the
Tibesti mountains and Borku. But in the following year they were
withdrawn northwards to oppose the Italian invasion of Tripoli. Sayyid
Ahmad ash-Sharif, the Senusi leader, joined Turkey after the outbreak of
the Great War in 1914 and in 1918 had to flee to Constantinople in a
submarine, as Mrs. Forbes relates. Thenceforth she becomes the sole
historian for the time being of the Senusi family, and according to her
relation we see that Idris, son of Muhammad al Mahdi, and grandson of
the First Senusi teacher has become the fourth ruler of his family and
has been accorded by Italy and Britain the title of a Prince (Amir). His
domain is now recognized as covering the inner region of Cyrenaica
between the Egyptian frontier on the east, that of Fazan on the west, of
the coast region of Cyrene on the north and approximately on the south
of the 20th degree of N. Latitude. Jedabia as marked on Mrs. Forbes’s
map is very near the Mediterranean coast, and Zuetina, also referred to,
is actually a seaport which is to be the outlet of a hoped-for Sudan
trade coming from Wadai. Whether this important outlet is intended to
come within the Sharifian domain of Sayyid Idris is not quite clear: it
hardly seems likely that at present Italy would allow a quasi-
independent Arab power to attain to a port on the Mediterranean between
the provinces of Cyrene and Tripoli.
Italy of course retains from an international point of view the
suzerainty over the Senusi Prince, whose access to the Mediterranean she
could not permit to be abused or allow it to shelter a revival of the
slave trade, practised so long by the Turks, and at no time denounced by
the followers of the Senusi.
Somewhat similarly to the action of Italy since the conclusion of the
War, the British have been striving to create an independent or nearly-
independent Arab state in Mesopotamia; they have evacuated Persia
(though it is still threatened by the Russian Soviet) and they are
endeavouring to recreate a wholly independent congeries of Arab States
in Arabia, especially in the case of the Hijaz, the Domain of Muhammad
and the region in which he was born, lived, and worked.
What will Islam do for the world of civilisation in return? Will it give
up, once and for all and completely, the age-long attempt to maintain
slavery as an institution, to override and enslave the Negro, to
persecute the Christian, the Jew, and the harmless pagan? Will it cease
to despise true Science, and encourage unfettered education? For a
century or two after the Arab conquests of Spain and Mesopotamia,
education took great strides, and the civilisation of the Old World was
really somewhat advanced. Then followed a heart-breaking Muhammadan
reaction, as bad in its effects as Byzantine Christianity. Under the
Turks, more especially, Islam was made the cover for a disastrous check
to learning, to investigation, to mastery over the planet and its
resources. Muhammadanism became the rallying ground for the enemies of
Civilisation. Its teaching became and has remained incredibly puerile
and futile. Compare the curriculum of Al Azhar with that of British,
American, French, German, Italian, Austrian or Spanish universities! The
author of this interesting story seems content and hopeful as to the
progress of Senusi teaching. I, having traced the downward course of so
many Muhammadan movements, split always on the rock of Education,
reserve my opinion, and meantime distrust all Islamic agitation.
H. H. JOHNSTON.
_July 25, 1921._
PREFACE
I feel this Libyan story needs a few words of explanation, for owing to
the peculiar circumstances in which it was undertaken it is not the
usual consecutive and comprehensive book of travel compiled _after_ the
return of an expedition wherein the traveller is able to review the
journey as a whole. Reading such works, I have so often found myself
asking, “And then what happened?” or “I wonder what he felt at the
moment?” Well, this is a very simple account of “what happened next.” In
no way does it pretend to be a scientific record of exploration, for,
owing to the ever urgent necessity of secrecy and disguise, the use of
most instruments was an impossibility.
The spirit of the story changes with the mood and the method of its
development. It was written in so many odd ways at so many odd times—
under a scented sage-bush in the sunset while the slaves were putting up
our tent, or huddled inside a flea-bag when the nights were very cold.
Sometimes, when life was exciting, it was scribbled on a camel under the
shelter of a barracan! Twice, at least, the last chapter according to
all human calculations was completed in the hope that the tattered copy
books would somehow find their way back to civilization and the fate of
the expedition be known up till its last moments. It is a daily record
of success and failure, of a few months in an alien world, showing how
much of that world’s spirit was absorbed. Because, in real life, the big
things and the little things are inextricably mixed up together, so in
Libya at one moment one worried because one’s native boots were full of
holes, at the next perhaps, one wondered how long one would be alive to
wear them. This book records the former mood as well as the latter,
because both at the time were equally important.
Naturally such an impossible, illogical journey leaves one indebted to
so many people that it is difficult to pick out those to whom one owes
most.
I have dedicated the story of our adventures to my co-explorer Ahmed Bey
Hassanein, for his knowledge of the Senussi acquired during his
secretaryship to the Talbot Mission in 1916 was invaluable to me, and he
was the loyalest of my allies throughout the expedition. His tact and
eloquence so often saved the situation when my Arabic failed, and we
laughed and fought through all our difficulties together.
Long before my Kufara expedition merged from impossible dream to
probable fact, many officers stationed in the Western Desert lent me
their knowledge of the Senussi oasis, gathered from careful
conversations with Beduin sheikhs and merchants, while from Khartum, El
Fasher and Cairo came maps and route reports which were most useful.
I now know that we might have benefited exceedingly from Rohlfs’s most
careful and valuable writings on the subject of his North African
travels, but unfortunately we only possessed his “Kufra,” which does not
attempt much description of the oasis he was the first European to
visit, confining itself chiefly to the relation of the story of the
destruction of his camp and the break-up of the expedition. In a Journal
of the African Society the great German explorer gives the exact bearing
on which he marched from Jalo. Had we known this at the time we might
have arrived at Taiserbo in spite of the error in the extent of
vegetation marked on the map.[2] We picked up the traces of Rohlfs’s
journey at Buseima, where some of the inhabitants remembered him as
Mustapha Bey. At Hawari several sheikhs told us stories about his
adventures there and at Buma, but at no point could we find any trace of
Stecker having visited the oases. On the contrary we were categorically
assured by Sheikhs Mohammed el Madeni, Bu Regea and Sidi Omar at
Buseima, and by Sheikhs Musa Squaireen, Mansur Bu Badr, Musa Gharibeel
and Sidi Zarrug at Hawari that Rohlfs had no other European with him.
Stecker was the surveyor of the party, and in view of the difference in
the position he assigned to Buma and that which we believe it to occupy,
we made the most exhaustive inquiries as to the personnel of the German
expedition; but while we collected much intimate information concerning
Rohlfs, all evidence offered us stated positively that he was not
accompanied by Stecker at Hawari, Buma, or on his return journey to
Buseima. On these occasions he was always described as being “with his
cook, Ali, and a big horse.”
Footnote 2:
On the Egyptian survey map (2,000,000 series) 1912, re-issued 1915,
the green area of Taiserbo vegetation runs across longitude 22° and
touches latitude 26°. It will be seen from the map of our route that
we marched across this angle without finding Kusebeya or any trace of
vegetation.
The gracious reception accorded me by H.E. the Governor of Cyrenaica,
Senator de Martino, made me regretful that I could not stay longer in
his admirable colony. To him, to General di Vita and the Cavaliere
Queirolo, head of the Ufficio Politico at Benghazi, I owe my delightful
journey to Jedabia and a store of invaluable information regarding the
country to which they most kindly facilitated my visit.
To any reader it will at once be evident that, after the generous help
of the Italians in Cyrenaica, the whole success of the expedition
depended on the good will of the Emir Mohammed Idris es Senussi and of
his brother, Sayed Rida. It is absolutely impossible for any European to
set foot into Libya without the permission of the Emir or his wakil. We
were welcomed by the Sayeds with a hospitality that reminded us of the
Arab greeting to a guest, “All that is mine is thine.” Whatever we asked
for was given us, multiplied a hundredfold. Sidi Idris and his brother
were so prodigal of their generosity, so unfailing of their help, that
we shall feel eternally their debtors.
Since surprise has been expressed that we should have met with any
opposition in Libya once we were provided with Sidi Idris’s passport, I
should like to explain that we had no permit from the Emir himself. The
letter referred to throughout the book was merely a casual, personal
letter expressing his willingness to receive us. We had, however, a
passport from Sayed Rida authorizing the Sitt Khadija, a Moslem working
for the good of Islam and the Senussi, and A. M. Bey Hassanein to visit
the country. This document insured us the most hospitable welcome from
the official classes in spite of the plots of the Bazama family and of
Abdullah, to which plots alone I imagine we owe the adventures of our
journey.
Because of the good will of the Sayeds we found many friends and allies
in their country, notably Mohammed Quemish and Yusuf el Hamri, who
accompanied us through 1,000 miles of desert till, somewhere east of
Munasib Pass, we fell into the hands of the Frontier Districts
Administration, and thereby hangs a tale, for so few of us in England
know for how much she is responsible abroad!
Egypt is like a tadpole, her head the Delta, and her tail the long
curving valley of the Nile. Therefore, of all countries, she is the most
vulnerable of attack, and never could she defend her own borders!
Mohammed Ali subsidized the sheikhs of the Wilad Ali to police his
frontiers. Before the War the Egyptian Coastguards built their forts
along the Mediterranean and Red Sea shores and pushed their outposts
south into the deserts, but during the War a far more efficient force
sprang into being. Nowadays the Frontier Districts Administration, a
kingdom within a kingdom, is responsible for the safety of “all country
not watered by the Nile” between the Sudan and the Mediterranean, the
Red Sea and Cyrenaica. The territory is divided into four Provinces, and
under a Military Administrator in Cairo, Brigadier-General Hunter, C.B.,
C.M.G., the governors and officials combine the complicated duties of
protector and judge, guide, instructor and friend to the tens of
thousand Beduin who might at any time prove a thorn in the flesh of
Egypt. This exceedingly capable organization, or such portion of it as
officiates in the Western Desert, took charge of us before we reached
Siwa, and to them, especially to Colonel MacDonnell, Governor of the
Western Desert, and to Colonel Forth, Commandant of the Camel Corps, we
owe more than it is possible to acknowledge in a mere preface.
In fact, I find myself unconsciously including in a long list of
indebtedness the fact that, having written their names far and wide
across the Eastern Sahara, they had fortunately for me, temporarily
omitted Kufara from the itineraries of those swift dashes into the
wilderness which habitually add a couple of hundred miles or so to the
known chart of Africa!
One name is always connected with theirs, because it appears on so many
desert routes—that of Dr. Ball, F.R.G.S., the Director of the Desert
Surveys of Egypt. Encouraged by his sympathy and experience, we brought
him our rough notes and drawings and from them he compiled the map of
our journey. I think, therefore, that my readers’ gratitude should be
nearly as great as my own!
ROSITA FORBES.
_Abu Menes,
March, 1921._
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION BY SIR HARRY JOHNSTON vii
PREFACE xxi
CHAPTER
I WE ENTER ON THE GREAT ADVENTURE 1
II PLANS FOR THE FLIGHT 21
III THE ESCAPE FROM JEDABIA 39
IV ACROSS THE DESERT WITH SHE-IB 64
V TRIUMPHANT ARRIVAL AT JALO 88
VI CHRISTMAS IN THE DESERT 112
VII A FAULTY GUIDE ON A WATERLESS WAY 126
VIII THE LAKE IN THE DESERT 148
IX TREACHERY AT HAWARI 172
X FEASTS IN THE HOLY PLACE 185
XI THE “CITIES” OF KUFARA 203
XII THE FLIGHT FROM TAJ 222
XIII THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS 251
XIV THE ELUSIVE DUNES 270
XV THE END OF THE JOURNEY 291
MAP 310
APPENDIXES 311
GLOSSARY 341
INDEX 345
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ROSITA FORBES _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
THE EMIR IDRIS ES SENUSSI 16
THE AUTHOR AS A BEDUIN SHEIK 17
AHMED MOHAMMED BEY HASSANEIN, MY FELLOW EXPLORER 32
SAYED RIDA ES SENUSSI 33
THE AUTHOR AT JEDABIA 48
THE AUTHOR ON CAMEL-BACK 48
BEDUIN WOMAN AT JEDABIA 49
NOMAD TENTS NEAR JEDABIA 64
OUR SOLDIER SLAVES AND THE GUIDE ABDULLAH 64
WELL AT JEDABIA 65
NOMAD ENCAMPMENTS ROUND JEDABIA 65
SAYED RIDA ES SENUSSI 80
THE AUTHOR IN BEDUIN DRESS 81
UNLOADING ON THE SECOND DAY FROM JEDABIA 96
WADI FARIG; CAMELS AT THE WELL 96
A HALT FOR THE NIGHT 97
CAMP OF MOJABRA MERCHANTS AT BIR RASSAM 97
HASSANEIN BEY AND MOJABRAS DRINKING TEA 128
FLOCKS WATERING AT BIR RASSAM 128
SHE-IB’S CARAVAN ON THE MARCH BETWEEN WADI FARIG AND AUJELA 129
OUR CARAVAN APPROACHING AUJELA 129
THE MOSQUE AT AUJELA, WHERE IS BURIED THE CLERK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMED
144
DESERT WELL AT JALO 144
THE AUTHOR WITH THE TWO SLAVES—ZEINAB AND HAUWA 145
OUR CAMP AT BUTTAFAL 145
CARAVAN ON THE MARCH BETWEEN BUTTAFAL AND TAISERBO 160
THE MOUNTAINS OF BUSEIMA 160
CARAVAN IN DUNE COUNTRY NEAR BUSEIMA 161
THE FIRST MEETING BETWEEN THE FAQRUN FAMILY AND OUR PARTY AT BUSEIMA
161
GARDENS AND LAKE AT BUSEIMA 176
THE AUTHOR ON A CAMEL AT BUSEIMA 176
ZOUIA WOMEN AT BUSEIMA 177
AT BUSEIMA; TEACHING THE FAQRUN FAMILY TO USE FIELD GLASSES 177
THE FOUR EKHWAN WHO RECEIVED US AT TAJ 192
HASSANEIN BEY TALKING TO EKHWAN AT TAJ WHILE THE AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPHED
THEM 192
THE KAIMAKAAN AT TAJ 193
ZAWIA TOWER AT TAJ 208
KUFARA WADI, FROM TAJ 208
BARRAKING; A TOO SUDDEN DESCENT 209
A LUNCH IN KUFARA VALLEY 209
A TEBU AT AWARDEL IN KUFARA 224
OUR CAMP AT AWARDEL 225
LOADING AT AWARDEL 225
CAMP AT MEHEMSA; YUSUG, MOHAMMED AND AMAR 240
THE AUTHOR ASLEEP ON A CAMEL 240
JAGHABUB 241
WELL IN ZAWIA AT JAGHABUB 241
OUR HOST AT JAGHABUB 256
SIDI IDRIS’S HOUSE AT JAGHABUB 257
MOSQUE AND QUEBA OF SIDI BEN ALI AT JAGHABUB 257
MY LONELY PICNIC IN KUFARA WADI 272
A GLASS OF MINT TEA ON THE WAY TO SIWA 272
DOCUMENTS OF WELCOME GIVEN AT BUSEIMA AND KUFARA (TAJ) 273
THE SECRET OF THE
SAHARA: KUFARA
CHAPTER I
WE ENTER ON THE GREAT ADVENTURE
The great adventure began at Jedabia, 190 kilometres from Benghazi as
the crow flies. It is only a group of scattered sand houses, with the
mysterious windowless walls of the East, flung down on a wide space of
white rock and sand, yet it is the home of the great Senussi family. We
arrived there on November 28, 1920, having come by divers methods across
the stretch of stony desert which lies to the south-west of Benghazi,
the capital of Cyrenaica. It is an almost deserted country of flat
reddish sand, sprinkled with rocks and tufts of coarse grey grass which
provides food for rare camel caravans and fuel for the Beduin fires.
There are no made roads, but rough tracks link the scattered Italian
forts, manned by companies of stalwart Eritreans and irregular Arab
levies. To the south, the _altipiano_ rises in a faint line of purple
cliff which catches wonderful reflections in the setting sun. Otherwise
the vista is intensely monotonous save for an occasional encampment of
Auwaghir. Unlike the solid black “beit esh shar”[3] of the Syrian or
Algerian nomad, their tents are of the poorest description, made of
patched sacking of various grey-brown shades; they are very low-pitched,
so that even in the centre one cannot stand upright.
Footnote 3:
A glossary of Arabic words and phrases used in the book will be found
on p. 337.
In the dry season, wherever there are wells, may be seen congregated
flocks of sheep and goats and herds of camels numbering many thousands.
After rain, however, so much water lies out on the rocky ground that the
animals can drink wherever they like, so the country presents its most
deserted appearance.
Benghazi is a little white town lying on the very edge of the
Mediterranean breakers, unprotected by harbour or mole. Famine and
disease considerably reduced its population during the War and the suqs
are almost deserted. An occasional donkey with scarlet tassels and a
load of fresh dates passes down the Sidi Shabi where European stores and
native booths stand side by side. A few camels come in from the country
half buried beneath huge sacks of grain. In the evening there is a
mustering of bearded merchants at the little café by the mosque, while
contemptuous Askari in scarlet tarboushes and swinging capes stroll by,
smoking Italian cigarettes, but the life of the town is confined to the
European quarter containing the hotel and the Government offices.
The biggest of the white, Oriental-looking buildings is Government
House, with a double line of great Moorish arches decorating its
imposing façade. So different from the windowless dwellings of Jedabia
with their discreet high-walled yards, yet it was there that I first saw
Es Sayed Mohammed Idris bin es Sayed el Mahdi es Senussi, the man whose
power is felt even beyond the boundaries of Libya and Cyrenaica. The
Italians and the Senussi had ratified a few days before the provisional
treaty of 1916 and there were great festas at Benghazi in honour of the
newly made Emir, who was spending a few days in the capital on his way
to Italy to visit the King.
There had been an official reception and down the broad steps moved the
black mass of Italian uniforms splashed with the vivid blue of their
gala sashes and the glint of their gay-ribboned medals. Foremost came
the Governor, Senator de Martino, in the green and gold uniform of a
Knight of Malta, and General Di Vita, with his splendid rows of
decorations. Between them walked a figure which dominated the group and
yet gave one the impression of being utterly remote from it. Robed all
in white, in silken kaftan and trailing burnus, the rich kufiya flowing
beneath a golden agal, with no jewel or embroidery to mark his state,
Sidi Idris came slowly forward leaning on a silver-handled stick. An
Italian officer murmured in my ear, “Give him a longer beard and he
would be the pictured Christ!” He was right. The ascetic leader of one
of the greatest religious confraternities in the world had the strange,
visionary eyes of the prophets of old. His long face had hollows under
the cheek-bones. The lips were pale and the olive skin almost waxen. He
looked out, under a broad brow, dreamily, far beyond the pageant
prepared in his honour, to realms even more remote than his own
untrodden deserts. Thus might the Nazarene have walked among the
legionaries of Rome!
The following day I met the Emir at a dinner which Omar Pasha gave in
his honour. Before the other guests arrived we conversed, I in faltering
Egyptian Arabic, he in the classical language of the Hejaz. In the same
flowing white robes he sat in a great chair at the head of the room and
in a long line beside him sat the ekhwan who were to accompany him to
Italy. They were a picturesque sight in their multi-coloured robes of
ceremony. Prominent among them was the General Ali Basha el Abdya, a
delightful bearded personage with a complete set of gold teeth, which
touch of modernity contrasted oddly with his crimson kaftan and splendid
dark burnus bordered with silver. Beside him sat the venerable Sharuf
Basha el Ghariam, who had been the teacher of Sidi Idris and was now his
most trusted councillor. His jerd was a sombre brown, and the end of it
covered his head over a close-fitting white ma-araka, but his kaftan,
with long embroidered sleeves, was vivid rose. He had a kindly, serious
face and seemed much more interested in his surroundings than the
others.
I stumbled over my words of formal greeting, expressed in the
unaccustomed plural, wondering whether the man who looked so infinitely
remote and uninterested would even listen to what I was saying. The
brooding eyes softened suddenly and a smile that was veritable light
flashed across his face. If graciousness be the token of royalty, then
Sidi Idris is crowned by his smile! For such a look the Beduin
prostrates himself to kiss the dust the holy feet have pressed!
Thereafter we talked of my journey and he blessed me in his frail voice,
smiling still and saying, “May Allah give you your wish!” I tried to
tell him of my love of the desert, of how I was happiest when, from a
narrow camp bed, I could look at the triangular patch of starlight
beyond the flap of my tent. “I, too,” he said, “cannot stay more than a
month in one place. Then I must move, for I love the _scent_ of the
desert.” It is true there is a _scent_ in the desert, though there may
be no flower or tree or blade of grass within miles. It is the essence
of the untrodden, untarnished earth herself!
We dined gorgeously on lambs roasted whole and stuffed with all sorts of
good things—rice, raisins and almonds—and on strange, sticky sweetmeats
that I loved and bowls of cinnamon-powdered junket and, best of all, the
delicious thick Arab coffee, but the Emir ate little and spoke less. The
Senussi law forbids drinking and smoking as also the use of gold for
personal adornment, so after the meal glasses of sweet tea flavoured
with mint leaves were handed round to the solemn ekhwan, who took no
notice whatever of their fellow guests, consisting of the Governor, the
general, the captain of the light cruiser which was to carry the Senussi
to Italy, and myself. Omar Pasha made me sit beside the Emir, who
suddenly turned to his venerable followers, “Come and salute this lady,”
he said, and instantly, with the unquestioning obedience of children,
they clambered up from their low chairs and moved in a body towards me.
“Aselamu Aleikum” they murmured gravely as they shook my hand without
raising their eyes, but giving me the Moslem salutation to a Moslem!
Benghazi was _en fête_ those days. There were so many ceremonies—a
review, a great dinner in the Governor’s palace in honour of Italy’s new
ally—so I did not see Sidi Idris again till the last night of his stay,
when there was a general reception which brought streams of Arab
notables as well as Europeans to witness the fireworks from the wide
verandas of His Excellency’s dwelling. I saw the Emir standing aloof
from the chattering crowd, his ekhwan near him, and wondered what he
thought of us all. Half the guests were of his own race and creed, yet
not here was his real kingdom, but among the ten thousand Beduin who
spring to horse or camel at his word, among the hundred thousand
pilgrims who learn the law from his zawias! We stood together on a wind-
swept balcony and looked down at a wild dance of Abyssinian soldiers. A
thousand black figures, each bearing a flaring torch, gyrated madly in
the moonlight, yelling hoarse songs of victory and prowess. The three
things a man may be justly proud of in Abyssinia are killing a lion, an
elephant or his enemy! The fantastic dance we saw might celebrate one or
other of these achievements. Gradually whirling into tempestuous
circles, the soldiers flung their torches into flaming piles in the
centre and their chaunt rose stronger on the wind. Sayed Idris was
pleased: “You will see ceremonies like this in my country,” he said,
“but there will be no houses. You will not miss them.”
The moment the last gun, announcing the Emir’s departure for Italy, had
been fired, Hassanein Bey and I climbed into the car most kindly lent by
the Government. When he first consented to accompany me to the Libyan
Desert, where his knowledge of the language, religion and customs was
invaluable to me, Hassanein Bey assured me that he came for a rest cure.
Later on he assumed so many characters that it was somewhat difficult to
keep count. He was always the Q.M.G. of our little expedition and he
used to produce macaroons at the most impossible moments from equally
impossible places! He was a chaperon when elderly sheikhs demanded my
hand in marriage, a fanatic of the most bitter type when it was
necessary to impress the local mind, my Imam when we prayed in public, a
child when he lost his only pair of primrose yellow slippers, a cook
when we stole a bottle of Marsala from the last Italian fort and chased
a thin hen till, in desperation, she laid an egg for our _zabaglione_!
He also made the darkest plans for being a villain and murdering anyone
who interfered with our affairs, and I nervously listened to tales of
sudden disappearances in the Sahara.
However, on the day of our departure from Benghazi he was distinctly
subdued, for, on looking at our piles of camp kit and my two very small
suit-cases, I had suddenly noticed several exceedingly large and heavy
leather bags. With horror I demanded if they were all absolutely
necessary to his personal comfort. “Yes, really!” he assured me. “They
are only actual necessities. As a matter of fact they are half empty. I
thought they would be useful for putting things in.” The words were
hardly out of his mouth when one of the opulent-looking cases, slipping
from the Arab servant’s hand, burst open and deposited at my feet a
large bottle of “Heure bleue” bath salts, several packets of salted
almonds and a sticky mass of chocolates and marrons glacés, together
with a pair of patent leather shoes and a resplendent Balliol blazer.
Words failed me! “Necessities!” I stuttered as I marched towards the
camion to see that the heaviest cases of provisions were not put on top
of the rather fragile fanatis intended for carrying water.
Ten minutes after leaving Benghazi the white town with its slender
minarets had disappeared into the sand, and our camions crawled like
great grey beetles over a sunlit waste, with here and there a line of
camels black against the horizon. It was the season of sowing and the
tribes were scattered far and wide, planting the barley that would
suffice for their frugal life next year. Here and there, as we went
farther inland, a stooping figure, in close-wound white jerd, pushed a
plough drawn by a camel, while a friend guarded his labours, rifle slung
across his back. Sometimes a rare traveller on gaily caparisoned mule,
his coarse brown jerd flung over his head and hiding the scarlet
sederiya beneath, gave us grave greeting, “Marhaba!” “Bien venu!” We
spent a night at Soluk, where the wells had attracted a great flock of
sheep, black and brown, numbering about a thousand. The following day we
rode the thirty kilometres to Ghemines on wiry Arab horses with mouths
like iron beneath the wicked curved bits, and high-pommelled saddles
mounted on black sheepskins. Three irregulars of the Auwaghir band
accompanied us, generally galloping round us in circles by way of
showing off their horsemanship.
A small encampment of some half-dozen tents lay beside our path, so we
turned in to see if they would make us tea. At first they refused
because I was a Christian. Then a woman in striped red and yellow
barracan, with a heavy necklace of carved silver, came out to inspect
us. “It is all right,” she said to the others. “She is a nice little
thing and she has a Moslem with her”—this in appreciation of Hassanein
Bey’s white brocaded kufiya. They spread a scarlet camel’s hair rug for
us to sit on, but they were not really convinced of our good faith. My
companion began asking the men if they had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.
“Not yet,” said the oldest wistfully. “What is written is written. If
Allah wills it, I shall go.”
We were rapidly making friends when a fierce-looking individual with a
hard weather-beaten face and stern eyes appeared. He carried tea and
sugar, but bargained for them violently, thinking we were both the
scorned Nasrani. When we told him we knew Sayed Idris, he laughed in our
faces. “Our lord Idris is travelling,” he said. “Would you like to see a
letter from him?” I asked. Awe showed on all their faces, and their eyes
followed Hassanein Bey’s every movement as he pulled out the somewhat
crumpled envelope from his pocket. They read the superscription
reverently, and then one by one kissed it with passionate earnestness
and gravely pressed it to their foreheads. They returned it in complete
silence. Without a word the atmosphere changed. The fanatic looked at us
with humble yearning. The old man’s eyes were glazed. We knew that we
could have told these three men to get up and follow us to an unknown
destination and they would have obeyed with unquestioning, ungrudging
faith. “Sidi Idris has gone to visit the King of Italy,” I said. “He has
been made an Emir.” They accepted the statement indifferently. How could
a mere king confer honour on the man whom Allah himself had
distinguished above all others living? As we remounted the old man
kissed my hand with tender eyes, murmuring, “Inshallah ma temut illa
Islam,” and we galloped away amidst the wild “Ullala-een” of the women
and children.
Ghemines to Zuetina meant 120 kilometres in a camion over a very bad
sandy track, but that night I slept in a tent for the first time for six
months. There was a wonderful starry sky with a full moon, and a Senussi
sheikh rode in to see us on a splendid grey horse with a scarlet saddle.
The high pommels back and front and the wide stirrups were of silver,
and the purple-tasselled bridle was heavily embossed with the same
metal. Sayed Mohammed Hilal es Senussi is a cousin of Sidi Idris and a
brother of the Sayed Ahmed es Sherif who fled to Turkey at the end of
the War. A kindly, cheerful personage, he apparently had cut adrift from
the stern rules of his order and found charm in a semi-European life.
His language was so full of rhetorical flowers that I found it difficult
to understand, but he lent me an excellent horse for the journey to
Jedabia. He also requested me to deliver to his cousin, Sayed Rida, a
poetic epistle which began, “Oh freshness of my eyes, may Allah bless
your morning with peace and joy.”
The sand dunes of Zuetina gave way to a flat, colourless waste tufted
with grey brushwood. As we turned our horses’ heads inland tiny jerboas
scuttered into their holes at our approach, and occasionally a great
hawk wheeled above our heads. Otherwise there was no sign of life save
one solitary horseman in white jerd on a white horse and a boy sitting
on a pile of stones playing an odd little tune on a wooden flute. Our
grey Arab mounts were tired when at last we mounted a low rise and saw
before us a fringe of patched Beduin tents. It was the first step on a
long journey. Everything was uncertain. There were so many difficulties
to be surmounted, but we felt that now, at least, the last trace of
Europe lay behind us. We breathed more freely. We both loved the desert
and the dwellers therein, and we felt that they must understand and
respond to our sympathy. I turned to Hassanein Bey as the sandy track
ran between the blind mud walls that I had seen in so many countries. “I
feel as if I had left behind me the last shred of civilisation. The
simplicity of life is beginning to impregnate me. I believe that old
Beduin’s blessing has bewitched me. When we leave the desert I shall be
a Moslem.”
We sent to ask if Sayed Rida el Mahdi es Senussi, the brother and wakil
of Sidi Idris, would receive us and we waited for an answer at the edge
of the suq, where grave, bearded men, with the wistful eyes of those who
look at far horizons, stood in white-robed groups. A few camels lay
beside piles of grain, but otherwise the wide open spaces between the
square walled-in yards, where were Arab houses, were deserted. The
banner of the Senussi family, a silver crescent and star on a black
ground, floated over two of the houses and the protesting roar of laden
camels came from one of the larger enclosures, for Sayed Safi ed Din,
cousin of Sidi Idris and brother of the banished Ahmed, was travelling
to the interior the following day with the whole of his family and sixty
beasts of burden.
A soldier of the Arab guard brought us news that the Sayed would receive
us at once and we dismounted in one of the windowless yards before the
door of a big white house. We were ushered into the usual Arab reception
room with a stiff row of crimson brocaded chairs and sofas round the
walls and a table covered by a beautiful embroidered satin cloth in the
centre. Sayed Rida came forward to meet us with a reflection of his
brother’s smile. One liked him at once. One appreciated instantly his
warm kindliness and hospitality. Sidi Idris is a mystic imbued with the
aloof dignity of another world, but his wakil is young, spontaneous and
sympathetic, with a very simple, unaffected manner. He offered us
immediately a house to live in while we were in Jedabia and put at our
disposal a cook and two other servants. He made me talk Arabic to him
and corrected my mistakes with his broadest smile. Sweet tea, flavoured
with mint, appeared in delightful, painted glass cups, and I soon felt
as if I had known our host for years. He was amused and interested in
our divers journeys. He made plans to show us a falcon hunt. He wanted
to give us instantly anything from horses to dates. In fact, I felt that
I was in the presence of a magician who could wave his wand and produce
the wish of my heart! In appearance Sayed Rida is large and imposing
with a round, olive face and very dark eyes, soft as velvet, which
crinkle up humorously as he smiles widely, showing strong white teeth.
He wore a black jelabia under his striped silk jerd, snowy white, and a
rolled white turban above a red ma-araka. Arab hospitality is famous
throughout the world, but we left the dignified presence of Sayed Rida
feeling almost overwhelmed at his gracious welcome.
Our temporary home fascinated me. A solitary door pierced the mysterious
expanse of yellow wall made of sun-dried blocks of sand of all sizes and
shapes. One passed through a small roofed court to a wide sunlit yard
whose high walls ensure the complete privacy of an Arab family.
Hassanein Bey had a small room at one end and I a great high chamber,
hung with texts from the Koran. We were a kingdom to ourselves, for
there was a well just under my window, charcoal in an outhouse and a
large yard beyond where we could have housed camels and horses. As it
was, we stored our simple outfit in it, for the evening was dry and
fine. We knew from the beginning that we must travel light and that our
final success might depend on our capability for riding fast and far. We
might have to leave all our luggage by the way and, disguised as Beduin
camel-drivers, slip away in the night into the uncharted land where none
may follow.
Thus, besides our sacks of rice, tea and sugar—the two latter intended
for gifts to Beduins who helped us on our journey—we had only a single
fly tent, eleven feet by eight feet, which could be divided into two by
means of a canvas curtain, a waterproof ground-sheet and a couple of
beds which rolled into our immensely thick, wool-lined sleeping sacks, a
small army canteen that was so heavy that we had grave doubts as to its
eventual fate, a canvas washing basin and a shamadan case complete with
vast supply of candles, for I foresaw burning much midnight wax over
note-books and maps. We had reduced our provisions to the minimum which
would support human life for four months, such as coffee, tins of army
rations, slabs of chocolate, tins of cocoa and milk already mixed, bully
beef, vegetables to avoid scurvy, and malted milk tablets, but the daily
ration was absurdly small, for we trusted to supplement it with dates
and rice.
By the light of Hassanein Bey’s electric torch we picked our way back
over flat white rock and sand to Saved Rida’s house to dine. This time
we found our host accompanied by Sayed Safi ed Din, “the little
warrior,” as he is called among the tribes. He is a boy with a
vivacious, pale face, a charming manner and a ready wit. He is
intelligent and, far more than the others, he is interested in the ways
of Europe. “I think we should get on well,” he said, “for you are as
curious about me as I am about you!”
The memory of that dinner will haunt me for a long time, for it
consisted of twelve courses, of which eight were meat in one form or
another. We began eating at seven-thirty and at ten-thirty the
beautifully scented tea with sprigs of mint made its welcome appearance.
During these three hours we ate soup, chicken, hashed mutton, slices of
roast mutton, aubergines stuffed with sausage meat, fried chops,
shoulder of mutton cooked in batter, ragout of mutton with vegetables,
stuffed tomatoes, boiled mutton with marrow, savoury rice and sweet
omelette. It can be easily imagined that the feast left us a little
silent and comatose, but not so our host. He was literally brimming over
with kindness and forethought. I was suffering at the time from a
severely dislocated foot, which had not been improved by the long ride,
and I was obliged to hobble in one shoe and a swollen native slipper by
the aid of a stick. Sayed Rida slipped away for a minute in the middle
of the meal and when we left the house, lo and behold, a horse was
waiting for me outside the door! His kindliness was as simple and
natural as his whole bearing. We asked him if he travelled much and he
replied, “I have not time. I have so much work. You know it is just like
planting a garden. Everything grows and grows till one’s time is full!”
This from the Emir’s wakil, whose word was borne across half the deserts
of the world, to Nigeria, to the Sudan, to the outposts of Morocco, to
the doors of the “House of Allah” (Mecca).
I remember opening my shutters that night to a flood of moonlight as
clear as the day. A faint myrrh-scented breeze, icy cold from the
Sahara, came in, and I wondered whether it had blown over the unknown
oasis we hoped to reach. We had had a long talk that evening of past
difficulties and future plans. In Italy Kufara represents the goal of so
many hopes, in Cyrenaica the ambition of so many daring young political
officers, that it is difficult to realise that in England it is an
unknown name. The sacred place of the Sahara, the far-off oasis, six
hundred kilometres from Jalo, which in itself is seven days’ rapid
journey from the outskirts of civilisation, is spoken of with awe and
longing in Benghazi. “I will tell you a great secret,” said the Italian
major who had spent a couple of days with Sidi Idris at Jaghabub, and
had therefore penetrated many hundreds of kilometres farther into the
interior than any of his compatriots, “Some day I want to go to Kufara.
No one has ever been there except Rohlfs, forty years ago, and he saw
nothing—nothing at all!”
Without going deeply into the story of the Senussi confraternity, it may
be explained that their founder, Sidi Mohammed Ben Ali es Senussi,
preached his doctrine of a pure and ascetic Islam from Morocco to Mecca,
but his teachings met with their greatest success in Cyrenaica, where
the Beduin had almost lapsed from the faith of their fathers. Rapidly
his zawia spread along the coast, and his authority was acknowledged by
the Sultan of Wadai, who made him responsible for the caravans
traversing the great deserts of Wadai, the Fezzan and Lake Chad. Thus
the stern beliefs of the Senussi spread with every caravan that went
into the interior. Mohammed Ben Ali, so holy that he never unveiled his
face to his disciples, so honoured that his followers prostrated
themselves to kiss his footprints, died at Jaghabub in 1850 and left to
his son, Mohammed el Mahdi, the leadership of one of the greatest and
fiercest religious confraternities in the world. Their laws were harsh—
for even smelling of smoke a man might lose his right hand! Their hatred
of the infidel was fanatical. They ousted the Zouia and Tebu from their
ancient homes in Kebabo and established impregnably their holy of holies
in this oasis which nature herself had protected by surrounding it with
a belt of mighty dunes and two hundred and fifty miles of waterless
desert.
Kufara, the Kebabo of old, lies some six hundred kilometres south,
faintly south-east, of Jalo. It is the heart of the Eastern Sahara and
the centre of its trade, for the only big caravan route from the Sudan
and Wadai to the north passes through it, yet the journey is so
difficult that none but the strongest caravans can attempt it. From the
well at Buttafal, a day’s journey south of Jalo, seven hard, waterless
days bring the traveller to Zieghen, where there is a well, but no
fodder or oasis. After that he must continue another five days, two of
which are through dunes, before he reach Hawari, the outskirts of the
Kufara group, sometimes considered by the Arabs to be a separate oasis
because it is divided from the main group by a chain of mountains. This
is the main route and the easiest. It continues to Wadai.
To the west of this track lie three other oases. The first, Taiserbo, is
also seven days’ waterless journey from Buttafal and it is rarely
approached, for it has neither civil, religious nor commercial
importance, but its Tebu ruins might make it of interest historically.
Some hundred and fifty kilometres beyond in a south-westerly direction
is Buseima, which is famous for its dates, for which caravans sometimes
visit it, and still farther south lies Ribiana, to all description a
lawless spot from which come the marauding bands which make the
neighbourhood of Buseima exceedingly dangerous.
Of course, all this information was acquired at a later date. When I
arrived at Jedabia I knew less than nothing of Libyan geography. I did
not know that the principal villages in Kufara were Jof, the seat of
government and Taj, the holy of holies of the Senussi faith. I did not
know that mountains and lakes, fields of tamarisk and acacia, peaches,
grapes and figs were to be found in this Garden of Eden lost amid the
impenetrable sands, between the Dakhla Desert to the east, untraversed
by Europeans, and to the west the trackless waste stretching to Uau
Szerir at the edge of Tripolitania, to which remote prison some of the
unfortunate survivors of the Miani column were sent as prisoners. To me,
Kufara was almost a mirage. It represented the secret which the Sahara
had rigidly guarded for so long against Christian eyes. The tragic story
of Rohlfs’ ill-fated expedition fired my enthusiasm to reach this centre
of the world’s most fanatical confraternity, the unknown, mysterious
country untrod by foot of stranger, be he Christian or Moslem.
[Illustration: THE EMIR IDRIS ES SENUSSI]
Having regard to the amazing difficulties of the journey and the almost
maniacal hatred with which strangers are regarded, it is natural that,
with one possible exception, no European should ever have been able to
reach the sacred cluster of zawias and morabits at Taj. A French
prisoner spent some time in Kufara during the war; he was sent there
from Uau Szerir by order of Sayed Ahmed. Over forty years ago a German
explorer made a very gallant attempt to solve the mystery of the far-off
oasis. In 1879 the Kaiser Wilhelm I sent a scientific expedition to
Libya consisting of four men—Rohlfs, Stecker, Eckhart and Hubner. It was
backed by the whole power of Turkey. It carried magnificent presents
from the Emperor. It was laden with cases of silver and gold. Hostages
were held at Benghazi, while Rohlfs led his party to the southern
deserts. He left Jalo on July 5 with a hundred camels and a large escort
of Zouias mounted on horses, including several sheikhs, the principal of
whom was Bu Guettin. He accomplished the amazing feat of reaching
Taiserbo in four and a half days, by riding nearly twenty hours out of
the twenty-four. In his most interesting book on his North African
travels, which has unfortunately not been translated into English, he
suggests that Taiserbo may have been the site of the original Tebu
sultanate, as he saw ruins which might possibly be those of a castle or
stronghold at Diranjedi. He continued his southern course by way of
Buseima, till he reached Hawawiri, where he was persuaded by a friendly
sheikh, Korayim Abd Rabu, to camp in an outlying palm grove to avoid any
friction with the villagers, who refused to allow the Nasrani to enter
their country.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AS A BEDUIN SHEIK]
The plucky Teuton describes the gathering outside his tent and the long
discussion as to whether he and his companions should be murdered or
not. The day following, August 14, they were induced by Bu Guettin and
the treacherous Zouias, who were fanatically opposed to the presence of
strangers and greedy to share the spoils of so rich a caravan, to leave
Hawawiri and, skirting the oasis, to isolate themselves in Boema, the
loneliest and most deserted spot in the whole group. Rohlfs apparently
agreed to this plan because the neighbourhood of any of the main
villages was dangerous. He had to oppose the combined hatred of the
ekhwan and pupils of the zawias, religions fanatics, the villagers who
jealously guarded the privacy of their country and the passing caravans
of pilgrims and merchants. After being held a prisoner for nearly a
month in this lonely camp, in daily fear for his life, he was helped to
escape by his original friend, Korayim, who took him by night, with his
three companions, to his son-in-law’s camp, somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Zuruk. That very night the German’s camp was attacked
and looted. Every single note-book, map, drawing and scientific
instrument was destroyed, so Rohlfs was unable to attempt much
description even of his journey up to Hawawiri.
In the book which he calls “Kufra” he devotes a chapter to his perils
and battles in that inhospitable oasis, but, after his rescue by
Korayim, whose son we met at Taj, his narrative becomes very disjointed.
He was moved to another place before being allowed to leave the oasis.
He himself thinks it was Jof, but from his description of the journey
this seems impossible. He spent another fortnight under the surveillance
of Korayim—he tells us that he was not allowed to move without a guard
of twenty rifles—during which he seems to have confronted every form of
extortion and threat with calm and intrepidity. On September 27 he left
the oasis with Korayim, who took him all the way to Benghazi, where,
unfortunately, the sheikh died. Consequently there is a legend that
Rohlfs poisoned him. With experience of the greed of our own escort, I
came to the conclusion that the grateful German probably gave him too
much of his own cherished stores and the Arab over-ate!
After this ill-fated expedition no alien presence cast a shadow on the
sanctity and isolation of Kufara till Sayed Ahmed sent his prisoner
there. Many attempts were made from Siwa to pierce the first barrier of
dunes, but in vain. The secrets which Rohlfs had so nearly solved
remained wrapped in the mirage of the great deserts and Kufara was still
a legend more than a fact.
The amicable relations at present existing between Italy and the
Senussi, and the genuine friendship of Senator de Martino and Sayed
Idris made it easy for us to reach Jedabia as the guests of the former’s
most hospitable Government, but thenceforth it was left us to fend for
ourselves. We could not take our kindly hosts of Benghazi into our
confidence, as they would have been aghast at the idea of a young woman
venturing alone into a territory as yet unexplored. The agreement that
had just been signed with Sidi Idris gave them control of the whole of
Cyrenaica, thus assuring a future of great prosperity to the colony, but
it left the great Libyan desert from Aujela to Jaghabub, with Kufara
still another six hundred kilometres to the south, in the hands of Sayed
Idris as an independent ruler under Italian protection.
A most humorous complication added immensely to our difficulties.
Hassanein Bey, having been secretary to the Italo-British Mission which
arranged the treaty of 1916 with the Senussi, was promptly suspected of
the darkest Pan-Islamic designs. For a week at Benghazi we lived in a
state of suspense. Intrigue was in the air and everyone suspected the
motives of everyone else. If a camion broke down, we decided that we
were not to be allowed to reach Jedabia. If Hassanein spoke to a Beduin,
using the Moslem salutation, the eyes of our so-called interpreter would
almost pop out of his head with interest and dismay. Relays of kindly
individuals took the utmost interest in our history, plans, ideas and
belongings. We were “pumped” until we could not think of anything more
to say; and we, in turn “pumped” every hospitable and amiable individual
who politely and indifferently asked us our destination! At times we
must have worn such strained and agonised expressions that I wonder we
were not suspected of Bolshevism at the very least. The most amusing
part of the business was afforded by the spies who constantly surrounded
us and who were so thrilled with their own importance that I used to
have daily fights with Hassanein Bey to prevent him playing delightful
little comedies to excite them still more.
However, once Jedabia was reached we felt happier. The open desert lay
before us and the lure of the great tracks south! Somewhere far beyond
the pale mauve line of the horizon lay the secret of the Sahara, the
oasis which had become the goal of every explorer, from the enthusiastic
coastguard officers who dreamed of forcing a trotting hajin through the
sands, to the governments whose camions and light-car patrols had failed
to pierce the waterless drifts. The masked Tuaregs, those lawless riders
who threaten the lumbering south-bound caravans, bring strange tales of
a white race, blue-eyed, fair-haired, whose women live unveiled with
their men. Legend has attributed its home to the mysterious oasis whose
position varies according to the whims of the map-maker. “Inshallah” I
breathed to the stars and the winds!
CHAPTER II
PLANS FOR THE FLIGHT
I went to sleep beside a glassless window opening into an empty yard,
after wondering whether we should be able to buy necessary food in the
suq, or whether we should have to break into our hoarded provisions. I
woke to a busy scene and rubbed my eyes in amazement. In one corner was
a white bell-tent, from which came the smoke of a charcoal fire. In
another was tethered an excellent horse with a European saddle. Half a
dozen servants appeared occupied in preparing an immense meal. I called
to Hassanein Bey: “Where on earth did you get all this?”
“_I?_” he replied, bewildered. “I? It is all from Sayed Rida. Do you
realise that that horse is going to stay here for you to ride whenever
you like, that the tent is a fully equipped kitchen and that you’ve got
a cook and I don’t know how many servants besides? You mentioned you
liked dates last night. Well, a huge sack arrived this morning, _and_
meat, _and_ bread, _and_ tea, _and sugar_, and heavens know what beside.
We are the Sayed’s guests and for the Lord’s sake don’t say you like
anything else, or it will arrive here within an hour!”
He paused for breath, while I gazed at him helplessly. When one has come
from an Italian colony one is used to hospitality, for, from the
Governor downwards, everyone was amazingly kind to us, but this was
overwhelming. I felt that a whole garden of floral rhetoric would not
adequately express my gratitude.
We rode out through the deserted stretches of flat white rock and sand
to see great herds of camels being watered. Bronze figures, nude but for
a scarlet loin cloth, shouted and sang with monotonous rhythm as they
let down goatskins at the end of a rope and heaved them up brimming to
pour their contents into rough troughs. A white morabit and single palm
marked the centre of a cluster of sand-coloured houses. Otherwise, the
buildings were scattered over a broad expanse with a straight line of
the suq booths in the centre. We created so much sensation in the latter
that I decided that my grey riding coat and felt hat were out of place.
We told Mustapha, a resplendent individual belonging to one of the
irregular bands, whom the Political Officer at Benghazi had kindly lent
to us, to go and discover someone who wished to sell some native
clothes. He returned half an hour later with a baffled and at the same
time awed expression, in company with Saved Rida’s confident, whose
coal-black face looked out from the folds of an immense white kufiya.
“You are the Sayed’s guests,” the latter informed us respectfully.
“Anything that you need I will get for you at once.” Gravely he offered
me a bulky parcel. It contained the most beautiful white silk jerd,
striped like the one I had silently admired the previous night, with a
green and silver agal, and a kufiya that filled my heart with joy, for
it was a subdued blending of all rich colours-purple and rose and blue
on a silver ground, with long dropping tassels. There was also a
tarboush and a pair of wonderful yellow slippers. Before the faltering
words were out of my mouth, Hassanein Bey had pounced upon the yellow
slippers. His expression was that of a small child when a much-loved
doll has been restored to it. “Hamdulillah!” he exclaimed, and fled,
clutching his prize.
I confess to spending a happy half-hour struggling with the intricacies
of the jerd and picturing myself dressed in Sayed Rida’s splendid gift
offering sweet mint tea to reverend sheikhs. Thereafter we erased any
verbs expressive of desire from our vocabulary, but we did not succeed
in evading our host’s royal generosity. We wanted a couple of small
sacks into which to put a week’s supply of rice and flour, for once we
left Jedabia we should have seven or eight days’ journey to the next
oasis, and we planned to send the baggage camels ahead and ride light on
the fastest beasts we could find. With this intention we again
despatched the brightly clad Mustapha to the suq. Ten minutes later he
was brought firmly back by the Head of the Police, a stalwart black with
a hard, keen face. Our follower was protesting wildly, but to deaf ears,
for behind him came the ebony confidant, Haji Abdel Salam. “I will send
you the sacks,” he told me in the tone of a parent scolding a foolish
child. “The Sayed wishes to give you everything you can need.” Even
Hassanein Bey’s eloquence failed him, while I wondered if we were living
in one of the tales of the Arabian Nights.
Our peace, however, was short-lived. For the first few days at Jedabia
we were in a fool’s paradise. All round us lay the desert. It seemed so
easy a thing to hire a few camels and a guide and disappear over the rim
of the horizon. By the fourth day we had discovered a few of the most
important difficulties. Firstly, there were no camels. There had been an
excellent harvest. The Beduin was rich and he didn’t want to work. It
was impossible to explain the exact destination of the caravan, for the
Holy Oasis is far beyond the bourne of most camel-drivers’ dreams.
Secondly, all work had to be done in secret, because the whole of our
household were spies with the possible exception of the black cook, Ali.
Mustapha had been in the Ufficio Politico and he dutifully reported the
minutest of our doings. The Head of the Police, the stalwart Mabruk, was
also not averse to Latin gold, so he placed his brother to watch us as
horse-boy and, lest that were not sufficient, he sent us a mysterious
servant whose head appeared suddenly at the glassless window whenever
Hassanein Bey and I were studying the Koran or writing notes. We were
never able to relax our vigilance for a second. We used to hold long
Arabic conversations on how pleasant we found life in Jedabia, how we
must certainly stay there a fortnight before returning to Benghazi. We
knew that every word would be overheard and repeated.
Bazaar rumour spoilt our first plan, which was exceedingly simple. We
meant to persuade an ekhwan to accompany us to see some neighbouring
village, where there would be a suppositional marriage or other _festa_,
and from there drift on. We had not reckoned with the fanaticism of the
Moslem. Tales of a wealthy Christian woman about to travel into the
interior spread like a bush-fire. Mustapha came to me with lurid tales
of throats cut almost within sight of the suq. Saved Rida himself
explained that no Christian life was safe beyond the boundaries of
Cyrenaica, and that anyone supposed to have money was a marked prey for
the lawless bands who swept out of the desert, seized their prey and
disappeared into the limitless sands as ants upon an English lawn. We
learnt many things that day. We discovered that Mannismann, the German,
had been killed by his own Arab guard a few hours outside the town
because he had twelve thousand pounds in gold upon him. We heard that
the Tebu tribes of the group of oases erroneously known as Kufra (really
Kufara) have not entirely submitted to the Senussi rule and,
consequently, still attack any caravans travelling beyond Taiserbo. “But
I don’t understand,” I said. “Taiserbo is part of Kufara, isn’t it? It
is marked so in our maps.” “No! No!” replied our informant impatiently.
“Taiserbo is gareeb, gareeb [near]. You can go there easily. It is not
important. There is no sikka [way]. Kufara is much farther on. The
dangerous part is after Taiserbo. If you go to Buseima you may have to
fight.”
Thereafter we began a laborious, systematic campaign to correct the
impression of a rich Christian woman. I discarded my hat for the Sayed’s
beautiful kufiya. Early and late I could be heard reciting verses of the
Koran. I already knew all the obligatory prayers, and took care to
perform them minutely. Moreover, we used to wander through the Beduin
camps which fringed Jedabia, talking to the women and gradually gaining
their confidence. At first we were regarded with the utmost suspicion,
which gradually relaxed as we gave them Moslem salutations and told them
how happy we were to be living an Arab life among Arabs. If a sheikh, a
Haji, came to us, I used to murmur the “Shehada” to him: “Ash hadu illa
Illaha ill Allah wa ash hadu inna Mohammedan rasul Allah,” upon which he
generally blessed me warmly. After a few days I was greeted
enthusiastically and introduced to the solemn-faced babies adorned with
silver amulets and taught how to bake flat, heavy bread in mud ovens.
It is amazing how perfect is the wireless telegraphy system of the
desert. One night, dining with Sayed Rida, I remarked that I was so glad
there was no electric light and that I liked the local colouring and
primitive lighting effect in Arab houses. This was translated into the
bazaar into, “She is a Moslem. She hates all European things. She wants
to keep the old customs as our fathers had them.”
We knew our campaign had succeeded on the eighth day, when, after the
chief spy, despairing of getting a glimpse of us any other way, had
brought us as a gift an absurd black bird with a bald head, a brother of
Ali, the cook, arrived from his camel’s-hair tent. He greeted us kindly
and told us that the Beduins were in sympathy with us, that they knew we
were Moslems and of their own blood.
Thus we felt we had done something to dispose of the probability of
sudden death before we were a hundred kilometres on our way, but all
other arrangements lagged intolerably. The most venerable and respected
of all the ekhwan, Haji Fetater, who had done the great journey right
through Kufara to Wadai, was the one man who could probably help us on
our way. He was of the Mojabra tribe and he so loathed the “Nasrani”
that he would not be in the same room as a Christian. I do not know
whether it was Hassanein Bey’s eloquence, or his sudden discovery that
Sidi es Senussi himself had prophesied that the English would eventually
be converted to Islam that finally induced him to promise to accompany
us. “We are all servants of the Sayed. Only if he tells me to go, must I
go,” he said, but when the prophecy had aroused his enthusiasm, he flung
back his splendid grey head. “I will protect her,” he exclaimed; “I will
take her to Kufara, and she shall kiss the holy qubba and be a Moslem!”
He was eighty years old, but he determined instantly that he would run
the whole caravan and generally instruct us in the art of desert
travelling. He had caught but a glimpse of me as I was hurried from the
house in case my presence therein should pollute him. He can only have
seen an exceedingly shy young person, with respectfully downcast eyes,
in a pale blue tweed suit huddled on a ridiculously small pony, dangling
a swollen foot in a native slipper, but he luckily took it into his head
that he liked me. Hassanein Bey rapidly clinched his acceptance by
repeating the “Fatha,” the opening “sura” of the Koran. This is only
done on very important and solemn occasions and it constitutes at the
same time a blessing and an oath.
Even then our kindly host was not satisfied, but insisted on sending an
escort with us, ten soldiers of his guard, coal-black slaves, under a
commander called Abdul Rahim. He also determined to settle the vexed
question of camels once for all by sending a caravan of his own to
Kufara to bring back some of his belongings and allowing us to travel
with it. To anyone who does not know the East, it would now appear that
things were successfully settled. Not a bit of it! The soldiers were at
Zuetina, distant 24 miles. The camels were at least two days’ journey
away, a matter of 60 miles. They were vaguely described as being in the
region of Antelat, the house of Sayed Rida’s family. Each day we watched
the horizon with anxious eyes. Each day we counted eagerly every row of
black specks that appeared amidst the sun-browned grass and rock, but
neither camels nor soldiers appeared. We had decided that the caravan
should announce its departure for noon and that in reality the long line
of camels should steal past our door at 3 A.M. A few would be driven
round a convenient wall and loaded hastily with all our outfit, after
which we could mount and be 50 kilometres away before anyone knew of our
departure! We could leave letters explaining a sudden opportunity and an
equally sudden determination, and send back further notes from every
oasis _en route_.
Unfortunately, it was a race against time, for everyone was growing
suspicious at my inexplicable desire to stay so long in a little mud
village on the edge of the world. Omar, our Government interpreter, was
determined to get back to Benghazi for Christmas. The delightful cavalry
lieutenant who was political officer at Zuetina was naturally bored at
having to drive his heavy camion three or four times a week from his
little camp by the ocean to see what a mysterious Englishwoman might be
doing in the debatable country on the fringe of civilisation. As the
days wore on they tried by every means in their power to lure me from
Jedabia, but my exceedingly swollen foot did me good service. “The
stirrup hurt it so much riding here that I don’t want to risk it again
till it is quite recovered,” I explained. They suggested camions, and I
assured them I had so much work to do that I was only too glad of the
peace and quiet of my Arab house to do it in.
It was a ludicrous situation. Five young people used to forgather in the
house of the doctor to partake of M. Omar’s delicious _zabagliones_, and
not one of them ever uttered one word of truth! Each felt instinctively
that the other was lying, but none knew exactly how far he was bluffing
or what card he had up his sleeve. Perhaps we were a little better off
than they, for we knew their game and they luckily had failed to
understand ours. The political aspect was always before their eyes. In
their anxiety to know whether Hassanein Bey was plotting a Pan-Islamic
empire with the thirty Egyptian ex-coastguards who had taken refuge with
the Senussi during the war, they overlooked other possibilities. I think
the idea did occur to them that I wanted to go much farther into the
desert than they cared to permit, but I doubt if they suspected our real
goal. This used to surprise me immensely at the time. Looking back, I
realise that it would have been very difficult for them to imagine that
the woman they saw in a panniered frock, with her French hat veiled in
drooping lace and high heels to match the red of her striped cloak,
would metamorphose herself into a Beduin and attempt a journey which
they looked upon as impossible for a European and exceedingly difficult
even for an Arab.
We felt that we had one last card to play that they would never suspect—
a midnight flight. We were loathe to use it, however. We waited
patiently for the camels that did not come, and fenced desperately for
time. Luckily our opponents were deceived by the apparent _froideur_
existing between Hassanein Bey and myself. We had made a point of
disagreeing with each other at every possible opportunity and even
retailed our grievances occasionally to sympathetic ears. Suddenly,
therefore, they took my companion into their confidence, which made
things distinctly easier. Together they used to lay dark plots to induce
me to leave Jedabia, where there was no _café chantant_ and no “Hotel
Nobile!” In spite, however, of this new move, we began to get very
anxious. The spies had redoubled their vigilance. There were no signs of
camels. Mabruk, the Head of the Police, introduced a person into our
house whom he said was an ekhwan from Kufara, evidently intending that
we should question him enthusiastically about his journey. We refrained
from all mention of it, and the supposed ekhwan was so intensely stupid
that one cannot imagine that he could have been much use to any secret
service!
This was our position on December 4 when, on our morning’s wander round
the neighbouring encampments, we saw a line of camels coming in from
Antelat. We instantly jumped to the conclusion that they were ours. One
of the spies was leading the horse on which I was balanced sideways to
protect my lame foot, so we could show no signs of joy, but for a few
hours we made happy plans for the freedom of the desert. We had just
finished a lunch of rice, dates, mutton and mint tea when the blow fell.
The black wazir arrived in considerable perturbation. Not only was there
no news of our camels or of our soldiers, but our opponents were well
aware that a caravan was starting for Kufara in a few days’ time and
that we hoped to travel with it “for a day or two.” Hassanein turned to
me with blazing eyes in a chalk white face. “It’s come to a fight,” he
said, “and I’m glad.” I used to be amused sometimes at the way he
shirked doing the simplest things till the last moment, but in sudden
emergencies the whole strength and energy of the man flamed out and
there was no one in the world I would rather have beside me. He grasped
essentials rapidly and left me to fill in details. “It’s flight on two
camels and the caravan must follow!” he said. As usual, I started to
work out the practical possibilities while he went to gain further news.
I think I shall always remember that long dragging afternoon. The wind
was full of dust, but I took the pony and went down to one of the
encampments feeling I simply could not smile. I felt hopeless and
trapped as if a net were closing round me and there was a numb dead ache
at my heart. Nevertheless I could not help responding to the smiles of
the Beduin women who pressed round me, brilliant blots of colour in
their orange and black, or red and black barracans, with blue tribe
marks tattoed on their foreheads and half a dozen huge silver ear-rings
dangling beneath their plaited hair. One laughed at my white hands
against her black skin. “You have soap to wash with. We have none,” she
said. The lounging white figures in the suq stared at me curiously as I
passed, but did not protest. They had stoned a “Christian dog” from
Zuetina the day before, but I was the Sayed’s guest and therefore
honoured. A dignified sheikh gave me greeting. He was a Haji and he told
me: “We are all under the Sayed’s orders. You may go safely where you
like among us, for it is the Sayed’s wish.” Mustapha listened eagerly.
“It is true,” he said. “The Sayed is great. All the people fear him.
Otherwise they would kill every Christian in the country.”
I began to realise the vast problem with which Italy is faced and to
admire more than ever the way she is dealing with it. For the moment
Europe has no message for the fierce fanatics of Libya, but the fertile
_altipiano_ of Cyrenaica, only a few miles from the sea, will have a
prosperous future. Italian workmen have done so much to build up the
prosperity of Egypt and Tunis. There is a wide field opening for them
from Zuetina to Tobruk in which their industry and thrift may benefit
their own country. Cyrenaica, once the granary of the Roman Empire, will
be fittingly colonised by the descendants of those legionaries who left
their trace from Cyrene to far-off Misda. The budding colony should have
a splendid agricultural future and the friendship between Italy and the
Senussi, recently cemented at Regima, should open up the old trans-
Saharan caravan routes. The Sultan used to confide his most precious
merchandise to the protection of Sidi Ben Ali es Senussi on its long
journeys to Wadai. Why should not the same arrangement be made between
the Governor of Cyrenaica and the hereditary Emir of the Senussi?
The sun was setting as I left the suq, a blaze of deep, flaming orange
that we never see in Europe. The sky was molten in the crucible. I sent
away the pony and sat crouched on the sand to watch the glory fade. A
camel or two passed like huge distorted shadows across the burning west.
A few white shrouded figures went by me with a soft “Bismillah!” I ached
for a horse, a camel, anything that would take me away into the wide
spaces beyond Jedabia. The strain of suspense eased a little in the
evening, for during one of our games of cross purpose at the doctor’s
house we discovered that our opponents proposed to prevent our
accompanying the caravan on the ground that no ekhwan was going with it.
Apparently they still did not suspect our ultimate destination, but we
were not at all certain that they had not wired for the camions from
Benghazi. We sat up late that night in the silent court with the stars
above us, and the guardian walls, which I had learned to love, shutting
out all eavesdroppers. The spies retired in a body after our frugal
dinner and Ali was always thankful to spend the night in the family
tent. We decided on a simple but somewhat desperate plan. We felt that
we should be allowed only two or three more days in Jedabia without an
open fight, and we could not be certain of the twenty camels necessary
for the caravan. Therefore we decided to leave practically all our
luggage behind and go off in the middle of the night, if possible, with
the ekhwan. Our little world would be told next morning that we had gone
to visit some of the neighbouring camps and would return in a day or
two. To reassure them they would see all our clothes hanging up on their
usual pegs, most of our suit-cases scattered about the room, our sacks
and boxes of provisions stored in various corners, even my camp chair
and the table on which I wrote.
[Illustration: AHMED MOHAMMED BEY HASSANEIN, MY FELLOW EXPLORER]
On December 6 we did a hard morning’s work. After our date and egg
breakfast we settled ourselves with a Koran and note-books behind closed
doors and said we did not wish to be disturbed. As soon as our retinue
had retired to the white bell-tent which served as kitchen we set to
work on the provision boxes. We emptied them of their contents and
carefully filled them with immense stones which we laboriously collected
from an inner court in course of construction. On top we put layers of
straw and a few tins which could be seen through carefully arranged
chinks. We sorted out an extra week’s provisions to add to those we had
already prepared and the rest we put into big sacks, with the intention
of sending these latter at midnight, when the spies were sleeping
peacefully, to some place where they could be stored until the dilatory
camels arrived and the caravan started. They would then be packed
unostentatiously with all the rest of the loads and when we joined the
caravan a few days’ journey on the way to Aujela we should recover our
most necessary provisions. We ourselves, with the tent, two rolls of
bedding, a fortnight’s provisions and two suit-cases chiefly containing
films, medicine, apparatus, candles, soap, etc., would disappear the
following night in Beduin clothes.
[Illustration: SAYED RIDA ES SENUSSI]
I confess to feeling a certain pang when I realised that I must leave
every single European garment behind except a pair of riding boots and
breeches and a woollen sweater. Hassanein said he thought it was
carrying realism too far. I understood the reason when, sternly
insisting that his one suit-case should hold half the apparatus and only
the simplest necessities of life, it disgorged seven different coloured
bottles of eau de Cologne and a mass of heterogeneous attire more suited
to Bond Street than to the Sahara. I had to superintend the packing lest
he ignore the claims of malted milk tablets, towels and woollen
underclothing in favour of delicately striped shirts and a lavender silk
dressing-gown! We wondered if we should ever see again the garments we
left gracefully decorating the walls in order to indicate the imminence
of our return, or whether a new fashion would be set in Jedabia!
At lunch time the tailor came to fit my strange garments. It appeared
that Sayed Rida wished to give me no fewer than four suits, but I
assured him that I wanted only one to be photographed in and to show my
friends in England. We finally compromised on two, one of which arrived
that evening, an oddly shaped pair of trousers, very narrow at the
ankle, made of white calico spotted with green leaves, and a dress like
a voluminous chemise of dark red cotton with a blue pattern. We were
told that the camels were ready but that the ekhwan was already
regretting his moment of enthusiasm. “Will he be ready to start to-
morrow at midnight?” “Inshallah!” was all the answer we got. Our plan
was so simple, but it depended on two nights’ secrecy and secrecy is
impossible among Arabs!
However, we pretended not to worry. “El Maktub maktub!” we said, but I
caught Hassanein anxiously opening the Koran to see whether a verse
chosen at random would prove a good omen. He was delighted because the
first one he saw read: “_Nasrun min Allahi wa fathan garib_” (“Victory
and an opening out from Allah are near”). I was not very much more
composed myself, for on repeating the long formal prayers that afternoon
I realised from my companion’s horrified face that I was ascribing unto
Allah salutations, prayers and—physics! (_Tabiat_ instead of _ta-hi-
bat_.)
Sayed Rida took us for a drive in his car in the afternoon. There are no
roads or even tracks beyond Jedabia, but the sand is hard and smooth.
The Sayed thought it would be a good thing to show himself openly with
us, and indeed, our fame increased after that drive. When we returned
the whole of our household had attired itself in clean white garments
and there was an awed moment while they all reverently kissed the
Senussi’s hand. They dared not approach very close to do it, lest their
garments touch their holy master, but it was wonderful to see the
worship and homage they put into the act. They were chattels in the hand
of the Sayed. As wakil of Sidi Idris he represented to them, as he does
to thousands like them, the mystic being chosen by Allah to direct them.
Their lives are his to command. He is their supreme judge as he is their
defender and their guide. It is difficult for a European to realise the
power held by the Senussi family, for there has been nothing approaching
it in Europe. It is a reflection of the temporal and spiritual Papacy at
its height. For instance, Sidi Idris might order one of the oldest and
noblest ekhwan to start the following day for a two-thousand-mile
journey to Lake Chad, and he would obey unquestioningly, without
preparation or even surprise. “We are the servants of the Sayed,” he
would say as he wrapped his burnus round him and prepared to face the
waterless sands.
When we decided on flight as the only possible means of leaving Jedabia,
we asked Sayed Rida for a guide. He gave us Yusuf el Hamri and Mohammed
Quemish and, calling them into our presence, he told them that if
anything happened to us, whether by their fault or not, they would die
immediately. The men accepted the statement as undoubted fact. Yet as
Sayed Rida sat in our only camp chair in my big bare room, drinking
sweet tea and eating Hassanein’s last macaroons, it was difficult to
realise that the fate of a country probably lay in his capable hands.
The Sayed might declare a Holy War to-morrow against the infidels, and
Islam, from Wajanga to the Mediterranean, might respond, but that
afternoon our host talked with the simplicity of a child. We were trying
to thank him for his amazing hospitality and for the permission he had
given us to travel to Egypt by way of the great desert, which included
the loan of camels, guides and an escort of soldiers, besides immense
gifts of food and native clothing.
Coming from an Italian colony we had become used to gracious
hospitality, but Sayed Rida’s generosity was overwhelming. I have
travelled in half the countries of the world; I have been the guest of
mandarin and boundary rider, or rajah, Fijian ras and North-West Mounted
Police and of every intermediate race and grade, but I have never
received such generous, unquestioning welcome as in Beduin countries.
Some of the happiest weeks of my life were spent in Syria as the guest
of a great Arab prince. I used to think that nothing could match his
kindness, but here in Jedabia I found its equal in another descendant of
the Prophet, a Sherif of Islam.
We asked Sayed Rida if we could send him anything from Cairo, our
thoughts running to a jewel or a gold inlaid rifle. He asked for a green
parrot and some gramophone records with a smile as delightful as his
brother’s.
“You see,” he said, “my life is rather lonely. It is not wise that I go
out or that I show myself very much to our people. Our family is holy
and we must live a secluded life. We may not see dancing or hear
singing. Our people would not understand, but sometimes when I am alone
late at night I play the gramophone, for I love music very much.” A
curiously sweet smile illumined his kindly face and he beat time to an
imaginary tune with a jewelled finger. “I do not like much noise,” he
said. “I like the sad, soft melodies best. I think all music should be
melancholy.”
For a moment he was a child thinking wistfully of a toy and then, as Ali
entered bent double with respect over his tray of tea, the Sayed resumed
the grave dignity in keeping with his gorgeous clothes—a purple
embroidered jelabia under an apple-green silk jubba with a wonderful
crimson and blue kufiya stiff with gold thread and having great tassels
of gold.
Our busy day closed with a most humorous scene. After Ali and the spies
had gone willingly to the amusement or repose they desired, we dragged
the six heavy sacks of provisions one by one out of my room across the
court to the dark yard by the main door. There was no moon. Tinned meat
weighs incredibly heavy. We fell over a lot of loose stones and we
imagined we made a good deal of noise. The peculiar form of an Arab
dwelling, however, precludes the possibility of being overheard. We then
dug stones and sand from the unfinished bit of the house and filled some
most realistic looking dummy sacks which we artistically arranged in the
place of real ones. At 11 P.M. we got one of those unexpected shocks
that send cold shivers down one’s back and desperate thoughts to one’s
brain. There was a sudden knock at the door. It was too soon for our
fellow plotters in search of the luggage. “Min da?” asked Hassanein
icily and I felt the tautened thrill in his voice. “Mabruk,” answered
the voice of the chief spy and then a long ramble about wanting to see
the native garments already delivered, to make a pattern for the others
his brother the tailor was making. As a matter of fact it was a
perfectly genuine demand. We had asked the confidential wazir to hurry
up the making of our clothes and he had done so to such good effect, by
saying it was the Sayed’s wish, that the unfortunate tailor proposed to
work all night, but to our apprehensive ears it sounded very suspicious.
I was glad that Hassanein had not got a revolver on him. He told me
afterwards that his first impulse had been to shoot the man and bury him
instantly! Instead of which he murmured that the “sitt” was in bed and
the magical word which retards the progress of Islam. “Bokra!” (To-
morrow.)
At 1 A.M. Hassanein, shrouded from head to foot in a white jerd, was
waiting just outside the main door. A few minutes later there was the
faintest scratch on the heavy wood. Almost before he had pulled it open
seven dark figures, muffled up to the eyes, utterly unrecognisable,
slipped into the yard. Not a word was uttered. Dexterously they
shouldered the provision sacks and stepped away into the night without a
murmur. Of course they simply revelled in the mystery and secrecy of it,
but we wondered how soon rumour would reach the bazaar!
CHAPTER III
THE ESCAPE FROM JEDABIA
December 7 dawned brilliantly fine. We rose from our camp beds feeling
joyfully that thirty-six hours would elapse before we slept on them
again. Our morning was enlivened by the visits of two or three friends
from the neighbouring encampments. Sheikh Mohammed, the Haji, came in to
tell us that we were welcome visitors to any Beduin camp. He drank three
glasses of sweet tea in three gulps, asked in a mysterious whisper for a
cigarette, hastily put the whole packet into his sleeve and demanded
that I should repeat suras from the Koran to him. I did so to the best
of my ability and he was much impressed. We meant to sleep in the
afternoon, but the unsuspecting Sayed had most kindly ordered his slaves
to perform a dance in our honour, so about 3 P.M. the sound of drums was
heard outside our blind walls. Ali summoned us forth in great
excitement. We sat on two chairs before our door and gradually the whole
male population of Jedabia gathered round us, row upon row of shrouded
white figures crouching on the sand. In an irregular circle round a
couple of hide drums danced the black Sudanese slaves from Wadai, bought
in the market at Kufara, presents from native potentates to the Senussi
family, or children of slaves sent by the famous Ali Dinar, Sultan of
Darfur. Slavery in the East is a kindly institution, quite unlike the
horrors of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” The blacks are treated as part of the
family. They are proud of their masters and devoted to them. They are
trusted and confidential. Thus Ali came to us one evening in honest
grief. “That Mustapha is a bad man,” he said. “He goes to the house of
the doctor and says he has not had enough to eat here. It is not true.
The Sayed is generous. There is everything here. It is not good for the
Sayed’s honour that such things should be said.”
The blacks enjoyed the dance even more than we did, for we had just
heard that through too much ardour on the part of our allies there was
likely to be a hitch in the arrangements. The long-delayed camels for
the caravan had arrived at last. The soldiers had come in from Zuetina.
We had better all start together at midnight, said our confidant
triumphantly. Anyone who knows the East will realise how difficult it is
for even two or three people to slip away secretly. Everyone’s business
is known from A to Z. Projects are discussed in the bazaars while they
are still formless in the brain of the plotter. The idea that a score of
camels and a dozen soldiers, with luggage, tents, stores, guides, etc.,
could start secretly from Jedabia was ludicrous. Already there was a
rumour in the suq that we were going to Kufara because of the
unfortunate suggestion that we should accompany the caravan for a day or
two! Therefore, even while we gazed at the gyrating circle of blacks,
who flung themselves into extravagant postures, chanting their
monotonous songs and clicking together short sticks, we had sent post
haste to rearrange matters. News was brought us that the delightful
cavalry officer from Zuetina had arrived, two days before he was
expected.
“I think I will go and have tea at the doctor’s,” I said firmly to
Hassanein. “I will stay with them there for two hours, which will give
you plenty of time to get the caravan postponed.”
The spies were as clinging as limpets that day. Mabruk leant over my
shoulder as I spoke, pointing to the wildest dancer with a forced smile.
However, I was determined to spoil his little effort and insisted that
he and Mustapha should accompany me on my walk. “I don’t like going
through all these people alone,” I said; and reluctantly they had to
come with me.
Our last game of cross purposes will always remain in my mind, for, with
one eye on the clock, I summoned every atom of intelligence to my aid. I
allowed myself to be reluctantly persuaded to return by camion to
Benghazi the following week. I asked reproachfully why no ekhwan could
be found to accompany me on a little caravan tour. They assured me that
none was willing to travel with a Christian, and that no one of that
faith could journey beyond Jedabia. I took up and emphasised this point
for some time, as it would eventually preclude their attempting to
follow us. I allowed my bitter disappointment to be seen, was comforted
and finally cheered up with a promise of visiting all the encampments on
the way back. We parted the best of friends and I shall always retain a
grateful memory of their kindness and care. So often we longed to
confide all our plans to them. We were sure of their sympathy, but their
very hospitality would have made it impossible for them to allow their
erstwhile guest to venture her life on such a wild and dangerous
journey.
Six months before I had talked to an Arabian Emir about my project.
“Heya magnuna!” he exclaimed to his wakils. “She is mad. If she could
get to Kufara, she could get to any place in heaven or earth!” Thus we
knew from the beginning that we must hide our object from our generous
Italian friends. If they hadn’t thought that at least Hassanein had some
political aim in coming to Jedabia, remorse would probably have added to
our mental troubles, but, luckily, the fact that they were obviously
watching us turned the affair into a game and justified us in having a
few secrets also.
If my charming hosts in Cyrenaica read this book, I think they will
forgive me for the part their own kindness and forethought forced me to
play most unwillingly. They are all sportsmen. They, too, are travellers
and lovers of the great desert. They laid the foundations of my journey
by their long years of work in North Africa. They will reap the benefit
when the friendship between European and Senussi is firmly cemented and
the Beduins welcome the influx of commerce and exploration from over the
sea.
I returned at 7 P.M. to our walled Arab house, but the fantasia was
still continuing. The gift of our last packet of cigarettes had
stimulated the performers to frenzy and they were prepared to spend the
night in an orgy of dance and song. Ordinarily, I should have loved
watching their barbaric vigour and I was exceedingly grateful to the
ever-thoughtful Sayed for giving this festa in our honour, but we had
still a good many preparations to make, so we regretfully thanked the
performers and despatched them to their homes. After a hasty meal,
Hassanein went off to make final preparations concerning changing our
Italian notes into heavy silver mejidies, the cumbersome coin of the
country, buying bread and eggs, collecting the native dress and a dozen
other things that had to be done at the very last moment for fear of
arousing suspicion. I wrote a note to our Italian interpreter, who had
also proved guide, philosopher and friend, explaining that I was not to
be entirely deprived of my desert journey after all, for at the last
moment I was able to accompany an ekhwan who was travelling to an
encampment a day or two away. I then made relays of green tea in an
inadequate kettle and filled both our thermos flasks, also the water
bottles.
It was then nearly 9 P.M., at which hour Hassanein had said he would
return, but the minutes dragged on and there was no sign of his coming.
At 10 I became anxious. I couldn’t lie still any more, and began walking
up and down the big room by the light of one candle guttering on the
window ledge. Ali came to me to ask if he and the servant, who was also
a spy, could go home. I said he must stay until Hassanein Bey returned,
for I did not want to give the boy an opportunity of inquiring into my
companion’s designs, but each hour that went by made our flight more and
more difficult, for we could not begin to pack beds, luggage, etc., till
the house was empty. At 11 I was nearly frantic. I don’t think I have
ever spent a worse two hours. I began to wonder whether the spies had
discovered our plot and, deciding to frustrate it at all costs, had
arranged to have my ally knocked senseless as he crossed the wide
expanse of white sandstone between our house and the scattered buildings
of Jedabia.
At 11.30, as I was preparing to set forth in search and was actually
winding myself into the intricacies of a jerd so as to pass unnoticed in
the dark, Hassanein arrived, staggering beneath the mejidies, for a very
moderate sum in that coinage weighs intolerably. He discharged eggs,
bread and clothing in a heap and explained that the usual Arab
dilatoriness had delayed him. The letters to sheikhs of zawias were not
ready, the eggs were not cooked, the clothes were not quite finished.
However, we didn’t wait for much talk. We sent off the servants with
minute instructions about to-morrow’s work. An Arab spy is clever in
some ways, but he never looks ahead, so it is generally fairly easy to
lull his suspicions.
The instant the door shut behind them we literally flung ourselves on
the luggage. We wrestled first with the beds and flea-bags, stuffing
them into old sacks to look like native bundles. The tent had to be
disposed of in the same way—its poles tied up in a red prayer-rug, its
canvas disguised in native wrappings. Not one single bit of European
luggage must be visible. My suit-case was already packed and it was but
a minute’s work to push it into a striped flour sack, but my heart sank
when I saw Hassanein’s room. It was still littered with what he called
necessities. We packed and pushed and tugged at his bundles, getting
frantically hot and tired, but always when we had, with superhuman
effort, triumphantly strapped up a bulging roll, a minute later he would
remember something he absolutely must put in and want the thing undone.
When but half an hour was left before our departure was due, I became
desperate and took matters into my own hands. I packed the food into one
knapsack. The necessities I divided into two others. I shut his suit-
case firmly on the most useful articles I could collect from the chaos.
I stood over him equally firmly while he put mackintoshes with fleece
linings, rugs and extra native dress into the bedding. I pulled the
straps to a tighter hole myself before scurrying off to dress.
Let no one think it is easy to get into Beduin feminine attire for the
first time. The tight white trousers presented difficulties over riding
breeches. The red tobh was too tight at the neck. The barracan needed
much adjustment. One end flaps loose over the head, which is already
swathed in a tight black handkerchief hiding all the hair, while the
other is wound twice round in the form of a skirt and comes up over the
left shoulder to make the front bit of the bodice. It is all held in
place by a thick red woollen “hezaam” at least twelve feet in length,
which is wound round and round till one’s waist resembles a mummy and is
tied one side with dangling ends. Under this I wore my revolver belt,
with two fully loaded Colts and a prismatic compass in a case.
Glancing round my room as I put on my huge yellow heel-less slippers, I
decided it looked a very realistic picture of the abode left temporarily
and in haste. My cherished blue tweed hung on one hook and a rose-red
sweater on another. A few books and papers, with a hot-water bottle and
some stockings, were scattered on convenient chairs. The cases and sacks
of stones stood formally round the walls. A bottle of complexion lotion
was prominent on a shelf and my European shoes were in their usual row!
With a sigh of relief I dragged the sack containing my suit-case to join
the disguised camp outfit by the main door and, blowing out the candle
in my room, closed the door for the last time.
My cheerfulness rapidly evaporated when I crossed the court to
Hassanein’s room. The litter was inconceivable. Everything that we had
shut twenty minutes ago was open. He himself, with ruffled wild hair,
was still in shirt and riding-breeches. To a casual observer he appeared
to be playing a game of leap frog with the various bundles, in which the
object seemed to be to upset as many things as possible. “You have
exactly six minutes in which to get ready,” I said in an awful voice. A
chair fell with a crash, breaking an eau de Cologne bottle and sending a
mass of little tubes, bottles and boxes rolling to my feet. Thereafter
followed ten minutes’ best American hustle. In spite of feeling like a
swathed Chinese infant in my cumbersome dress, I attacked that room with
a personal venom that surely had effect even on inanimate things, for
the suit-case shut almost unprotestingly on a huddled mass in which the
parcels of mejidies stuck out like Mount Everest. I don’t know what I
said. I imagined at the time it was quite unforgivable, but Hassanein is
the most good-tempered person in the world. He submitted to being pushed
and pulled into the white garments he had to wear over his European
riding-kit—voluminous white pantaloons, long flowing shirt and woollen
jerd. I believe I banged a white kufiya on his head and flung an agal at
him before rushing from the room to take up my position behind the main
door with a tiny dark lantern which revealed the piles of corpulent
sacks. When, a few minutes later, a stately white figure with flowing
lines unbroken save by the crossed revolver belts, true son of a sheikh
of the famous Azhar University, joined me, I could hardly recognise in
this solemn Arab the wild individual who was playing at hay-making a few
minutes before.
Of course our fellow-plotters were late! We waited nearly an hour
crouched on the sacks, while the only thing that broke the silence of a
desert night was the braying of a donkey near the suq. At about 1.45 we
heard the faint roar of protesting camels and our pulses quickened. Some
ten minutes later stealthy footsteps approached. There was a light
scratch on the door, and the operation of the previous night was
successfully repeated, only this time we had another quarter of an
hour’s suspense after the porters went forth with the first sacks before
they could return for the last. Our confidant leant against the door,
motionless and calm, looking at the starlit sky. “Bahi!” he murmured, as
the mysterious figures reappeared, the only word he had uttered the
whole time. Shouldering knapsack, water-bottle, thermos flask and kodak,
I stumbled out of the dark passage into the moonless night. A strong,
cold wind met me and I wondered, shivering, why a Beduin woman does not
freeze to death. I’ve never seen them wear anything but a cotton
barracan. Even while I limped across the open white sands, for the
camels were hidden some three hundred yards away, near the rough
cemetery that surrounds the deserted morabit of Sidi Hassan, I felt that
I wanted an overcoat even more than I wanted to go to Kufara!
Nevertheless, it was freedom at last and excitement thrilled us. There
was a moment’s pause on the part of our puzzled guide when absolute
blackness on all sides gave no hint of direction. Then a muffled roar
told us that a camel was on our left and the smothered sound of it
suggested that someone was probably sitting on its head. A moment more
and a dark mass loomed up beside a broken wall. Thankfully I subsided on
a heap of stones. It is not the slightest use arguing with a camel-
driver about a load. It is waste of energy to try to hurry him. He is
used to weighing burdens minutely, to arranging them slowly to his own
satisfaction. So I was prepared for an hour’s wait while our retinue cut
rope, made “corners” to the sacks with stones, discussed loads, lost
camels, caught them again and were generally inefficient. I was
genuinely surprised, therefore, when in only twenty minutes everything
was noiselessly packed and the camels ready to start. Yusuf el Hamri and
Mohammed Quemish, our two confidential servants, were introduced to me
in the dark and we exchanged a few florid sentences in which the words
“mabsut” and “mamnun” played a large part.
Then I hoisted myself on to my camel, a huge, blond beast, with no
proper saddle. A spike stuck up in front and behind and his hump was
painfully evident between the rolled straw of the baggage serg. On the
top were folded a couple of native mats and thereon I perched in my
uncomfortable, closely wound clothes, which made mounting a matter of
peril and difficulty. In spite of all this, when my great beast rose to
his stately height and moved off into the night, exhilaration rushed
over me. I hadn’t been on a camel for three months, and then on the
beautiful trotting “hajin” of the Sudan. This was only a fine baggage
“hamla,” but he was in keeping with the desert and the night and our
wild, impossible project. I was happy. Also, it was a wonderful start.
Sir Richard Burton wisely writes that the African traveller must always
be prepared for three starts—the long one, the short one and the real
one. Later we realised how right he was, but for the moment, as our
little line of camels swayed off into the darkness beyond the white
morabit, we only felt that we had escaped.
“How amazing that they can find their way in pitch darkness like this!”
I exclaimed, and only when Orion had appeared in four different
directions did I begin to wonder whether they could! We had started just
before three, striking a northerly course which surprised us, as we knew
that Aujela lay to the south. We comforted ourselves with the idea that
our guides were purposely avoiding the main track, and patiently we bore
the icy wind and constant change of direction. When, after an hour, we
turned completely round, we decided it was necessary to expostulate.
Yusuf, on being shown a luminous compass, refused to believe that the
north was where the needle directed. We pointed out the extraordinary
movement of the stars and he remained unconvinced. He looked
pathetically at the heavens and asked persistently for “Jedi,” the star
that had guided him apparently in many wanderings over half Africa.
Unfortunately we could not find her for him, though we pointed out most
of the constellations from the Great Bear to the Milky Way.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AT JEDABIA]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR ON CAMEL-BACK]
We continued our aimless progress for another hour. As we were merely
describing irregular circles we were not surprised when a little before
five a chorus of dogs barking proclaimed our nearness to Jedabia. “It is
an encampment,” said Yusuf. “I know where we are now!” and at that
moment the donkey in the suq brayed quite close to us! I couldn’t help
laughing. In a few minutes our desperate midnight flight would land us
before the doors of the house from which we had escaped so triumphantly
three hours earlier. The distressed Yusuf, inexplicably bereft of his
tame star, was all for camping there and then to await the dawn, but,
lest the rising sun should reveal to the astonished eyes of the early
astir a dishevelled party asleep on the space before the mosque, I
firmly took command. By the compass I marched them due south of the
donkey’s bray for half an hour. At least we should be out of sight at
dawn and could then start off on the right track.
[Illustration: BEDUIN WOMAN AT JEDABIA]
The wind seemed colder than ever as we “barraked” our camels on the
flat, sandy waste. We were frozen and shelterless. Excitement, suspense
and physical labour had all combined to wear us out. My foot was swollen
and inflamed after its unusual exercise. Hassanein had rheumatism in his
back. There was an hour to wait for the dawn. I doubt if a more
miserable couple existed than the two who rolled themselves into the
thin and dirty camel rugs and lay down on the hard sand, their heads on
tufts of spiky grass. I did not sleep. It was too cold. The wind
searched out every corner of my aching body. I began to feel the strain
of our sleepless nights and days of suspense. Even my sense of humour
had gone. It was five weeks since we had left England and we had got no
farther than a sand heap outside Jedabia! At six a flush of pale pink
appeared in the sky in a direction which amazed Yusuf. Shivering, with
chattering teeth, we rose to a windy dawn! Mohammed was already
murmuring, “Allahu Akhbar,” devoutly turning towards the kibla at Mecca.
We followed his example, abluting in the sand as is permissible when
there is no water. Luckily it is only necessary to go through the
“Fatha” and the requisite “Raqa-at.” The kneeling position hurt my foot
excruciatingly, and I could hardly get it into my huge yellow shoe
again.
The men bestirred themselves to some purpose. Five minutes after the
last “Salamu Aleikum wa Rahmat Allah” had saluted the angels who stand
on either side to record a man’s good and bad deeds, the camels were
loaded and we were moving away from the white qubba of Sidi Hassan and
the scattered mud houses which appeared but a stone’s throw distant.
There had been no time to eat. I tried to force a hard-boiled egg down
my throat as I swayed along, but I could not manage it. Hassanein was
doubled up with rheumatism and I tried every possible position to ease
my foot. My hands were numb as I clutched the gaudy barracan, red, blue
and orange, round me, and prayed for the sun to warm me.
Every few minutes we turned round to see if Jedabia had disappeared, but
it must stand on a slight rise as the morabit was visible for three
hours. Distance is illusive in the desert. Everything looks much nearer
than it really is. One sees the palms of an oasis early in the morning,
plans to arrive before midday, and is lucky if one reaches it by sunset.
However, by 10.30 every sign of human habitation had disappeared and
only a flat sandy plain, tufted with coarse grey brush a few inches to a
foot high, lay all around us. Thankfully we halted, turned the camels to
graze, spread the scarlet woven rugs in the sun, and prepared to eat.
Further troubles threatened when we discovered that our retinue, Yusuf,
Mohammed and two coal-black Sudanese soldiers, had brought no provisions
of any sort. They had trusted either to us or to joining the south-bound
caravan within a few hours. Consternation seized us. In order to travel
light we had brought what we considered the least possible amount of
food necessary for two people for a week—that is, one tin of meat per
day, with a very small ration of flour, rice, dates and tea. How were we
going to feed six people for perhaps a fortnight on it? At the moment we
were too tired to think. We doled out to the retinue rice, tea and most
of the hard-boiled eggs intended for ourselves and, after the frugal
meal, insisted on immediate departure. There was a great deal of
grumbling. They were all tired and they wanted to sleep there and then.
The blacks were openly rebellious. “We are not your slaves,” they said.
“We will not over-tire ourselves.” However, by force of sarcasm,
encouragement and laughter, we got them to load the camels.
In Libya they do not girth the baggage saddles at all. They merely
balance the bales evenly according to weight on either side of a straw
pad round the hump. Thus, if the camel stumbles badly or is frightened
and runs a few paces, the luggage over-balances and crashes to the
ground, generally terrifying the beast into a mad gallop. I suppose ours
were carelessly loaded, for the tent dropped off three times and tempers
grew sulky.
About one we came to a small cluster of camel’s-hair tents in the
shelter of a slight rise and the retinue clamoured to stop there for the
night. The Arab is greedy by nature, while the Sudanese is positively
voracious. At one meal he will devour what would support a European
family for a day. Having seen our meagre provisions, the retinue thought
they would get a better dinner in these Beduin tents. They protested and
argued violently, but we were ruthless. There was fear of pursuit and of
being recognised. Yusuf joined his hands in prayer. “We will say you are
the wife of an ekhwan,” he said, “and that we are taking you to Jalo,”
but he pleaded in vain. We moved on and they followed perforce, surly,
bronzed Beduins in coarse woolen jerds, rifles slung across their backs.
The impressions cherished since childhood are gradually disappearing
from my mind. One hears so often of the untiring endurance of the Beduin
and of his frugal fare. I used to believe that he could ride for days
without sleep and live on a few dates or locusts. He _may_ be able to do
the latter if he is absolutely obliged to, but normally his appetite is
large and his amiability depends on his food. With regard to his
endurance, I have met Tuaregs who had accomplished some amazingly swift
rides, but in the French Sahara, in Syria or in Libya, as in the Sudan,
I have never found an Arab who did not want to camp several hours before
I did. South of Touggurt I once had a delightful guide called Ali, a
blue-eyed, ruddy-haired Tuareg, who must have had Vandal blood in his
veins and he used to get positively haggard after a nine hours’ ride
without a pause.
After 2.30 we could not urge our retinue farther. It was obvious that
they were very tired, but it is doubtful if they were as exhausted as we
were, for we had worked very hard the preceding day and night, while
they were “fadhling” in the suq. However, Yusuf seized my camel rein.
“This is a good place. We must rest,” he said. It was no use
exasperating them. We had ridden for six hours. A camel does a regular
two and a half miles an hour, so we imagined ourselves about 15 miles
from Jedabia and safe from pursuit.
Almost before we had got the sacks off the camels Mohammed had rolled
himself in his jerd and was actually asleep. Yusuf helped us half-
heartedly while we struggled to put up the tent, but we unrolled
bedding, put down ground-sheet, doled out provisions, fitted the camp
beds together ourselves. The Sudanese collected brushwood, yawning
violently and infinitely wearily. We boiled tea and drank it sugarless,
for the retinue had the usual Arab passion for sugar. I looked at myself
once in a tiny hand-glass, and was thankful to put it down, for I hardly
recognised the begrimed and haggard visage, yellow, sunburnt and lined,
that peered out under the heavy black handkerchief between the folds of
the barracan. A gale rose suddenly and nearly swept our tent away, but
we did not mind. We slept fitfully, woke to cook rice on a brushwood
fire and went to bed about 6 P.M. with a thankfulness too deep for
words. Feather mattresses, frilled pillows, Chippendale or Louis XV beds
all have their charms, but I have never been so grateful for any as I
was that night for my flea-bag and my air cushion.
At 6 next morning Yusuf woke us with a cry of “El Fagr,” and after the
usual prayers we set to work to break camp. We informed the retinue that
we intended to reach Wadi Farig and its well that day and therefore they
must not count on a midday halt. Consequently they insisted on making a
fire and cooking half our week’s rations straight away! We started at 8
A.M. and continued a south-easterly-southerly course all day.
Wadi Farig is only 60 kilometres from Jedabia, but I imagine our first
day we must have made a detour in order to avoid the main route, for it
was not till 2 o’clock on the second day that a mirage on the horizon, a
sheet of silver water bordered with purple mountains, proclaimed the
position of the wadi. “It is bayid, bayid!” said Mohammed. “We cannot
reach it before sunset. Let us rest now!” This time, however, we would
not stop. We had shared our flasks of tea and our dates evenly with him
at noon and we felt that after a good night’s sleep, if we could ride
nine hours on end, they could too. It was an absolutely perfect day,
cloudless and still, but the sun was very hot at noon. It scorched
through the thin folds of my barracan and made one wonder why Europe and
not Africa invented parasols.
The character of the country remained unchanged. Always the same sandy
scrub stretched away as far as the eye could see. Occasional jerboas or
lizards scuttered into their holes as we approached. Once a dozen
gazelle fled swiftly across our path. Mohammed tried a shot at them, but
he was too slow. Another time we passed a large rabbit warren and a
couple of white scuts disappeared into the labyrinth of holes. We struck
a main track about noon and I noticed a sage bush covered with bits of
different coloured threads. It appears that every wayfarer adds a piece
of cotton or wool from his attire to show that this is a desert “road”
and that caravans pass that way. Yusuf contributed a white thread from
his girdle, and I a red one from my long hezaam.
All that day we met only two travellers. I discreetly covered my face
while they exchanged greetings with our retinue. The desert telephone
was at work again. They brought news from Jalo which they exchanged for
tales of Jedabia. They were not interested in us. Mrs. Forbes had
disappeared into space, and in her place was a Mohammedan woman called
Khadija, travelling with a kinsman, an Egyptian Bey, son of a Sheikh el-
Azhar. She wore Beduin clothes, followed their customs, prayed to their
God, lived their life. Her language was certainly different, but the
Arabic varies so immensely between Baghdad and Marrakesh that my
faltering conversation was attributed to my being accustomed only to the
classical language. Even Hassanein could hardly understand the dialect
used by the Libyan Beduins. It is not a case of accent or pronunciation.
Nearly all the words are different.
I cannot imagine why Wadi Farig is marked on the map as a vivid green
splash across the colourless desert. The slight depression running due
east and west between the two faint ridges about 15 metres high varies
in no respect from the surrounding country. No blade of grass or green
thing decorates it. Nothing breaks the monotonous sand and grey
brushwood except the one well of bitter brackish water. We arrived just
as the sun was setting and had difficulty in getting the camels past the
well in order to camp on the higher ground beyond. Hassanein was riding
a nervous “naga” (female), who never kept her head in one direction for
more than a minute or two. She now decided to race for the well while a
playful companion kicked off a bale or two, upset the balance of the
rest, caught her foot in a falling sack and tore wildly away, scattering
her load to the winds. My stately beast was in an amorous mood, so, with
guttural gurglings, he added himself to the general mêlée. I had to
dismount and limp up to the rise, dragging him forcibly after me, while
the men collected our belongings and reloaded them. It was a race with
the sun, but we just won it. As the last crimson glow faded in the
radiant west and the devout Mohammed lifted a sandy nose from his
ablutions, the last tent peg was driven in. Brush fires gleamed on the
rise opposite, for wherever there is a desert well there are a few
scattered tents of the nomads whose homes move with the season and the
pasture.
We made a flaming pyre and sat round it in a circle of pack-saddles.
Yusuf had found his beloved Jedi and he pointed her out to me
triumphantly—the Pole star! The silence of the desert encircled us and a
faint scent of thyme stole up from the cold sand. Farraj (both the black
Sudanese were called Farraj) began intoning verses of the Koran—a
melodious sound in the starlit night. Then, surprised by his own song,
he suddenly sprang to his feet and chanted loudly, triumphantly, the
muazzin’s call to prayer, “Allahu Akhbar. Allahu Akhbar. Ash hadu illa
Illaha illallah wa ash hadu inna Mohammedan rasul Allah!” The Shehada
rolled splendid, intolerant, from his lips and his voice rose higher on
the cry, “Haya alla sala! Haya alla fellah!” till we all took up the
chorus of “Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar!”
As I undressed in the “harem” portion of the tent, which had enormously
impressed our retinue, I pondered on the character of these men with
whom we were to live in familiar intercourse for months. Apart from
their fierce fanaticism, which made it a duty for them to kill the
infidel and the Nasrani as we kill dangerous and pestilential vermin,
they had the simplicity of children. I felt that our blacks would steal
all our food one day if they happened to be hungry and defend us most
gallantly the next. They are utterly unable to provide for the morrow.
Their trust in Allah is of the blind kind that does not try to help
itself, yet the Koran says, “Allah works with him who works.” Again and
again we told them about the scarcity of food. We showed them the
pathetic limit of our provisions. They said, “The caravan will come to-
morrow! Inshallah!”
Knowing the dilatory habits of the East, I had very little faith in the
arrival of that caravan for at least a week, but we agreed to their
persistent request to camp for two days at the wadi to give it a chance
of joining us. If it did not arrive on the evening of the 11th, bringing
with it all our provisions, we should have to send back the two blacks,
and continue post-haste to Aujela with Yusuf and Mohammed. With that
intent we put into one sack the smallest quantity of food for four
people for five days—that is, a tin of meat or sardines per person per
day, with coffee and dates. When this was done we were horrified at the
little that remained. The blacks wanted to bake great flat loaves of
unleavened bread morning and evening and we had so very little flour. I
began to realise that if the caravan did not arrive we should die of
exhaustion on the way to Aujela. Let us once lose the way, let a storm
delay us, let the retinue prove unreliable and insist on eating more
than the day’s meagre ration and we should be lost! Yet we were
determined on one thing only—not to go back.
“In any case we have the peace and quiet of the desert,” I thought, as I
went to sleep and woke a few hours later to pandemonium indescribable.
I’ve heard the roar of an uncaged lion in Rhodesia, but never before had
I heard such mad bellows of rage as made the night hideous. “The camels
have gone mad,” I gasped, as I flung myself out of the tent. Thunder of
sound broke from a heaving black mass only a few yards from our canvas
walls. Shouts came from Yusuf and Mohammed, who seemed to be aimlessly
dancing round the wildly excited beasts. Then the mass crashed roaring
to its feet and two camels dashed madly past me, missing the tent by a
foot. I found Hassanein only half awake at my elbow. “What are they
doing?” he said blankly. “In the spring the camels’ fancy lightly turns
to thoughts of love!” “But it isn’t the spring!” he objected drowsily.
“Never mind. God! They’re coming back!” We retreated hastily from the
tent. In Syria I had seen a maddened beast go right through a tent in
such a mood, and the vision of the crushed poles and canvas, intricately
mixed up with shattered baggage and an absolutely flattened camp bed,
flashed across me. I took up a strategic position in the open but the
bellowing brutes staggered away again, their roars mercifully fading in
the distance. “Is this likely to happen often?” I asked Yusuf. “Yes,
when it is cold,” he answered indifferently. “Two things increase in
winter, the camels and the sea!”
We enjoyed the rare luxury of sleeping late next morning and woke to
another gorgeous day. The water from the well was almost undrinkable—it
was so salt and muddy—but we washed in it triumphantly. Unfortunately,
Hassanein was tempted to wash his hair, with the odd result that it
thereafter stood up like a tuft of coarse ostrich feathers. Everything
dries appallingly in the desert. One’s skin is cracked and lined after a
few days. One’s nails break. One’s hair dries and becomes brittle. Yet
one does not mind. The desert has a subtle and a cruel charm. She
destroys while she enthralls. She is the siren from whom there is no
escape. Cynthia Stockley, whom I met years ago in Bulawayo, writes in
one of her vivid stories of African life that once the desert has stuck
her claw into a man, he must return to her, for only she can heal the
wound she has made.
The preceding night the wadi had been empty. That morning it was
crowded. Half-naked brown figures hauled water for a great herd of
camels who crushed round the low mud walls of the well. A flock of sheep
waited their turn at a short distance. More camels strayed slowly down
the rise, grazing as they walked. Some white figures came up to greet
us, rifles slung across their backs. They were the dwellers in the
nuggas whose fires we had seen the night before. The desert wires had
informed them of our imminent arrival before we had left Jedabia! They
sat round our brushwood fire and drank tea sweetened with crushed dates,
as the sugar had run out. Hassanein and I left them to “fadhl” with our
retinue and went and sat on a sandhill and dreamed visions of the
caravan, that would end all our troubles, coming over the rise opposite.
Instead, we saw only Farraj go down the wadi to buy bitter camel’s milk
and date pulp, highly flavoured with sand, from the nugga men. When the
sunset dyed the land to crimson glory we returned to our camp
frantically hungry, for we had eaten nothing since 8 A.M., and then only
rice and tinned vegetables, because the latter were disliked by our
retinue. The two blacks were playing draughts on the sands with white
shells and camel dung. “Fadhl!” urged Mohammed, smiling. “Fadhl!” “Do
not live always alone,” said Yusuf. “Mix with us a little. We shall not
forget who is master.” From this I knew that Hassanein had won another
of his personal victories. He had a wonderful way of gaining the
confidence and sympathy of Arabs, from the Sayeds down to the fanatical
Beduin.
The mental atmosphere of our retinue had been most unpropitious during
the first two days. We realised that our journey would be almost an
impossibility unless it changed, but, wisely, Hassanein would not hurry
matters. A word dropped here and there, swift rebuke or warm praise,
hinted sympathy with the Senussi aims, tales of old friendship with the
Sayeds, little councils of war in the outer tent, had all borne fruit.
We felt the effect that night as we toasted ourselves before the fire,
watching Farraj knead his heavy bread and cook it in the ashes. When it
was baked, he pressed some upon us with a broad, toothless smile. It was
hot, heavy and indigestible, but wholly delicious with our corned beef.
Only the cocoa was a failure, as the water was terribly salt.
I settled myself into the double woollen flaps of my flea-bag that night
with a great sense of peace. The thermometer had soared up at midday,
but the nights were always chilly, and we were extremely grateful for
our rainproof sleeping-sacks, sprinkled with insect powder, which, by
the way, had no effect whatever on the fleas. The third morning in
Jedabia I had spent a happy half-hour chasing agile insects round my
bedding. Hassanein entered with breakfast at my most heated moment, when
I thought I had cornered the largest. A sweet smile spread over his
face. “There are dozens and dozens in my room,” he said; “but it doesn’t
matter. At last I have found a use for my target pistol. Don’t ever
laugh at me again for useless baggage!” I thought of this as I heard a
bed upset on the other side of the partition, but this time it was only
a delicious little field mouse scurrying wildly round in search of her
hole, which was probably somewhere under our ground-sheet.
A little later I heard the Koran intoned verse by verse and to its
monotonous murmur I fell asleep wondering at the desert spell which had
changed the Oxford “Blue” into a typical Beduin, devout as the fanatic
whose prayers rose five times a day to Allah, aloof as the nomad whose
wistful eyes are ever on a desert horizon, impenetrable as the jerd
which muffled him from head to foot.
December 7 provided us with a “gibli,” a strong south wind laden with
sand, which nearly tore up our tent pegs and covered everything with a
thick yellow coating. It was a most unpleasant day. Hair, eyes and skin
were full of sand. Everything we ate was flavoured with it. The dust
sheet was three inches deep in it. It oozed from the pillows and from
every article of clothing. It penetrated every box and bag. The noise of
flapping canvas and cracking pegs was a continual strain, and in the
middle of it arrived a messenger from Jedabia, bearing a letter from
Benghazi which our opponents had sent on with an amused message written
on the back:
“_Nous vous envoyons notre sincère admiration pour l’aptitude que vous
avez pour des décisions très rapides, avec nos meilleurs souhaits d’un
bon et très long voyage désertique!_”
I think the French emanated from the cavalry officer with a sense of
humour. From the beginning he may have suspected our whole project, but,
a noted fencer, he was as clever with words as with the foils. However,
we knew that a messenger who confessed that he had been told to follow
us even unto Jalo would not be sent merely to bring us an unimportant
letter. He was intended to find out our destination for certain, so we
thought he had better wait with us until the caravan arrived or until we
ourselves left for Jalo. Farraj amused us immensely, for, having got it
into his head that the man was a spy, he wanted to shoot him at once. It
took a good deal of persuasion on our part to prevent this bloodthirsty
deed. “The Sayed told me to protect you. If I do not kill this man, the
Sayed will surely kill me,” he said morosely. We comforted him by
telling him to watch that the man did not escape, but not to hurt him,
yet when Hassanein was asleep that afternoon, and I heard the click of a
rifle lock, I rushed frantically to see that the man was safe. He, too,
had come without any food. The improvidence of the race had begun to
anger me. Should manna fall from heaven, I believe they would eat their
fill and pick up none for the morrow!
We broke the news to the retinue that we should have to leave the blacks
at the nuggas to wait for the caravan and to hurry it up when it finally
arrived, and ourselves go on to Aujela by forced marches. We told them
we would start early and ride ten or eleven hours a day, pitch no tent
to save labour, share our food evenly with them, but that they must
expect to be very hungry for four or five days. There was a good deal of
protest, because they looked with simple faith to the caravan and they
could not realise that if we waited four days and it had not arrived,
starvation would drive us back to Jedabia. The form of protest showed,
however, how well things were going. They now looked upon us as their
friends. The arrival of the spy had made a bond between us. “We knew
that you were hurt by the coming of that man,” they said, “but you are
safe with us. It is our honour, too.” We tried to explain the difficulty
about food, and Mohammed suddenly showed the fine clay he was made of.
“I have felt ashamed,” he said, “that we have taken your food for three
days, that we have asked you for sugar when you have none. I would have
liked to share my food with you, as is our habit, but we were ordered to
come with you at the last moment. We asked if we might visit our homes.
‘No,’ we were told. ‘The caravan will follow with all things needful.’
It is not our fault, but we feel it deeply that you are depriving
yourselves for us.”
This is the loyal spirit that lies at the heart of every Beduin. Greedy
for food he may be and the stranger with gold is not safe with him, but
once you are his friend he will never betray you. These men were
beginning to realise our sympathy for their race, our love for their
customs and country. They had eaten our bread and salt. We had shared
all we had with them and we had taken them wholly into our confidence.
We were guests of their lord, the holy one, the blessed of Allah. We
were friends of their blood and religion. The Italians should not get us
back. They swore to protect us as their own families. We had won another
fight. “We will find food somehow in the nuggas!” said Yusuf. “No Arab
starves in the desert.” We showed them a simple letter of greeting from
Sidi Idris. They almost prostrated themselves to kiss the sacred
writing. This was the same ungrudging loyalty that we had witnessed
among the humble Auwaghir whose tents we had visited between Soluk and
Ghemines. Their lives belonged to the Sayed. Therefore they were at our
disposal. Their courage and faith were undaunted because they were the
essence of simplicity.
Surely the glories of a race which can give its all so ungrudgingly
cannot be entirely in the past. The great history of Omar, of Ibn Nebu
Musa, of Harun-er-Rashid and Saladin may yet be repeated. There are
leaders who understand the heart of their people, but perchance they
only know that they have power, without knowing how they can use it. It
has ever been the policy of European nations to break up the Arab races,
to create discord among their princes, to induce their chiefs to oppose
one another. Is it not a short-sighted policy in view of the widespread
unrest in Europe to-day? Our Western empires and kingdoms are large
enough. Concentration and not expansion should be our programme. In the
days of Mohammed Ben Ali a caravan under his protection could pass
safely from Tripoli to Wadai. All the great caravan routes were open for
commerce and trade. How many are open to-day? Strengthen the hand of the
native ruler with all the prestige of European support and he will be
responsible for the opening up of his country for the safe conduct of
travellers, for the friendly intercourse that will allow grain and
hides, dates and tea to cross the age-old desert routes!
CHAPTER IV
ACROSS THE DESERT WITH SHE-IB
All that day we sat inside the tent amidst blinding sand. It was in vain
that we shut every curtain and flap. The whirling dust penetrated as if
by magic. We abstained from lunch in order to save food, and the only
break in the monotony of removing continual layers of sand from faces
and note-books was when a peg cracked under the strain and one side of
the tent flew up with a scream of flapping canvas, tearing up half a
dozen pegs with it. We used to go out half blinded by the force of the
gibli and knock them in again and take the opportunity of scanning the
distant rise for the prayed-for caravan. Once we counted eighteen camels
coming over the brow, and hope rose high; but, alas! they were only
grazing.
[Illustration: NOMAD TENTS NEAR JEDABIA]
[Illustration: OUR SOLDIER SLAVES AND THE GUIDE ABDULLAH]
“Allah will send the solution to the problem,” said Mohammed simply, and
he was right, for, towards evening, when the wind had dropped
considerably and we had gone down to the wadi to buy camel’s milk, which
I loved, but which Hassanein found too bitter, a small caravan of eight
camels laden with luggage for Jalo, accompanied by half a dozen Mojabras
returning to their homes after a shopping expedition in Jedabia, came
down the rise. The situation changed at once. These men brought much
news from the “belad” (village) we had left four days before. They knew
all about our caravan. “Inshallah! It will arrive in a day or two. When
we left, the men were buying their sugar and their jerds. But how is it
you have come so far? Your people expect you to be waiting just outside
Jedabia. They said to us, ‘If you meet them, treat them well for our
sakes, and the honour that you do them will be as if you had done it to
us.’” We told them about the spy. “He is one of our tribe,” they said
sadly. “It is a shame that he has set one foot outside the belad on this
errand. When we return to Jedabia we will surely spit upon him. Send him
to us now that we may take him on to Jalo with us!” We thought, however,
that the man would probably be safer with us!
[Illustration: WELL AT JEDABIA]
[Illustration: NOMAD ENCAMPMENTS ROUND JEDABIA]
It is a desert custom that when a caravan arrives at nightfall to find
another encamped before it, the first arrivals give dinner to the late-
comers. We were unable to do this because we had no food, so we could
send only apologies and greetings. Just as we had finished our meagre
supper of corned beef and rice, a messenger arrived from the hospitable
Mojabras bearing two immense basins of barley grain cooked with native
butter and pepper, with great cakes of hard sugar and actually a teapot.
The joy with which we ate the savoury mess can hardly be described, and
our retinue made relays of strong, bitter tea half-way into the night.
There was much visiting between the encampment and a chorus of “Keif
halak?” (How are you?) and “Taiyib” (Well) sounded constantly.
If two caravans meet coming from Jalo and Jedabia respectively, the
former exchanges dates for the latter’s tea and sugar. If any traveller
reaches a camp at night he is freely given food and tea and a rug by the
brushwood fire. Desert hospitality is amazing. Food and drink are always
offered. We were never allowed to buy camel’s milk. It was always given,
for were we not nomads like the desert men themselves? One never passes
a fire with two or three white-robed figures clustered round it without
being asked to sit down with them by the one expressive word “Fadhl!” It
is customary to say “Keif halak?” at least half a dozen times to each
individual, though the reply is always the same, “Taiyib.”
That night, as we all sat round a fire with a cold wind freezing our
backs, yet feeling happily satiated after our barley meal, the retinue
became rhetorical in its expressions of fidelity. The caravan had told
them that a motor had arrived from Zuetina the day after our flight, and
the town had instantly jumped to the conclusion that it was to take us
back forcibly. We were assured that the whole sympathy of Jedabia was
with us, that our opponents were very angry at our escape, but could do
nothing because they themselves had recommended us to the Sayed. I very
much doubted this latter statement and we determined to move on the
following afternoon if the caravan did not arrive in the morning. We
thought that we could get sufficient food for our men from the Mojabras
and repay them at Jalo if they would not take money. I felt sorry for
the spy. He evidently wished he had not meddled in the affair at all.
Farraj astonished us by suddenly rising to his feet and, with hands held
to heaven, calling Allah to witness that he would protect us to the last
drop of his blood. “Not even a thorn shall enter your sides,” he chanted
solemnly, and there was an awed hush after so mighty an oath.
Naturally our spy escaped in the night. Our retinue were as unpractical
as they were lazy. Therefore, when December 12 dawned, they were
extremely averse to any talk of starting. We explained to them with
infinite patience that in twenty-four hours our whereabouts, our plans,
our intentions, our very thoughts would be known in Jedabia. With the
faith of children they said, “The caravan will come to-day.” The ever-
kindly Mojabras had sent over two more vast bowls of a floury paste,
somewhat like macaroni, cooked in the same rancid butter, so, thoroughly
gorged, the retinue were prepared to await placidly the will of Allah!
We had packed up and hauled everything out of the tent by 7 A.M. At 11
there were still incessant councils round one or other of the fires. The
Mojabras were determined to come with us. “You are the guests of Sidi
Idris,” they said. Once more the holy letter was produced and kissed. We
had become used now to its magical effect. Apparently it would produce
anything but haste! The strangers acknowledged, however, that they had
not enough food for all our men, meaning, of course, that they could not
hope to supply large quantities three times a day. We could not hope to
make them ration it out in small portions, so we wanted to leave at
least one of the blacks to await the caravan and either hurry its
progress or send on a swift camel with provisions. There was instant
mutiny at the suggestion. The two Farraj refused to leave us. “We have
no authority over them,” said Mohammed without surprise. “Their
commandant would whip them, but what can we do?”
Further discussion seemed useless, so we went down to the wadi to buy
dates from a caravan that had come from Kufara. It was an amusing
instance of how news is carried in the Sahara. Before the question of
dates was raised at all we squatted solemnly in the sand opposite the
merchants from the far-off oasis, and Mohammed submitted to a perfect
inquisition on the state of affairs in Jedabia. Afterwards he propounded
his list of questions—what was the price of silk, of wool, of grain,
etc., in Kufara? What was the price of dates? “So much per ruba or so
much per oka?” they quoted, and for dates, “There is no price. They are
plentiful.” “Who did you meet on the way?” “What news of such and such a
family?” “One of their slaves has run away,” or “he has married another
wife,” and so on until all information was exhausted.
We actually left our low ridge above the wadi at 1.30, but we had ceased
to worry. The fatalism of the East had begun to grip us. We decided to
put our trust in Allah and join the caravan of She-ib and his kinsman,
Musa She-ib, merchants from Jalo who had sometimes travelled to Wadai, a
route that takes anything from forty-five to sixty days, with bales of
cotton stuffs, to return with ostrich feathers, ivory, camels and hides
for the markets of Kufara. We asked them how long it would take to reach
Jalo, and they replied, “There is no time. If you walk quickly you may
arrive the fifth day,” but evidently they had no intention of hurrying
themselves. They were a delightful party of six men, with eight heavily
laden camels and one or two foals clumsily trotting alongside.
We made quite an imposing caravan as we struck the track a little to the
east and the camels began to march together. It was headed by old She-
ib, sitting upright on the top of great green boxes of merchandise, a
rifle on his back, a huge revolver slung beside him in a scarlet
holster, his ebony face half-covered, against the dust, in the folds of
his white kufiya. Hassanein’s brilliant kufiya—orange, yellow and
emerald—made a gorgeous flash of colour on another camel and I followed,
huddled under the shrouding barracan, for I must not show my face to the
strange caravan. Thus fate played a new card and decided that we should
wander slowly south with the Mojabra merchants and learn yet another
phase of Beduin life.
Time forgetting and by time forgot, indifferent to the caravan of stores
that might or might not be following, we drifted incredibly slowly along
the vague track marked by occasional cairns of stones. The aspect of the
country had slightly changed since we left the wadi. It became
undulating, with a series of slight waves running from east to west,
while the vegetation grew scantier and scantier, till finally only a few
tufts of coarse grey bush a few inches high broke the wilderness of
sand. At 3 P.M. the undulating country lay behind us, and we were on an
absolutely flat plain. Two specks appeared in the distance to
materialise into a couple of travellers on camels. They paused to ask
our news and on hearing we were bound for Kufara they entrusted Yusuf
with a few mejidies to be paid to somebody at our destination. If he did
not get there himself, he was to hand the money on to another traveller.
This transaction was evidently a usual one and roused no comment.
She-ib decided to camp shortly after 3, for he observed a patch of
slightly thicker grazing away to the right of the track. Ten minutes
after the last camel had been barraked his men had made a wonderful
semicircular zariba of the boxes and sacks, with its back to the wind,
had spread rugs and blankets to form a most comfortable shelter, and
were busy making strong Arab tea. It was done with infinite swiftness
and deftness, while we were still struggling with the tent in a violent
north wind. The previous day the gibli had blown with a fairly high
temperature at midday. This morning the wind had been in the east,
swinging round to the north in the afternoon, yet the temperature at
noon had been nearly as high as on the previous day. Desert weather
seems to be quite illogical. The ground was so hard that we could not
drive in our tent pegs, so we half buried the camel saddles in stones
and tied the ropes to them. Then we were called to try our skill at a
shooting match with the Mojabras, who had set up a piece of wood at
fifty yards. My neat revolvers caused interest and amusement when
produced from under my huge hezaam, but they were scarcely appropriate.
Mohammed won the match and was loudly cheered. We had begun to feel some
affection for this tall, lean, hard-featured Beduin with his falcon’s
eyes and rare smile. We felt that he might prove a loyal ally, whereas
the plump Yusuf, with his round face and sleepy, narrow eyes, loose lips
and glib tongue, only thought of getting home as soon as possible.
Luckily for us the flight from Jedabia had been interpreted to mean a
political mission, and almost before we were out of sight of the town
the desert wireless proclaimed that we travelled on the business of Sidi
Idris. After the first day it was painfully obvious to us that only some
extraordinary intervention of fate would induce any one of our escort to
brave the dangers of the route from Jedabia to Kufara, so we encouraged
the belief in our mission by all means in our power. The Arab dearly
loves a secret. Mystery is the breath of his nostrils. Our escape at
midnight, the orders given to Yusuf and Mohammed at the last moment, our
frantic desire for speed, the spy who brought a letter from Jedabia in
twenty-four hours, the large caravan munificently fitted out by the
lavish generosity of Sayed Rida, all spoke to him of an important
secret, to be guarded with their lives and ours. We had ceased to be the
Sayed’s travelling guests whose mad whim to visit the sacred city should
be discouraged at all costs. We were rapidly becoming mysterious
messengers bearing sacred orders from their lord! Soon we should all
grumble together at the task that drove us forth in winter on such a
journey, but we should be suffering for the work of Sidi Idris es-
Senussi, and therefore for the will of Allah!
December 13 we rose at 7.30 under the impression that She-ib’s caravan
would take advantage of the cool morning to travel, but three hours
later we were still drinking tea inside the comfortable semicircle of
the merchant’s zariba. Beduin hospitality is always generous, but these
people overwhelmed us with kindness. That morning they sent us a basket
of nuts, followed by glasses of bitter tea. Hassanein went across to
their encampment to thank them and they insisted on his staying. I
joined them later, and the best red blanket was spread for me beside
She-ib. It is an erroneous impression in Europe that the veiled women of
the East are ill-treated and overworked. The Koran devotes half the
third sura to man’s behaviour towards women. Ask the Syrian woman if she
would lose her veil, and she will reply, “Not till the men are better
educated,” but the Beduin woman only hides her face before strange men.
With her own tribe she mingles freely, and the work is evenly shared.
Often with the caravan I tried to hold a tent pole or knock in a peg and
I was promptly told, “This is man’s work. Do not tire yourself, Sitt
Khadija.” Many times when old She-ib saw me resting at midday he would
say, “The Sitt Khadija is weary. Let us wait a little longer.” On the
other hand, the Moslem woman is expected to do all the work within the
tent. She should cook her menfolk’s meal and wash the dishes afterwards.
Luckily, by this time our food was so reduced that I lost no prestige by
my inability to cook more than damper bread, heavy and unleavened.
Tea-drinking is a ceremony which may last anything from one hour to
three. If one wishes to travel fast it can only be allowed at night, but
the Mojabras had no desire to hurry, so we lingered over the glasses
while their two servants and our blacks cooked relays of tea on hot
ashes. They fill half the teapot with sugar, another quarter with tea,
and then pour the water on top. They taste the sweet, strong beverage
half a dozen times, pouring it from one teapot to another, adding water
or re-boiling it till it suits them. Then it is drunk with as much noise
as possible to show appreciation. When the host thinks it is time to
finish the party, he adds mint to the teapot, and the guests take the
last sweet-scented cup as a sign of departure. Meanwhile they have
exchanged every form of gossip and told long, rambling tales with a
flavour of the Arabian Nights. Their courtesy to one another is amazing,
and it is an honest courtesy that expresses itself in deeds as well as
words. While Yusuf and Mohammed rarely addressed each other without the
respectful prefix of “Sidi” (my lord), they also warmly urged each other
to ride the only available camel at midday heat. Once Mohammed was
riding it, and he noticed Musa She-ib looked tired. “We share alike,” he
said. “What is ours is yours,” and scrambling down he insisted on the
Mojabra mounting.
It was a very friendly caravan that crawled south by short stages. Our
only troubles really were Yusuf’s laziness and the grumblings of the
blacks, who shirked even the lightest work. On the 13th we started at
9.30 and camped at 3.30, while the sun was yet hot, for we happened to
have arrived at a patch of coarse, odourless grass for the camels. At
noon the men had slipped away from the caravan one by one to prostrate
themselves with a murmured, “Bismillah arahman arahim.” Generally two of
them marched a couple of hundred yards ahead with their rifles ready,
but we saw nothing more exciting than a few distant gazelle. As soon as
we had unloaded the camels we all said our evening prayers, the “Fagr”
or fourth of the series. It still gave me much pain getting in and out
of my yellow shoe, but the fanaticism of the Senussi was a very strong
spur to the observance of every Moslem duty.
She-ib and his relations always insisted on helping us to put up the
tent. There used to be a regular little fight as to who should hammer in
the pegs, much to the delight of the lazy blacks. I remember that night
was the most perfect we had yet spent in the desert, windless and calm,
with a crescent moon and the strange translucent blue that you sometimes
get in the Sahara. Mournful, monotonous chants came from the friendly
encampment beside us and the wide, white desert, unbroken by ridge or
dune, spread all round us.
We had mounted slowly and imperceptibly from the Wadi Farig (empty
valley) to a low tableland with occasional ripples running east and west
and a few scattered sandhills with square tops. Just before we reached
Bir Rassam, the following day, the ripples became accentuated into
ridges and the country looked almost volcanic, for a series of high,
square hillocks appeared on our right with some sort of rock formation
on top.
We could easily have reached the wells on the evening of the 13th, but
our friends had their own settled ideas about camping and nothing would
change them. They wanted to spend the heat of the day at Rassam and
water at their leisure, so we were wakened at 5 A.M. on the 14th, and
were actually away by 6.15. It was a glorious morning, but, as usual,
chilly. Hassanein walked with old She-ib, who promptly quoted the Arab
proverb, “A man should not sleep on silk till he has walked on sand,”
but I rolled myself in every available blanket on the back of my jealous
camel, who divided his time between biting the rival males and amorous
assaults on the females!
Besides being cold, one had begun to feel extremely hungry! The
preceding day the ration had been two sardines and a cup of coffee for
breakfast, a handful of dates at noon and half a one-ration tin of meat
at night. That morning there had been no time for food, but the kindly
She-ib had brought me a delicious bowl of camel’s milk, still warm. I
would not have exchanged it for the cellar of the Ritz!
We had left the last vestige of fawny-yellow earth and grey scrub behind
us and as the strange square hillocks came in sight we trod the white
limestone that we had known in Jedabia. We looked right over the farther
edge of the low tableland and dropped gently to a plain with the deep
white sand of the southern deserts, tufted with great shrubs and bushes
of sweet-scented feathery vegetation and clumps of low palm foliage,
with here and there a solitary upright palm. There are three wells in
the neighbourhood of Bir Rassam, perennial springs, two of which have
brackish yet drinkable water, while the third, several kilometres
farther south, has terribly salt water.
As we approached the wells, about 9.15 A.M., streams of camels appeared
from all directions. Mohammed gazed at them with loving eyes. “The Zouia
are rich,” he said appreciatively; “look at the hundreds of their
beasts!” All that morning a crowd of camels, numbering several hundreds,
pressed round the well, together with some sheep and goats, but we
encamped under a mound of sand topped by a mass of palm scrub and in
rare shelter I prepared our frugal meal. The previous night and that
morning we had had no fuel for fire, so now it was a joy to make hot tea
and I was about to knead my heavy damper when Mighrib, the most
delightful of all the Mojabras, young and smiling, in his torn white
shirt which showed muscular brown arms and chest, assured me that he
could make a much better one. He took the dough from me and, after much
pommelling and baking, produced a charred and blackened plate-like
substance; but it was thinner than mine and crisper, so we ate it
thankfully with dates and nuts. Then we rolled ourselves in jerds and
slept till wakened by the postman from Kufara, who had heard at the well
of our connexion with Sayed Rida. He was an old, old man with beard as
white as his jerd, but he could accomplish the astounding feat _of going
several days_ without water, so about twice a year he travels on the
Senussi’s government business across the Libyan desert with one fast
camel and a couple of sacks of dates and grain!
Hassanein and Mohammed went back to the wells, after the camels had been
watered and the fanatis filled, to see if they could get milk and while
there they were severely cross-questioned by two stern-faced Beduins as
to whether we were going on Sayed Idris’s business. Was it in his
interests? Was it by his actual orders? Had we letters? And so on.
Hassanein asked them if they were sheikhs of tribes and when they
replied in the negative he said he could not show them the sacred
documents. Meanwhile, the Mojabra chief was being solemnly shaved by
Ahmed under the shadow of a palm. Half-way through the proceeding he
asked me for my small mirror and, evidently dissatisfied with his
enthusiastic but inexperienced barber, finished his toilet himself with
a pair of scissors as large as shears. After that they all came and
talked to me, and I unconsciously did good work by teasing Yusuf about
his laziness and saying he was only fit for a town life. “I have left
everything with the caravan,” he said. “So have we—seven big sacks full!
See, I have but one tobh and one barracan, and both are dirty.” This
seemed to be a new point of view for Yusuf, especially as the Mojabras
backed me up. “We have seen that they share everything they have with
you. What more do you want?” said She-ib. “Even now you are wearing the
Sitt’s coat.” Our retinue had complained bitterly of cold one night at
Wadi Farig, so we had lent them two fleece-lined waterproofs which we
had hidden in our bedding and they wore them day and night, even in the
fierce noon sun!
We departed leisurely at 3.30 P.M. and trekked through blinding, white
sand, soft and deep, till 8.30 P.M., but the last hour we went very
slow, as the grey brush appeared again and the camels grazed as they
walked. We passed a herd grazing and She-ib went to greet the owners,
encamped in a zariba of piled luggage, and to drink strong tea. We
camped under some huge grey bushes with a wonderfully sweet scent and
ate the rest of Mighrib’s black damper, with camel’s milk and a half-
ration of meat, while another marvellous sunset painted feathers of
flame and rose below the silver sickle moon.
We used to shut the tent flaps after our evening meal to write our
diaries and make our simple route maps, for if we pulled out note-books
and pencil in the daytime it caused great suspicion. We had made plans
in England, while lunching in the oriental splendour of Claridge’s, to
do a little survey work in Libya, but we had not counted with the
fanaticism of the Senussi. It seems to me now that we were mad to
imagine that a Christian could show his or her face beyond Jedabia, in a
land where it is every man’s sacred duty to kill the Nasrani. True, the
mental atmosphere had changed since the first day out, when, if we
carelessly asked the name of any tribe or district, we were looked upon
as spies. At our first camp I told one of the blacks to fetch me a
camel, whereupon he turned to his fellow-soldier exclaiming, “Are we to
be ordered about by a cursed Christian woman? One bullet and we will
send her back to her Christian country!”
After that their attitude had changed. “The ways of Allah are strange,”
they said, “for she is in truth a Moslem.” Still, the general
friendliness did not extend to instruments or diaries. “Why do you need
a compass?” asked Yusuf. “We know the road as we know our own hearts.”
We took the hint and hid our compasses under the voluminous folds of our
native dress, studying them only in secret. The barometer amused them
because it showed what the weather was like, so the actual retinue did
not mind its occasional presence outside our tent, but it had to be
concealed from all visitors. A theodolite would have been an absolute
impossibility. Anything that suggested map-making was abhorrent to our
guides. “We carry the road in our heads,” they said. I dared not even
write an ordinary diary in public unless I could pretend it was a
letter!
Gradually we drew them on to talk about routes and places with rather
less suspicion, but for a long time it was a dangerous subject and, even
when we had more or less won their confidence, we had to treat their
replies concerning names and positions exceedingly casually. To have
made an instant note of a name would have roused sharp suspicion. Before
we could get real information from them we had to destroy their original
idea that we were travelling for our own pleasure and laboriously build
up, word by word, deed by deed, a wholly new situation—that we had been
sent, much against our will, by Sayed Idris on a mission so secret and
important that it justified our midnight flight and the hardships of an
almost intolerable journey.
December 15 saw us on our way by 7.30 A.M. after a troubled packing in
the teeth of a sharp gale. The camels ran round in circles and upset
their loads and a little of our precious water dribbled out of the
fanatis. Bir Rassam is the last good well on the way to Aujela. Three
long waterless days lay before us and the blacks were horribly careless.
We ourselves used only a quart of water each per day. Since we left Wadi
Farig our daily ablution consisted merely of washing hands and face
every evening in an inch of muddy water! After a week one got used to
never washing, and by the time we reached Aujela we had forgotten even
to feel dirty! It became a competition who could use least water and so
prepare for the deadly Kufara route with its one well in twelve hard
days.
December 15 provided us with few incidents. We did a dreary seven hours’
riding with a cold south wind blowing straight in our faces. We wrapped
our jerds and blankets round us and tried to pretend we were not hungry
after a lunch of five malted milk tablets. We passed a camp of Mojabras
who were resting for an hour at midday while their camels grazed and, as
I hid my face in my barracan and urged on my camel, Hassanein went with
She-ib and Mohammed to greet them. When he rejoined me twenty minutes
later I asked him with primitive fierceness, “Did they give you tea?”
before I realised to what ridiculous depths hunger drives one! He looked
at me with wan blankness. “No luck,” he said grimly; “but they asked us
to wait for them at sunset.”
The one cheerful moment was when, about 2 P.M., I produced a thermos
flask and offered each of She-ib’s caravan a mouthful of hot tea. “There
is no fire,” said the old man. “We cannot stop to make one.” It was
Hassanein’s greatest triumph. I had fought against bringing that huge
flask. It was bulky, heavy and, of course, it had no case or strap. It
was his pet possession, however, and though I firmly discarded it half a
dozen times, it always reappeared. Now Musa She-ib drank from it,
amazed. “But where is the fire?” he asked; and, lest we should be shot
as magicians, we instantly entered into intricate explanations as to the
making of a thermos.
We met but one traveller on that cold, dusty day. “Now for our
newspaper,” said Hassanein. “It is rather a late edition.” But the man
was devoid of news save that a caravan might possibly be starting from
Jalo for Wadai within a week or two. As for our own caravan, the
Mojabras, who proposed to join us that night, had made a quick journey
from Jedabia, leaving on the morning of the 12th, three days after She-
ib. They told us our men were still buying “necessities,” but proposed
to start next day. From that moment I think we mutually decided against
putting any faith in their arrival. The behaviour of the two blacks had
made us realise the danger of being at the mercy of a dozen such
creatures for thirteen days, beyond reach of any human aid. If the water
ran short they would certainly steal ours. In order to be able to over-
eat they would probably overload the camels. They would refuse to start
early or ride hard. Consequently the perils of the waterless seven days,
after which time the camels begin to get tired, would become
insuperable. We began planning to leave Jalo before them, taking only
Mohammed and Yusuf and a couple of reliable guides.
The last hour of the day’s march is generally the most cheerful, for
everybody is in a hurry to reach camp, and it is a curious fact that
camels walk more quickly and straighter to the sound of singing.
Therefore the blacks and She-ib’s drivers used to chant wild melodies of
love and prowess till even my great blond beast forgot his amorous
gurglings and kept his nose in a bee-line for the horizon. That
particular day we had ridden due south across rolling sandy country
without much vegetation except where the sudden square hills and mounds
appeared on our left at Bir Mareg, some 18 kilometres from Rassam. The
well holds only salt, undrinkable water, but around it there is about a
mile of rough scrub with large bushes of the scented furze which had
perfumed our sleep the preceding night. On the only maps I have seen a
green wadi is marked running the whole way from Rassam to Aujela, but it
exists only in the imagination of the chart-maker. In reality there is
no trace of valley or of verdure.
Across rolling white sand we rode till 3 P.M., under a sandy rock a few
hundred yards from a square hill called Arida. We camped by the last
patch of rare fuel. The south wind rose in the night and added more sand
to ourselves and our surroundings. The tent pegs on one side blew up and
we crawled out in murky darkness to knock them in again.
December 16 saw us started by 7.30, for the Farraj had succeeded in
upsetting one of the fanatis and old She-ib was wisely frightened about
our water supply. Feeling that a certain amount of sympathy now existed
between ourselves and our retinue, we tried the passometer for the first
time that day. The nervous “naga” ridden by Hassanein objected strongly
and, as she always progressed in circles, she was not of much use. My
stately beast never altered his step except to bite one of the other
animals and after a few furious stamps he submitted to the strap across
his knee, but the labour of keeping him absolutely straight for eight
hours on end was very trying. However, the instrument measured fairly
accurately, and after an eight hours’ march it gave us 36 kilometres.
[Illustration: SAYED RIDA ES SENUSSI]
There is no one track from Jedabia to Aujela. The distance as the crow
flies is about 220 kilometres. There is a main route as far as Wadi
Farig. Thereafter one may wander south anywhere on a stretch some ten
miles broad. We travelled on the route which our friends considered
provided the best fuel and grass, but it was the least frequented and,
therefore, the most dangerous. “No one comes by this track without fear
of a battle,” said the delightful Mighrib, and hardly half an hour later
a party of eight men, without camels, six blacks and two Arabs, appeared
from the sand mounds. “Dersalaam! We are going to be attacked,” said
She-ib with calm interest. Any party of men without camels is looked
upon with suspicion in the desert. Thus travel the robber bands in order
to be able to scatter quickly. “Some of them will come up and talk to
us. Their friends will be hidden behind those mounds. They will fire
into the air to attract our attention and then the people who are
talking to us will attack us. If they kill us they will take the
caravan.” The blacks cheered up at once. The prospect of a fight always
stimulated them. Everybody pulled out a rifle, but evidently the display
of force or the Sudanese intimidated the mysterious party, for they
suddenly sheered off without any salutation and vanished as suddenly as
they had appeared.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN BEDUIN DRESS]
It is curious the fear with which the Beduins regard the black slaves
who are sent from the Sudan as boys of eight or ten and who are trained
as soldiers by the Senussi family. They are more brutes than men. I have
seen sheer murder in the eyes of the toothless Farraj when I refused him
extra sugar, yet they are courageous and faithful to their masters. A
good black slave like Ali, our beloved cook at Jedabia, is worth his
weight in gold. There was much difference of character between the
Farrajes. One had a square, bestial face with a few broken yellow teeth.
He was a grumbler and infinitely lazy, shirking all work, stealing
everything he could lay his hands on. The other was big, brutal and
stupid with something of the nature of a kindly bulldog. He would
occasionally return us dates or flour, saying, “We have enough. Why do
you not eat yourselves?” We thought he might be turned into a good
servant eventually, for he did not mind cooking and washing up. The
point of view of both was that they were soldiers and not servants. They
were prepared to fight, but not to work. As a matter of fact a caravan
guarded by blacks is rarely attacked, as the Beduins know it will
generally be defended to the last inch.
When first the rumour spread through Jedabia that a rich woman was
travelling into the interior and a guard of sorts became necessary,
Sayed Rida instantly offered some of his soldier slaves. Not till after
we left the little mud belad on the edge of the world did we grasp all
the threads of the situation we left behind. It had been a cunning woof
of plot and counter-plot from the moment when the aged ekhwan, Haji
Fetater, had vowed on the “Fatha” to take the Englishwoman safely to the
Holy Oasis, to the night of our desperate flight without other guard
than Mohammed and Yusuf. From the very day we first spoke tentatively of
our journey among the Ulema of Jedabia, one ekhwan, fanatical and
terrorstricken, had been strongly opposed to it. He successfully
dissuaded Haji Fetater from accompanying us. “You are too old,” he said.
“You will die on the road. Where is your dignity? Is this travelling
with a Nasrani to be your last action on earth? Heaven forbid!” As the
ancient man was over eighty we were not sorry to hear of his change of
front.
Another ekhwan was suggested, but as he asked for forty men to protect
us, among whom only ten were to be blacks, our suspicions were aroused
and we refused his company. We learned afterwards that, believing the
bazaar rumour about our wealth, he had planned to kill us in the desert,
seize our money and return sorrowfully, saying that a vast force of Tebu
spearmen had attacked us, that he had defended us gallantly, but that we
and all the blacks had been killed. This because he _knew_ that the
Sudanese would fulfil the orders given by their master the Sayed and
protect us to the last. There is always faint friction between these
black warrior slaves and the Arabs. They could never combine. For this
reason the crafty ekhwan decided that his force must be large enough to
murder the soldiers as well as us. The proportion of Beduin to Sudanese
shows his high opinion of the latter’s value. Their ruthlessness is
encouraged by every means, even by brutal punishment. If a soldier
disobeys an order he is flogged or his hand is cut off!
December 16 was enlivened by Mohammed’s marriage prospects. One Omar,
owner of two or three camels, a one-eyed creature of hideous and
ferocious aspect, was travelling with She-ib’s caravan. He was reputed
to have a very beautiful sister. Mohammed was thrilled. He made discreet
inquiries and finally offered to marry the girl on his return journey.
Mohammed was a big man in the eyes of the Beduin. He enjoyed the
confidence of the Sayed and, moreover, he was tall and straight and
clean of limb, a fine lean Arab with pride of race and tradition written
all over him. Omar accepted the suitor at once and three camels were
agreed upon as the dowry to be paid by the bridegroom to the bride’s
father. Thereafter everyone made plans for marrying, mostly for the
third and fourth time. Hassanein heard there were slaves to be bought at
Kufara and he instantly decided to add a beautiful one to his
possessions when we reached our far-off goal.
There was one member of the caravan who took no part in the plans. For
five days he had plodded along with the party, singing and talking
cheerfully, doing his share of the work, and we never guessed that he
was different from the rest till Mohammed, in his excess of matrimonial
enthusiasm, let go the camel he was leading and called out, “Ya Amma!
Imsikhu!” (Thou blind one! Catch him!) Unfalteringly the sightless boy
caught the beast. It was most extraordinary. Thereafter I watched him
carefully. I saw him driving camels in the right direction. He measured
distance much better than the others. He was more accurate in his
judgment of time. He reminded me of the famous mediæval Arabian Bashar,
the blind poet of Aleppo, who, arriving in a certain city, was told to
bend his head in one of the streets as a beam was stretched across it
from one house to another. Ten years later he rode into the same town,
and his companions were surprised because he bowed low in the middle of
an empty road. “Is the beam still here?” he asked.
The Beduins have no idea of distance. “How many hours is it to Aujela?”
one asked. “There are no hours in the desert,” they replied. “We do not
know them.” “Are there days in the desert?” “Yes, there are days. If you
walk quickly it is one thing. If you do not let yourself out, it is
another thing.” The difficulty in measuring by day is that, except on
the big caravan routes, each man’s estimate of distance varies according
to his energy. The whole life of a Beduin is reduced to the simplest
possible effect. He uses very few words. The same verb has a dozen
meanings. For instance, “Shil” means anything from “take away, pick up,
carry, put on, throw away, to pack, unpack, drop, lose,” etc. “Akkal”
should mean to eat food, but when two camels fought hideously Mohammed
said, “They are eating each other.” Desert Arabs have no names for
plants or flowers that they see each day. I asked about a huge, feathery
tree something like a coromandel which first made its appearance at
Sawami and I was told, “It has no name. It is for making houses and
firewood.”
At 3.30 P.M. we were still more than a day’s march from Aujela and our
water was running out owing to the carelessness of the blacks. Grave
colloquy followed. We were relieved to see that even the lazy Yusuf
grasped the seriousness of the situation. We had two single-ration tins
left and about two pounds of flour and one pound of macaroni. It was
decided that we should camp for a couple of hours, in order to rest
after our three hours’ riding, and then push on by starlight. We gave
half the food to our retinue with the last morsels of sugar and made
ourselves coffee on a tiny fire in a hole scooped in the ground. Earlier
in the day we had collected wood from the last patch of scrub that we
passed and loaded it on one of the camels. We hated opening the last
tin, but we knew that we must keep the cereals for the men’s breakfast
next day. We had had nothing to eat all day except a few dates and a
small bowl of camel’s milk which the adorable She-ib gave me at sunrise.
I shall always remember the dear old man’s twisted smile. “When you are
happy I am happy,” he said. “For the honour of the Sayed we would carry
you on our heads!” Luckily it was a glorious night. At 5 P.M. we said
our sunset prayers and to the usual formalities I added a very
passionate supplication that we might reach Aujela on the morrow. I
should never have believed it possible for our indolent retinue to have
collected so much energy. As the evening star rose red above the horizon
the camels were loaded and at 5.30 we set off under a crescent moon in a
vivid starry sky. A caravan always marches better at night. The camels
cannot see to graze. It is cold and the men step out briskly, singing
continual wild songs and urging on their beasts by strange shouts and
yells. “Thou beautiful one, walk on!” “Let yourself out, for soon you
will have rest!” “Be patient, thou strong heart, do not stumble!” or
else a monotonous, repetitive chorus, “Shey latif! Shey latif!” (A
pleasant thing), “Ma salaam!” If one person fall silent for more than a
minute he is urged by name to let his voice be heard. So in ever-
increasing cold, to the accompaniment of chants and shouts, we marched
for three and a half hours, by which time She-ib considered it was safe
to camp, for we were within a day’s journey of Aujela.
A few sandy mounds broke the surface of the vast plain. In a white
starlight, clear and cold, with the rising south wind that is the bane
of the desert, we laid our flea-bags on the lee side of the largest
hillock and crept into them without undressing. We tried to put the
flaps over our heads, but the sand, as usual, covered everything and we
ate grit mingled with dates for breakfast. We meant to start before the
dawn, but the camels had strayed far in search of scarce grass. When
collected, they displayed a fiendish ingenuity in throwing their loads
and tangling themselves up in every possible strap. The wind was
bitterly cold and my barracan was in its most irritating mood when it
wrapped itself round everything but me! The Farrajes would not walk
because they were cold. The gibli blinded the camels and they swung
round in circles. Even Hassanein was not feeling energetic on six
tablets of malted milk. In the middle of the frozen muddle I suddenly
lost my temper, saying, “I will show you how to walk.” I dropped from my
camel and, throwing my barracan over my arm, set off with great strides
in a southern direction. The action may have stimulated the caravan into
movement, but it certainly undid nearly a week’s work. For twenty
minutes, as they followed my racing steps, Omar and Mighrib discussed
Christians and their ways. “These Feranji women walk well until they get
fat and they cannot move,” they said. Hassanein changed the conversation
two or three times, but it always came back to the difference between
the Nasrani and the Moslem.
Old She-ib had walked on and I found him waiting on the top of a slight
rise from where the beginning of the longed-for oasis showed a faint
blur of green surrounded by a mist of mirage. “There is Bir Msus,” he
said. “You will have eggs and bread and milk to-night.” “I think I want
a tailor even more,” I said ruefully, regarding my torn white trousers,
rent at ankle and knee. “These must be mended.” “I think new ones would
be better!” said She-ib diffidently. At 10 A.M. we saw the dark line of
Msus in the distance, but not till midday did we draw level with it,
trekking steadily south over a flat, sandy plain with no sign of wadi.
As there is only a well at Msus and no village, we left it to the east
and went straight on towards Aujela, which lies at the south-west end of
an S-like wadi, whose other extremity is represented by Msus. At 12.30
we breasted a slight swell, and below us lay the wide green wadi full of
coarse grey shrub with a mass of palms on the farther side.
“Hamdulillah!” exclaimed the devout Mohammed, and slipped off his camel
for the noon-day prayers.
CHAPTER V
TRIUMPHANT ARRIVAL AT JALO
We crossed the wadi at 12.30, our faces stinging and burning in the
cruel wind. The air was full of sand and the heat was excessive. The
body of the long winding oasis is composed merely of palm gardens, each
with its separate well or wells, known as Sawani, but the village of
Aujela lies in the farthest western curl. In Sawani there are only a few
broken-down buildings with crumbling walls, where perhaps a tattered
blue tobh shows for an instant beside huge feathery foliaged trees with
coarse-grained bark, something between a spruce and a mimosa, but, of
course, nameless.
For three hours we plodded south-west along the line of Sawani’s palms.
An ancient square tower appeared on a sandhill to our left—the morabit
of Sidi Saleh—but we left it behind us before the top of another long
swelling rise brought the longed-for Aujela into view. The sun was
blurred behind the flying sand, but we gazed eagerly at the mass of
palms broken only by the low white dunes which stretched south for
nearly a mile. At the farther end lay the clustered mud houses, all
heaped together under the shadow of the palms, with here and there a
square of small clay cupolas on the roof of a mosque. It was very
different from the isolated houses of Jedabia, widely scattered over a
white sandstone plain. Aujela gives a first impression of a ruined town,
because of its small roofless mud courts, its irregular doorways and
unfinished walls; but it is exceedingly picturesque seen against a red
setting sun.
We camped just before four in a hollow beyond the last fence made of
plaited palm leaves. We were so hungry that we could hardly wait to put
up our tent. Visions of milk and eggs and fresh crisp “hubz” danced
before our eyes. We sent the fat Yusuf to inquire. Meanwhile, Omar had
departed to his home in the town, to return a little later with a basket
of fine dates. It was a resplendent being who found us flat on our camp
beds, too tired to care any more about food. We had discovered a small
stick of chocolate in a knapsack. Hassanein wanted me to eat the whole
of it, but the desert teaches only two laws. The European code of morals
disappears altogether. One becomes a simple savage being who may commit
most crimes with impunity. In opposition, however, one gradually
realises that two or three actions, considered natural and justifiable
in London, are unforgivable sins in the Sahara. The laws all true
wanderers obey are these: “Thou shalt not eat nor drink more than thy
share,” “Thou shalt not lie about the places thou hast visited or the
distances thou hast traversed.”
Omar had changed his dirty, torn white chemise, with his ragged jerd,
for a blue, braided jubba and a new striped jerd. We thanked him
earnestly for the dates and listened indifferently to the stern fact
that absolutely nothing could be bought in Aujela. Doubtless, as we were
the Sayed’s guests, he said, the important people of the town would send
us gifts of food on the morrow, but for the moment, short of begging,
nothing could be done. It was beneath our dignity as important Egyptians
travelling on the Sayed’s business to explain the state of our
commissariat, so we made up our minds to a supper of milk tablets and
dates. At the last moment, however, one of our guardian angels, Musa
She-ib, appeared smiling, with his scarlet mandil full of fresh eggs!
Our joy was unspeakable. I don’t know how many we ate. I remember
kneeling in the sand for ages under a calm, starlit sky, half blinded by
the smoke of a brushwood fire, poaching those blessed eggs one by one.
“I like your particular sauce,” said Hassanein. “I shall miss the taste
of sand in Cairo!”
We managed to wash a little afterwards, the joy of which was diluted by
the fact that we were suffering from a violent rash all over us. We
politely called it heat, but I think it was dirt! Just as we had
finished our eggs, Mohammed came with excitement to tell us that the
sheikh of the zawia, Abdul Kasim, with the ekhwan and the important
people of the belad, were coming to visit us, as they had heard we had
letters from Sayed Rida. We had no clothes to wear. We could not even
offer them the usual sweet tea. She-ib came to the rescue, as usual, and
it was agreed that the meeting should take place in his tent. Hassanein
was hurriedly rigged up in my beautiful silk jerd, with an hereditary
brocaded white kufiya which he had brought from Egypt on his head, the
gorgeous one the generous Sayed had given me wound gracefully round his
neck. The meeting was most impressive. The dignified sheikhs sat round
the narrow tent on dyed camel’s-hair rugs, their rifles stacked against
the centre pole. With the utmost solemnity the letters of Sayed Idris
and Sayed Rida were read. With one voice the ekhwan murmured: “The
orders of the Sayed are upon our heads.”
Then details were discussed. The matter of distance was again very
difficult. “As far as a man may go on one girba,” is a favourite
expression. A “girba” is a dried goatskin used for carrying water. It
holds from four to seven gallons. The Beduins say a man may travel on a
small one for five or six days in winter and for three in summer. After
much argument we were told that it was actually thirteen days from Jalo
to Kufara by the direct caravan route which goes on to Wadai. There are
two wells, one at Buttafal, a day’s march from Jalo, and another at
Zieghen, seven days farther on. This well, which stands alone in the
desert, is wrongly marked as an oasis, Sirhen, on the map. There is
another so-called route from Jalo to Kufara, that chosen by Rohlfs. It
runs in a more westerly direction to the oasis of Taiserbo, erroneously
supposed to be one of the Kufara group. This oasis contains several
villages, the biggest being Kseba, Mabus, el Kasr and el Wadi, inhabited
by Zouias and Tebus, the latter being the original dwellers in Kufara,
from which they have been gradually driven by the conquering Senussi.
Beyond Taiserbo there are various savage tribal bands, who delight in
sacking caravans and murdering their escorts. They are sworn foes to the
merchant and Zieghen is, occasionally, a dangerous halting place,
because the Tebus sweep east from their Ribiana stronghold, or the
lawless Zouias from Buseima fall upon the caravan and have vanished into
the desert before the news has reached Kufara. From Taiserbo a six or
seven days’ route runs via Buseima to Kufara, but, besides the fear of
attack, it is dangerous owing to sand dunes.
It is also possible to go direct from Jalo to Buseima, a route unmarked
on our map. One passes through the “hatia” between Zieghen and Taiserbo,
in the bed of which there is water, and sees the dark strange mountain
two days before one reaches the oasis in its shadow. Buseima always
appealed to me fatally because of its lovely black mountain and its
lake! A lake in a Libyan desert! Surely that is sufficient to make up
for any number of robbers! I tried hard to persuade Abdullah to ignore
Taiserbo, apparently much akin to any other flat desert oasis, and go
straight to the country of dark mountains, but about this he was
adamant. He would not risk this dangerous route and so we each
_privately_ made up our minds to outwit the other. He would take me to
Taiserbo with the secret intention of then going to Zieghen and by the
main caravan route to Kufara. I agreed to the Taiserbo route, but with
the equally firm determination of continuing to our goal by way of
Buseima.
Two other possible ways to the sacred city were mentioned. One due south
from Jaghabub, and one west from Farafra in Egypt, but both necessitated
twelve or thirteen days without water. Nobody seemed to know much about
the latter, but the casualties on the former had been appalling. The
last Arab who attempted it had died on the way because his water went
bad. Sayed Ahmed, traversing it with an army, had been forced to leave
his luggage, stores and horses behind. Another party had lost their way
and, after half their number had died, the remainder arrived at Siwa by
mistake. “The guides lost their heads,” said Abdul Kasim. “One mistake
is sufficient and you must die!” We were very anxious to return by this
route, but they all dissuaded us. “Return to Jalo,” they said. “It is
only seven days from there to Jaghabub, but it is all without water. The
wells were closed in the War.”
We asked more definitely about the position of Kufara. Five days from
Zieghen and seven from Taiserbo, the oasis generally called Kebabo is
really Kufara. It is not one of a group. It lies entirely alone, and it
contains five villages.
All this was told by grey-bearded sheikhs by the light of two guttering
candles in She-ib’s humble tent. The atmosphere was very friendly. They
sympathised and wanted to help. “Only good can come out of your
journey,” they said. “You have the Sayed’s blessing. Therefore, your
coming is an honour to us. Stay with us a day and let us see you again.”
The air was full of warm enthusiasm and we felt we were among friends.
In the morning, of course, it had all changed. It is difficult in Europe
to understand the mentality of these children of nature. They are simple
and emotional. Such a little way below their impulsive kindness and
generosity lies the almost maniacal fanaticism of their tradition. We
were playing a difficult part and the threads were apt to get
complicated. We had to pretend to be poor for fear of attack by robber
bands, yet we had to be able to bribe when necessary. I had to be a
Moslem woman, yet I had to talk to ekhwan and sheikhs. We had to be
important Egyptians to be worth protecting, yet we had no clothes or
stores. We were travelling on a secret mission for the Sayed, yet we
wanted to go to places where there could be no chance of work. It was no
wonder that suspicion constantly followed us. Tales of a Christian woman
and her secretary came from Jedabia. It was possible that they would
cling to us all the way.
Apparently a morose Beduin had come to She-ib’s tent the previous night
and protested violently against the arrival of these strangers from
Egypt. “They are not of us,” he said. “We must put them through the
usual searching questions. Then we shall know who they are and what is
their business.” “They have letters from the Sayed. Is that not enough
for you?” said our friend. “They must learn that it is difficult to
travel in this country,” insisted the Beduin. “No strangers may come
here.” Apparently one of the important people of the town was of like
opinion, for next day the ekhwan were divided into two camps. One party
was for literally obeying the gracious letter of Sayed Rida and giving a
feast in our honour. The other, led by an unruly Arab, head of a section
of the Zouia tribe, who always made a habit of opposing the Sayed’s
wishes, wanted to ignore us. The result was a compromise. They showed us
no hospitality, but they met in the zawia in the afternoon and received
us with friendliness. They signed their names to a curious document
stating that, in accordance with the Sayed’s order, they had hospitably
received Hassanein Bey and the Sitt Khadija, and I think they were
ashamed as they did so, for one, Ahmed Effendi, who came from Jalo to
collect the Government taxes, said boldly, “I will sign that when I meet
you in my town in a few days.” We learned afterwards that he had made a
loyal speech in the morning, saying that they must all do honour to the
Sayed’s guests, and the formal reception in the zawia was probably due
to him.
There are between thirty and forty ekhwan in Aujela. The sheikh of the
zawia is Abdul Kasim. The zawia stands on a low rise in the centre of
the town. It is a square mud building with heavily barred windows,
looking more like a fortress than a college. Below are gardens of bisset
and onions with a few pumpkins. Barley is grown under the belad’s broken
walls, and in broad shallow depressions one sees rows of sand bricks
baking in the sun. In the morning we wandered through the town, followed
by a crowd of amazed children who had probably never seen a stranger
before. Women peeped at us from low doorways. They were muffled in folds
of long indigo tobhs which were delightful in the brilliant sunshine.
Occasionally one made a vivid splash of colour in orange or scarlet.
They wore gold ear-rings and all had tattoo marks on forehead and chin.
Most of the people of Aujela speak a dialect similar to that of the
Tuaregs and of some of the Siwa people, but it is not understood in
Jalo.
We went through the narrow winding paths bordered by high mud walls,
with here and there a palm drooping over a grey feathery bush, till we
came to the biggest mosque, with its square roof covered with clay
cupolas. Here we met some of the ekhwan, who greeted us kindly and took
us to the zawia to see the qubba of Abdullahi Sahabi, the supposed clerk
of Mohammed, who is buried there. By a narrow passage one passes into a
square sandy court, with a narrow roof running along three sides, under
which the ekhwan sit on mats. A door leads into a further smaller court,
and from there one passes through a carpeted antechamber into the
mosque. The tomb stands in the centre, covered with gaudy cotton stuff,
and the walls are hung with cheap mirrors and ostrich eggs, the latter
the gift of pilgrims from Wadai. We walked round the tomb, chanting the
Koran, after which we kissed it and solemnly repeated the “Fatha.” The
ekhwan spend whole days reading and studying the Koran round this tomb.
We asked them about Rohlfs’ caravan, but they knew nothing except that
Mannismann had been there before he started on his doomed journey west,
having already signed his death-warrant by writing that he did so at his
own risk. They told us the zawia had been founded by Mohammed el Mahdi
in 1872. Near by is the old Turkish Kasr, residence of the Ottoman
“kaimakaan,” now used as an office by the clerks of the Senussi
Government.
We had just finished a mighty lunch suddenly provided by the generous
Omar, masses of hot flat “hubz,” eggs and a chicken cooked in a bowl of
savoury juice and red pepper, and were trying to cool our smarting
mouths and watering eyes after burning “fil-fil,” when the great event
of many days happened simply and unexpectedly. We had searched the far
horizon for so many weary hours. We had magnified so many grazing herds
into our longed-for caravan that when Yusuf, standing on the rise above
us, said, “There is a caravan coming,” we took no notice. We had eaten
our first good meal for eleven days. Our souls were full of gratitude to
Omar and our only worry was how we could reward him for his generosity.
(In parenthesis it may be said that the only thing he coveted was some
imaginary scent he had smelled on me. We traced it eventually to some
Coti face powder which I was carefully treasuring against my arrival in
Cairo and he departed happily with a quarter of the box.) When, however,
Yusuf raced down the hill screaming, “Our caravan, Hamdulillah! Our
caravan at last!” lethargy departed and we all rushed up the rise with
more speed than dignity.
[Illustration: UNLOADING ON THE SECOND DAY FROM JEDABIA]
[Illustration: WADI FARIG: CAMELS AT THE WELL]
It was quite true. Twelve camels and a dozen men were within a hundred
yards of us. First came a stately figure in white burnus, Abdullah, a
famous guide, who knew all the Libyan routes, of whom the Beduins said,
“He has a great heart,” and next the neat, brisk little commandant, with
his thin, humorous face and quiet, dry manner, the ebony Abdul Rahim. He
was followed by a sergeant, Moraja, whose home was in Kufara, and six
men. Somewhere in the background lurked a cook, but we did not see him
that evening, for he was immediately sent to prepare a banquet for our
friends the She-ibs. After the first rush of joy, in which everyone
shook everyone else’s hand a score of times, and “Mabsut” and “Taiyib”
and “Hamdulillah!” filled the air, we watched the barraking of the
camels with blank amazement. Used to the indolence of the two Farrajes,
we could hardly believe our eyes when, literally in five minutes, under
the shrewd eyes of Abdul Rahim, the camels were freed, the luggage and
rifles stacked, and the men rapidly putting up the tents. We could only
rub our eyes and gasp, while my eyes wandered over the baggage in search
of the sacks which had been mysteriously taken from our Jedabia dwelling
at dead of night. I recognised them one by one and peace visited my
soul, even though, when I looked down, I saw the striped legs of my
pyjama trousers appearing beneath my red tobh, for the ill-used cotton
pantaloons had given way altogether the previous evening.
[Illustration: A HALT FOR THE NIGHT]
[Illustration: CAMP OF MOJABRA MERCHANTS AT BIR RASSAM]
We asked for news of Jedabia. “They say in the suq that you escaped in
an aeroplane sent by Allah,” said Abdullah gravely, but Abdul Rahim
smiled his wise little smile. “They asked me where I was going with my
big caravan,” he said, “and I told them I was travelling to punish some
Beduins who had not paid their taxes to the Sayed.” We learned through a
letter from our ebony confidant that it was the second messenger who had
discovered us by the Wadi Farig. The first had searched in vain and
returned without news. The ekhwan and the party who had opposed our
going were furious at our escape, which had been quite unsuspected. So
apparently were certain robber bands upon the road, for near Bir Rassam
the caravan, marching day and night to overtake us (it had done the 220
kilometres in four and a half days), were accosted by some armed Beduins
who asked where they were going, while two or three others who gathered
in the vicinity said, “Where is the rich Nasrani woman who is going to
travel south with large stores of food?” “I know nothing about her,”
said Abdul Rahim. “There is no woman with us, but if you want to fight
us we shall be delighted!” The disappointed Arabs retired hastily.
We did not go to bed without further evidence of the Sayed’s generosity.
A huge sack of dates was brought to my tent. “From Sayed Rida’s gardens.
We received a message to give them to you.”
There was much “fadhling” in the various tents that night, exchanging
congratulations and good wishes. The She-ibs and our Beduins were
feasting in one and the soldiers in a second. Several little fires
burned merrily. We went from one to another, making coffee from our
newly arrived stores in true Arab fashion, tasting it and pouring it
back into the pot if it were not sweet enough. Then we went up on to the
rise above the sleeping town, and talked about all that we had done,
which was so little in comparison with what remained to be done. Yet we
had won the first trick in the game and we felt we now had a fighting
chance of success! But even while peace enveloped us and the calm of the
desert might impregnate our souls, the first seed of a strife that was
very nearly to wreck all our plans was being sown in the camp below. The
blacks had got the idea firmly fixed in their heads that they were to
guard us. They posted a sentinel. Musa She-ib, returning late, was
challenged as he stood beside his bales. “I am the owner of the tent,”
he replied. “Then go inside or go away altogether!” came the order. Both
ruffled plumages had to be smoothed down in the morning. The soldier was
only doing his duty, but the She-ib’s caravan had rescued us from defeat
or starvation!
We started at 9.30 A.M. on December 19 for the six hours’ ride to Jalo
over a flat country of fine gravel, brownish-yellow, without a speck of
vegetation, but it was a divided party. The blacks, always lazy when
there was no necessity for a spurt, rode the camels, perching
precariously above sacks and bales. Yusuf was furious, chiefly because
he wanted to ride himself. “The camels will never reach Kufara if they
are ridden,” he said. “We shall all die on the way. There will be a
fight and we will kill these black slaves.” He went away to join
Mohammed, and the two kept away from the caravan the whole day.
Abdullah, the most famous tracker in Libya, who had recovered four of
She-ib’s camels which had strayed the previous night, following their
footprints among many thousands on the soft sand, led the caravan. I
kept the compass on him for an hour and he did not vary his direction by
one point. We made an absolutely straight line between the two oases. At
11.30 A.M. we saw a blot of palms on the horizon—Sharruf, the northern
end of the big oasis. Two hours later we entered the wide semicircle,
stretching south-south-east. The palms were thickly clustered at the
Sharruf end. A thinner belt swept round to another cluster at Manshia.
She-ib got off his camel and started walking briskly. Mighrib smiled.
“The feisha,” he said. “It is the feisha.” When a man goes on a journey
his wife sometimes places a hollow gourd or pot in a certain position on
the house-top so that it catches the wind. As long as it thrums with the
sound of the breeze her husband’s heart will throb for her and he will
return to her as quickly as possible.
At 2.30 we entered the thin belt in the middle. Here the palms were
dotted over thick white sand rolling up to low dunes. There was no sign
of a belad, though a thousand camel tracks went in the same direction. A
chill wind had risen, so I tried to go to sleep behind my shrouding
barracan. When I looked out an hour later the scattered palms had grown
rarer and we had swung round a broad dune, so that we faced another rise
on which stood a formidable row of walled buildings. The desert cities
of Libya each have their own special character.
There are two separate villages at Jalo—El Erg and Lebba. The former
looks like a fortress at first sight. Its long, solid mud houses with
their strong-walled courts line the brow of the rise. Behind are the
quaint curly streets, the mysterious low arches, the huddled dwellings
of sun-baked bricks; but as we drove our camels upwards we saw only the
bigger houses, with scattered groups of women and children wrapped in
black and indigo robes. To the left of the buildings stretched what
appeared to be a long, low, white wall, solid and even, which continued
indefinitely. Mohammed, seeing it, rushed forward excitedly. “It is a
royal reception in your honour,” he shouted. “En nahs tayibin hena. Ana
Mabsut! Oh, they are good people here! I am happy! They love the Sayed!
They wish to honour him and his guests!”
Bewildered, I looked again at the long, white wall. It was a solid mass
of white-clad Arabs. Line upon line of Beduins stretched in rigid order
from the corner of the last house along the whole length of the rise, at
the end of which the splendid wall of humanity dwindled away into groups
of women and children. Thrills of emotion warmed us all. It was so
spontaneously generous and kindly. I could have cried from sheer
gratitude and Mohammed’s dazzling smile was reflected on all our faces.
The camels were driven with shouts into more regular order. Abdul Rahim
ordered his men into line. Mighrib, wild with excitement, seized my
camel and almost dragged me off it. “Are you happy? Are you happy?” he
kept asking. Yusuf was dancing with delight. We tried to collect our
scattered wits and march up the rise in dignified fashion. The Sudanese
achieved it, led by their sergeant, but now that my foot was less
swollen both my great yellow shoes fell off at every second step, while
Hassanein’s jerd described odd, wind-blown antics on its own.
I shall never forget the mass of tall, grave figures in snowy jerd and
burnus, drawn up in military formation. The setting sun blazed red
behind them, and from below came the wild “Ullula-een!” of the women. We
came as strangers, as pilgrims to the land of the Senussi. We had no
claim on their hospitality. We had no right to enter the most closely
guarded country in the world. Beggar or prince, Beduin or sheikh, must
prove good reason ere he is made free of the south-bound tracks to the
sacred city. Our only passport was our love of the Arab race, our
sympathy with their customs and their Faith. We dared offer no other
plea. We asked but the right of the nomad to travel with his camels
wherever the desert called him. Sidi Idris, with a mystic’s vision,
responded to our desire. “The Beduins sense those who love them, and
they answer to the bond,” he said. “You will go unharmed.” We had
received a blessing and we might wander south by desert city and guarded
well to the mysterious, secret oasis. Little did we realise that we had
been marked as the honoured guests for whom no generosity was too great!
“The hospitality that you show them will be as if you had shown it to
us,” had written Sayed Rida and, by his will, we shared his lordship of
the desert.
As we approached the white ranks bowed with dignity, and a chorus of
grave “Aselamu aleikum, Marhaba, Marhaba!” “Bisilama” welcomed us, but
the lines never wavered. We shook hands with the kaimakaan, Hameida Bey
Zeitun, with the sheikh of the zawia, Sidi Mohammed es Senussi, and with
many ekhwan, following their example by afterwards kissing our hands and
touching our foreheads. We murmured gratitude unbounded for the honour
they did us. “All that we have is yours,” they said. “We belong to the
Sayed.” A house had already been prepared for us. The white mass parted
to let us through. Surrounded by the dignitaries of the town, amidst a
swelling murmur of welcome and blessing, we followed the hospitable
kaimakaan into the narrow sand streets.
It was a strange, muddled phantasy seen through a gap in the folds of
the barracan—dark-robed women peeping from low doorways, shouts of
flying children as the thonged whip of the commissaire swept them from
our path, thick sand, pale walls and the white crowd of kindly smiling
elders pressing round us. We stumbled through an arched door into a dark
anteroom, on by odd little yards and passages, into a small court. “This
house is all yours,” said the kaimakaan, “and the government is at your
service. Food will be brought you and all that you ask for we will
gladly give.”
The last scene remains in my mind. We stood in the doorway of the
largest room, a mud-walled chamber twelve feet square, with a central
pine trunk holding up the flat roof made of plaited leaves, the floor of
the desert’s own sand, thick and unmatted. The most reverend ekhwan
gathered in the court, and the Sayed’s letters were formally read.
“Good! Very good!” came a contented murmur, and then the kisses and the
formula, “The Sayed’s orders are on our heads,” as they touched turban
and jerd and ma-araka!
By this time it was 5 P.M. and dark, so we thought it was time for the
day’s second meal. The first had been eaten at 7 A.M. at Aujela.
Mohammed would not hear of it. “They will come back. They will bring
everything. We must make ready.” From somewhere he produced mats and a
carpet, his own I believe, which he spread on the sand. It is difficult
to arrange bulging sacks of tinned food and cereals artistically, but he
did his best, while I made a royal illumination by sticking a lighted
candle on the top of every sack. Just as we finished the ekhwan trooped
back, all bearing gifts—one brought dates, another bitter native butter,
a third great bowls of camel’s or goat’s milk. A white fluttering hen
was pressed into my hands, and a huge horned sheep dragged to our feet.
Bread enough for a regiment was piled in a plaited basket. Eggs and tea
and sugar followed. We stumbled over our thanks in sheer amazement at
their hospitality. “At least not the sheep,” I said frantically,
probably in English, as no notice was taken.
When the clamour had died away and the rejoicing Mohammed had piled our
rich gifts in every available corner, a small council of war gathered,
sitting cross-legged on the largest mat. I was offered the place of
honour, but I felt that refreshment was needed, so Farraj and I made a
tiny brush fire in a corner of the court and laboured to make strong
sweet coffee. Our baggage was wildly mixed, but the black rose to the
occasion. He produced a tin of coffee from somewhere and I broke one of
the great square slabs of sugar with a stone. We puffed and blew at the
wavering fire till our faces scorched and the water boiled. Mohammed
jumped excitedly round, upsetting things and offering impossible
suggestions, but the coffee, bought at my pet London grocer’s, was good,
and though there was a deficit of glasses, the guests appreciated it
warmly. As I brought in a second relay of cups on a tin plate they
formed a favourable impression of the Sitt Khadija and decided that
perhaps her mixture of blood was a pity but not a crime!
The grave Abdullah joined us, his keen, pointed face with small dark
beard, lean and weather-beaten, burnt almost black in contrast to his
thick white burnus. We talked of routes. The fat Yusuf naturally wanted
to go straight to Kufara by the Wadai caravan route and return the same
way. The kaimakaan and two sheikhs, Ibrahim Bishari and Mohammed
Maghruf, wished to uphold the honour of the Senussi. Therefore, they
assured us that all routes were safe. Abdullah was anxious not to go to
Buseima. He said, entirely incorrectly, that a band of Tuaregs dwelt in
Ribiana and their whole business in life consisted in robbing any chance
travellers between Buseima and Kufara. He said that caravans cannot
cross the steep dunes. The camels slip and cast their loads or break
their legs. “Our camels are not strong,” he urged, “and they are not
used to deep sand. While we are labouring in the dunes, the Tuaregs will
attack us and take the caravan.” “Is there no way of avoiding them?” I
asked, determined to see Buseima. “None. They will know where we are
passing, and they will lie in wait to surprise us. One man might escape
them, but how can a caravan pass unseen?” He told a gruesome story of a
caravan passing that way from Wadai a few weeks ago and of a successful
Tuareg attack which seized the camels and put to flight those of the
escort whom they did not kill. I could believe it, because in the French
Sahara I had known the masked Tuaregs, and their swift-trotting camels,
date-fed. They never remove the cloths which hide their mouths, but they
are the salt of the Beduin race—tireless, fearless and cruel!
Ibrahim Bishari proffered the fact that there was a route between
Taiserbo and Zieghen, one day’s journey or a day and a half at most, so
if, after reaching Taiserbo, we did not wish to face the dunes or the
Tuaregs, we could go to the lonely well on the caravan route, and thence
in five days to Kufara. Only Yusuf protested. “In Buseima are enemies of
the Arabs,” he said. “There is always danger there.” But I sternly
insisted. “The honour of the Sayed is in your hands. You must prove to
the Ferangi that his influence is strong enough to protect his people
anywhere.” This phrase spiked his guns for the moment. It was
enthusiastically received by the others. After deciding that we would
stay in Jalo for two or three days to procure girbas to carry sufficient
water for our large party, food for the men, information about the route
and generally to reorganise the caravan, and that we would then go to
Taiserbo, the party broke up with many “Aselamu akeikum’s” and “Rahmat
Allah!”
At last we could devote our whole attention to food! First, however, I
was taken by Moraja to see the sheep, which had already been
slaughtered, skinned, and cut up into bits. “Choose which piece you
want, and we will eat the rest,” said the sergeant. I picked out a leg
and departed hastily, but the blacks were amazed at my frugality. Two
rushed after me with strange-looking fragments, which I had never seen
on a dinner-table, and pressed them upon me. “They are very good,” they
said. “You will be happy.”
December 20 and 21 we passed in the little sand house with the maze of
odd courts and antechambers. After forty-eight hours within its
hospitable walls I still lost my way coming from the main door to my
room, so intricate were the twists and turns. It does not sound a very
lengthy affair to procure and issue food and girbas sufficient for
seventeen people for a fortnight or three weeks, when the Government’s
stores are at one’s disposal and the kaimakaan is as capable and
energetic as Hameida Bey Zeitun. Yet we worked about eighteen hours out
of each twenty-four. Flour rations for the caravan! Yes, the grain is in
the village, but it must be ground, and for this purpose a little must
be doled out to each house in Jalo, for no family possesses more than
one primitive handmill worked by two blue-robed women, who slowly turn
the great stones one above the other. Sixteen girbas for water! Yes, but
some of them leak, and there is no tar to repair them.
So it is with everything. The soldiers would not travel without a large
supply of “zeit” (oil) in which to cook their cereals. Mohammed wanted
to have a change of raiment made and was only comforted by hearing that
the prices were much cheaper in Kufara. The dark Abdullah would not move
an inch without being satisfied that the caravan carried sufficient
water. The full army allowance for washing, cooking and drinking is a
gallon per day per man. There were seventeen people in our party, so for
seven days we should have had to carry 133 gallons. The largest girbas
hold seven gallons, and a camel carries four of them. Therefore, five
loads would have had to be devoted to water only. This was impossible,
as we had also to carry dates for our animals at an allowance of one
sack per head per day, and we had only eight camels.
Every moment that was not devoted to the consideration of these
practical details or to settling the grievances of the men—Yusuf had
several new ones each day, and even Hassanein was aggrieved because the
solemn tailor did not finish his new white chemise and trousers in time—
we spent in the delightful practice of “fadhling.” It is not an easy
thing to gain information among the Senussi. The simplest question
generates suspicion. A remark about the price of cotton stuff or the
position of a well arouses the darkest forebodings. The sight of pencil
and note-book seals their lips. One needs infinite patience and
understanding before one can penetrate their reserve. They are a silent
race with rare bursts of loquaciousness. At an Arab gathering it is not
necessary to talk. After the oft-repeated “Keif halak” and “Taiyib,” the
men sit gravely silent, staring into space and sipping their strong
green tea. The desert breeds reserve. If a man travels alone for many
days or weeks without sight of a human being, without exchanging a word,
he learns to commune with himself and his god, and he shuts his heart
away in a sealed chamber.
The Senussi are particularly difficult of approach, as they are a
closely knitted religious fraternity imbued with a distrust of strangers
that almost amounts to hatred! Not only does the Nasrani not cross their
border, but practically no Arab outside their brotherhood travels by
their routes. Hence the advent of any stranger, even protected by the
“Sayeds,” gives birth to a storm of conjecture, criticism and suspicion.
When this is satisfied and allayed, their loyal friendliness appears,
and they welcome one literally as one of themselves. “All that we have
is yours,” is not a form of speech in Libya. It is true so long as the
friendly atmosphere exists, but one may have worked for hours or days to
create the right impression, and a chance word may destroy it. I think
utter simplicity and little speech are the best methods of approach.
Flowery words impress them, and they say, “Thy conversation is like
honey. Allow me to return that I may drink of it.” But to themselves
they murmur, “He is a juggler of words. Let us be careful lest he bemuse
us!”
They always suspect an ulterior motive and it is best, therefore, to
satisfy their love of mystery and let them gradually decipher a suitable
one. The basis of their life is their faith and, like every ascetic
sect, their strict practice isolates them from the rest of humanity.
Outside the distrust engendered by their lives, aloof and remote from
any code but their own, they are as simple as the shepherd patriarchs of
old. The mentality of Abraham exists to-day in Libya. Also they are as
easily impressed, offended or hurt as children. The poorer people show
the amused, expectant curiosity of children, with the same eagerness to
question and to learn. Once they have admitted one to their friendship,
the sheikhs ask intelligently about politics in the Middle East, and for
hours one may discuss the Ottoman Empire, the Hejaz and Egypt. Before,
however, one can even attempt to joke, much time must have been spent
“fadhling.”
One by one the important merchants and sheikhs came to visit us.
Gradually the circle seated upon our one carpet under the palm leaf roof
widened. Grave, bearded faces peered from the hoods of dark blue
burnuses, braided, lined with red. Sunburnt hands flicked away the
myriad flies with whisks of palm fronds. There was the plump kaimakaan,
with pallid, intelligent face and stubble of black beard round thick,
smiling lips, and Garboah Effendi, with humorous expression on a face
which might hail from Europe—firm lips, square jaw, pale skin, wide,
quizzical smile. I think stray Vandal blood must run in his veins. His
mother lived in Benghazi, and he was interested in the ways of Europe.
There was the white-faced sheikh el zawia, Mohammed es Senussi, with
dreamy eyes and dropping jaw, and dear, fat, old Sheikh Mohammed
Maghruf, with round, lineless face as brown as a nut, a succession of
circles from his little pursed mouth to his round brown eyes, and Sheikh
Ibrahim Bishari, the traveller, who had taken his laden caravan from
Wadai to Egypt, from Kufara to Lake Chad.
We discovered, after much sweet tea had been drunk with loud sucking
noises and our best coffee was perfuming the air, that Jalo is a
community of merchants. The date palms are a minor thing. The village
lives by its trade, for it is on the main caravan route between the
Sudan and the Cyrenaican ports. Sidi Mohammed, the Mahdi, founded this
great desert highway through Kufara. Before his day all caravans passed
by way of Tripoli and the Fezzan. We learned that ivory was bought at
Wadai for five or ten francs the pound and that when the expenses of the
long journey were deducted, the Beduins counted on making a profit of
fifty per cent. in Benghazi. Southbound caravans took needles, soap,
scent, sandal, cotton stuffs, sugar and tea. They returned with ivory,
feathers and smuggled slave boys and girls of eight to ten years. Some
of these latter were adorable—solemn little beings, with chubby black
faces peering out of the pointed hood of minute camel’s-hair burnuses.
They were sent by their masters to bring us gifts of eggs and milk and
they regarded us with aloof scorn till we propitiated them with handfuls
of dates.
The friendly circles discussed every Sahara route, marked or unmarked,
upon the maps. We learned the position of every well and the taste of
the water therein. We also learned that in winter a camel may actually
go fifteen days without water, if lightly loaded and carefully driven.
Therefore, Siwa, Jaghabub and Farafra are all possible outlets from
Kufara, though a single mistake or mishap means destruction. As the
hours lengthened and the coffee grew sweeter, we passed from business to
politics. The eyes of all were turned to Egypt’s struggle for freedom as
an earnest of the future of Libya. To my surprise, Britain was regarded
with respect and affection. The destruction of the Senussi zawias in
Egypt was put down to the result of Sayed Ahmed’s mistaken policy.
Apparently the whole country had realised Britain’s disinterestedness
with regard to Libya and, therefore, had entered but half-heartedly into
the projects of Mannismann and Nouri. Sayed Ahmed is regarded with
respect and reverence as a devout Moslem, but his politics are
regretted. Sayed Idris is looked upon as the saviour of his country. He
came forward at a moment when the Senussi saw a prospect of the whole
land slipping into European hands. By his tactful policy he preserved
the power of his people, who respect him for his friendship with Britain
and for his intelligent and amicable attitude towards Italy. They look
to him to preserve Libya for the Senussi, while realising that Italy
will always have a hold in Cyrenaica. It is too early yet for the new
constitution to be appreciated in Libya. The terms of the accord at
Regima have not yet been transmitted to the desert oases. Therefore,
there was still much doubt in the minds of our visitors as to the future
of their country.
When the broad-minded policy of Italy is fully known, there should be an
excellent understanding between the Senussi and their Latin allies. The
whole prosperity of the country will depend upon that good
understanding. Two men are responsible for its initiation. The Beduins
owe their present peace entirely to the straightforward, progressive
spirit of Sidi Idris. Italy owes hers to the Governor of Cyrenaica,
Senator de Martino, who appears to be the first European statesman of
this era to realise that in dealing with Arab races it pays to keep
one’s pledged word. “_C’est une mauvaise politique de promettre et de ne
pas tenir bon_,” His Excellency said to me while I was staying with him
at Benghazi. “_C’est l’erreur qu’a fait l’Angleterre. Ici on à confiance
en moi parcequ’on sait que je tiendrai ma parole!_”
When the candles were lit and mint leaves put in the tea our guests grew
confidential. They told us of their love of freedom and of their desire
for a quiet life without political intrigue. The war had done them much
harm, for it had raised prices and closed routes. The trade of the
country was almost at a standstill. The export of hides had stopped
altogether.
Bitter feeling had to a large extent died down, but it could be
rekindled by any act of aggression. The Arabs hoped at the moment that
Italy would come no farther inland, but I imagine that their merchants
will be anxious to avail themselves of the increased facilities for
trade which Italian protection will give to Cyrenaica. Sheikh Ibrahim
asked about the Hejaz kingdom. There is a famous Senussi zawia near
Mecca and the bonds between Libya and the Hejaz must always be close
because of the pilgrimage to the “Beit Ullah!” It is to the interests of
every devout Moslem, especially to these ascetic fanatics, that there
should be peace in the territory of King Hussein. All were interested in
the career of the Emir Faisul and they asked when he would return to
Damascus. To this embarrassing question we were obliged to give evasive
replies, but the point was pressed with more decision than usual. “Is
not England going to help him?” asked the kaimakaan indignantly. We
tried to explain the complicated policy of my country, but the oldest
sheikh shook his head impatiently. “Are not the English strong enough to
protect their allies?” he said. “We were sorry when Sayed Ahmed made war
upon England, because we thought she was strong and powerful. Has she
become weak now?” We changed the conversation lightly, but the little
sting rankled.
Once more it was brought home to us how British prestige among the Arabs
had dwindled during the last years. We have won the war, but we have
lost the peace! Maybe we have lost an even greater thing! As I listened
to the words of censure of our Beduin guests I remembered the last
speech I had heard on the subject. It came from the lips of a great
statesman at an Asiatic Society dinner in London and, delineating
Britain’s future policy in the Middle East, it left its hearers
bewildered by rhetoric but ignorant of fact!
CHAPTER VI
CHRISTMAS IN THE DESERT
The oasis of Jalo contains two villages a few hundred yards apart. El
Erg is the seat of the Government and contains the Kasr, or Government
Office, the kaimakaan’s house and a new zawia with some forty ekhwan.
The belad rambles by circuitous narrow lanes, bordered by windowless
walls, pierced by low doorways, over a rise and down the farther side to
the foot of a large dune, from the top of which one sees mile after mile
of scattered palms, with here and there a well, its mouth strengthened
by palm trunks. Generally a group of picturesque figures surrounds it
and gossips while the day’s water supply is drawn. An effective contrast
to the glaring white sands are the indigo and royal blue tobhs with
which the black slave-women mingle the orange and reds of their more
barbaric taste. At the door of every mosque one finds a group of swathed
white figures, sunk in contemplation or in sleep, yet mechanically
flicking away the ever-attentive flies.
I rode across the hollow to Lebba on a big white donkey lent by Homeida
Bey Zeitun. It is a twin village except that the streets are broader and
straighter, and the whole place is dominated by the square tower of
Sayed Hilal’s house. As I passed below its latticed windows a very
pretty face, framed in its sapphire veil, peeped out. It was olive-
skinned and round, with dark kohl blurred round darker eyes, long-lashed
and misty. The blue tattoo marks on chin and lips but served to throw up
the gleam of pearl-white teeth, and great silver ear-rings, red-studded,
swung against plait after plait of midnight hair.
Lebba possesses a very old zawia, founded by Sidi Mohammed ben Ali. I
went through its palm-filled yard to the court of the mosque, where I
was warmly greeted by Sheikh Omar, who told me he was happy to meet
anyone with English blood. He introduced me to all his teachers and his
most intelligent pupils, who wanted to show me there and then how well
they could write. “You are cleverer than I, for I cannot write Arabic,”
I said, and a murmur of surprise and scorn ran through the group. “She
cannot write and she is big, so big! I believe she is older than Fatima,
or Ayisha!” or any other female relative of advanced years! There are a
hundred and fifty boy students at the Lebba zawia and about eighty
ekhwan. The long, low mosque is very small, clean and white, with its
sand arches and palm walls—a few palm mats on the floor and a little
painted “mihrab,” fragile and bent. “It cost two hundred mejidies to
build,” said the sheikh proudly; and again, as I left, he spoke kind
words about my country, which were balm after the censure of the
previous evening.
On our last afternoon we had a council in the house of the kaimakaan. We
left our shoes outside his door and sat cross-legged round the walls of
a room, empty save for a packing-case which carried little-used writing
materials. “Now is everything ready to start to-morrow at dawn?” I asked
briskly. A most dubious “Inshallah” came from Yusuf. I have always
thought it rather hard that the Deity should be made responsible for the
whole doubt of the East! The question repeated, each produced a pet
difficulty. “The oil has not come,” said the portly sergeant, Moraja.
“Take two soldiers and get it,” ruthlessly replied Hassanein. The man
relapsed into prompt silence lest he should really be obliged to leave
before the arrival of delicious hot sweet milk flavoured with cinnamon.
Mohammed wanted to write letters for Jedabia. Abdullah pointed out that
some of the girbas were new and smeared with oil instead of tar, which
would melt in hot weather and make the water nauseous. Yusuf frankly
wanted to stay under a roof where he could eat and sleep all day. His
fat face had assumed an expression of habitual discontent, and through
much yawning his eyes had almost disappeared in two narrow slits. All
the retinue had donned their best clothes in Jalo. Abdullah retained his
snowy woollen jerd and burnus, with scarlet belt supporting his huge
old-fashioned wooden pistol inlaid with much silver, but Mohammed and
Yusuf wore short embroidered jackets of green and blue and striped silk
jerds crossed with gay agals worn like aiglets.
We alone could not change and I wondered how long I should have to
appear in the same unwashed red tobh and chequered barracan. There is no
good water at Jalo, so the washing is always sent a day’s journey to
Buttafal. This is the last well on the route to Kufara and Taiserbo.
Therefore, we decided to depart thither on the morrow and camp for a day
beside its sweet waters before starting on our stern journey south. When
they saw that we meant to insist, the retinue became almost brisk and to
my great surprise even the lazy Yusuf was up the next morning at 4
o’clock busy with preparations. Nothing ever arrives till the last
moment in the East, but one must always be prepared for it to come just
when one has made up one’s mind to do without it. Thus, when everything
was packed, the hard-boiled eggs and bread, ordered twenty-four hours
before, made their appearance and had to be dumped into the first
available sack.
It is no easy matter loading a caravan that has got to travel two
hundred and fifty miles with a seven days’ waterless stretch. I looked
at our eighteen camels with much anxiety. Some of them were small and
weak. One of them was a living picture of all that a camel should _not_
be. He might have been used successfully by the Khartoum Camel Corps as
an example to enthusiastic young officers of what _not_ to buy. His feet
were worn, his hump was soft, his elbows rubbed together as he walked,
his chest pad was insufficient, and he had sores under his shoulders.
Besides this, many of the nagas were in foal. However, it was no use
worrying in advance. Long ago I had realised that we should get to
Kufara only if Allah so willed, and the farther we moved into the desert
the more I felt impelled by some ulterior force. I was never surprised
when difficulties piled themselves up and then vanished without reason
at the last moment. I began to feel a fatalistic trust in the destiny
that had dragged me from hunting and hunt balls and sent me out into the
white Sahara to find the Holy place which had been a secret for so long.
The feeling of Kismet was so strong that it prevented my troubling
excessively over our weak camels, even though I felt that they were
dangerously overloaded. Our party had increased to nineteen by two black
slave girls in vivid barracans and little else, property of one of the
Sayeds, who wished them sent to Kufara.
In spite of the utmost exertions the caravan was not ready to start till
11.30, when, amidst a chorus of kindly wishes, regrets and blessings, we
plodded slowly out of the hospitable town into a raging north-westerly
wind. We meant to march on into the night and reach Buttafal about 10
P.M., but fate decided otherwise, for almost before the walls of Jalo
had disappeared the wind strengthened into the worst gibli I have ever
encountered. It was behind us, for we were heading south-east, yet the
camels staggered and swung round, huddling against each other for
shelter. I was nearly swept off the back of my blond beast. Every loose
mat and blanket flapped in wide circles and loads began to sway
dangerously. On all sides palms were bending and cracking in the sudden
gale, while great leaves were torn off and whirled whistling above our
heads. The air became a thick sheet of sand. Sun and direction were
blotted out. Screaming gusts stung our faces and blinded us. It was the
most extraordinary sight, for one minute camels and figures would be
blotted out in a whirling white fog; then a head or a wildly gyrating
blanket or a portion of a labouring camel would appear for an instant
through the shroud and vanish again in the smarting dusk. We stumbled
and choked and fell through the storm till even Abdullah saw it was
useless. In an instant’s lull a palm tree fence appeared to our left,
with a small boy crouching beside a garden plot of onions, radishes and
pumpkins. We turned our camels towards the low shelter and they sank
heavily to their knees beside a clump of the grey, nameless trees. The
boy gave our guide some radishes as he passed, and in spite of the agony
of flying sand the Beduin turned to me with a smile. “It is a blessed
journey,” he said. “Look at the green which has been given us!” It is
proof of how far one had wandered from the mentality of London and Paris
that his words gave me great comfort.
I gathered the thickest blanket round me and dug myself into the sand,
while a hail of dust and grit beat upon me. Through a narrow slit I saw
the blacks, with kufiyas tied across their mouths and noses, staggering
about with sacks and boxes. They appeared like phantasmic figures on a
lantern screen, to vanish in the next strong gust of wind. It was
impossible to put up a tent. The camels were barraked in a semicircle,
where they lay groaning but not attempting to move. The baggage was
piled to form zaribas, and in the lee of these we crouched for four or
five hours, blankets covering our faces, handkerchiefs wound over our
mouths. I thought the retinue would look upon the storm as a bad omen,
but Mohammed only smiled with dust-parched lips. “This will be a
successful journey. We shall have good luck,” he said, “for when the
Sayed travels there is nearly always a gibli thus!”
Once when I tried to change my cramped position I felt something soft
huddled against me. I peered out of my wrappings cautiously and found
the black face of Zeinab, the prettiest slave girl, almost on my
shoulder. She seized my hand and kissed it devoutly, while her
companion, Hauwa, drew closer. Their thin, gaudy barracans were no
protection against the madness of the sand, so I offered them a share in
my blanket and we made friends under the sheltering thickness. Zeinab
was young, about sixteen, and round-faced, with curved full lips and big
velvet eyes modestly downcast. Hauwa looked ancient with her wrinkled
skin and yellow, uneven teeth, but her years were only twenty-four. The
Sudanese marry, if the parents have money, when the girl is nine and the
boy thirteen. Therefore these ebony slaves may be grandmothers at the
age when an English girl is wondering whether she is old enough to wed!
My little companions were full of questions and comment, mixed with
praise of Sayed Rida. They wanted to give me the eggs they had brought
for themselves, and it is almost impossible to refuse a gift in the
East. It is accepted as a matter of course without expression of thanks.
It used to surprise me at first that if one gave a man a watch or
revolver he took it without comment, but gradually I realised that they
give and they receive with the same simplicity.
Zeinab wore huge silver ear-rings and bracelets and an embroidered
leather belt carrying a dozen gay little pouches for her toilet
necessities, while Hauwa had tied her barracan into a sort of hood, with
a strip of crimson leather bearing some “hejabs” (charms) in tiny
wallets. Both had broad sticks of scarlet coral stuck through holes in
their nostrils. When the storm abated, about 5.30 P.M., they emerged
from the blanket and busied themselves, briskly preparing the Beduin
evening meal.
By this time there were always two rival camps in neighbouring zaribas.
Behind one wall of heavy sacks the soldiers cooked their savoury flour.
Within another semicircle Mohammed and Yusuf, with the guide and a black
camel-boy, brewed strong sweet tea, while the two girls were provided
with a little camp beside the Arabs’ shelter. Mohammed was always kind
to them, providing them with some of his own flour and dates, together
with the occasional loan of a blanket, but otherwise nobody troubled
about them except when it was a question of cooking or washing clothes.
True, when the length of our stay permitted the pitching of tents, the
Beduins always contented themselves with the zariba, leaving to Zeinab
and Hauwa the use of their tent, but the girls accepted as a matter of
course that, after riding all day, they should cook and wash and clean
and generally see to the comfort of the Arab retinue.
We wanted to break camp after the evening meal, but though the sandstorm
had abated the wind was still cold. Abdullah pointed out that we should
walk all night and arrive too tired to work in the morning, which would
be waste of energy, as all the firewood for the journey had to be
collected in the vicinity of Buttafal. We therefore crawled into our
sleeping-bags under the shelter of the palm fence at 7 P.M., and were up
again while it was still dark. The same cold wind stimulated the blacks
to brisk action, and there was a great deal of running about and
singing, but the sun rose while the camels were still being loaded and
we did not start till seven.
We had camped on the very edge of the Jalo oasis. The last palms were
behind us, and in front lay the flattest country I had ever seen. To the
rim of the near horizon stretched an unbroken expanse of yellowish,
gravelly sand. We thought we had crossed flat, monotonous country
before, but on December 23 we rode across a drab-coloured billiard table
whereon was not a blade of grass, a bird, an insect or a mound. It was
as if we were at the end of the world and the round horizon the edge off
which we should presently fall! The only objects that marred the
extraordinary monotony were a few scattered skeletons of camels which
had died at the end of a long march from Kufara or Taiserbo.
Occasionally a bleached thighbone had been stuck upright in the sand to
mark the direction.
It was a cool, bright day with a north-west wind. Persistent neglect had
practically cured my foot, so I was able to walk for a couple of hours
with Abdul Rahim. He waxed enthusiastic over the extent of the Senussi
influence in Bornu, Senegal, the Sudan and Wadai, giving me a list of
the principal zawias. “Only in Wadai there is none,” he said, “for the
Sultan said to Sidi Ben Ali, ‘We will always be your friends and allies,
but if you build a zawia here the next thing you will do will be to come
and conquer us!’” The commandant was in a loquacious mood and
reminiscences flowed from his lips. It was he who had been sent by Sidi
Ahmed to kill Mukhtar, the Senussi officer in the pay of Turkey, who had
attacked Bomba in Egyptian territory without direct orders from his
master. He was at Jaghabub when Sidi Hilal quarrelled with his uncle
and, under sentence of death, fled to Tobruk in forty-eight hours. The
young Sayed had described the horrors of the 250 kilometres ride to me
at a dinner in his house at Jedabia when, amidst his rich carpets and
brilliant clothes, he could laugh at the memory of aching bones and
failing strength.
Abdul was conversant also with the doings of Ramadan Shetewi, the great
Arab leader who for many years held the Italians at bay in Tripolitania,
but who was killed a few months ago in a fight with the Orfella. It
appears that his alliance with Sayed Ahmed was but lukewarm, for on one
occasion, when he provided a bodyguard for a German mission which was
taking a large sum of money to the Sayed in Cyrenaica, his men had
orders to kill the unfortunate Teutons as soon as they were out of sight
of Misurata. Ramadan Shetewi took the official gold and the mission’s
private wealth was divided among the murderers.
At noon Yusuf pointed to the faintest rise in the distance. “Behind that
hill is Bir Buttafal,” he said, and with visions of another green spot
on our wonderful map, we hoped to see at dusk one palm and a few tufts
of brushwood. Not a single blade of grass marks the slight hollow. There
is not a stone nor a stick nor a tuft of green sage in all the wide
expanse of thick, soft sand. The day we arrived there was not even a
hole. Before we had time to ask where was the well, Abdullah and two of
the blacks apparently went mad. They flung themselves on their knees and
with rhythmic cries began burrowing rapidly, flinging the sand
vigorously over their shoulders. Only when they had sunk to their waists
and the heap around them began to grow dark and moist did we realise
that they were actually digging out the well, which had been entirely
filled in by the gibli of the previous day.
On Christmas Eve the whole party devoted themselves to washing their
clothes, with surreptitious drinks of the sweet Buttafal spring, the
first good water we had tasted since we left Jedabia. Zeinab and Hauwa
laboured patiently to reduce the retinue’s flowing garments to their
pristine whiteness. I had to disguise myself in a jerd while my own red
tobh was in the tin pan that served as a laundry. The blacks, stripped
to the waist, their top-knots bobbing above their shaven heads,
pommelled and pounded beside the well. By the afternoon the desert was
spotted with patches of white, whose snowiness rapidly disappeared
beneath stray drifting sand. However, there was a general feeling of
cleanliness in the air, and we were glad when Musa She-ib appeared from
the direction of Jalo, with three donkeys and a camel in search of the
waters of Buttafal which could be sold in Jalo, where the wells are
brackish and salt, for half a mejidie a girba. We are glad to have an
excuse for “fadhling,” so we pressed the kind old man to stay for a
midday meal and, sitting round the fire in the largest zariba, we made
green tea while Abdullah cut goat-hide thongs for a new pair of sandals,
Hassanein mended the watches of the party, all of which had stopped in
the sandstorm, and Mohammed made primitive rope out of the palm fibre.
That night we watched the camels being fed by moonlight. It struck me at
the time that it was a stupid plan to put all the dates in one large
heap, as the greediest camels devoured more than their share and the
slowest eaters got little. However, I daren’t argue with Abdullah about
what was obviously his own job. After the animals had eaten there was a
great argument as to whether they should be watered that night or the
following morning. Finally it was decided to let them drink at once and
it was amusing to see the way they rushed to the well. Only two at a
time could approach the shallow pan, which the Beduins kept filling and
refilling, shouting monotonously, “Come and drink—then you will be
strong! Come and drink—then you will be strong!” which changed when the
camels became violent into a chanted, “See how your drinking splashes
me! See how your drinking wets me!”
One realised the loneliness of the desert that night. The four tents and
the animated group at the well were infinitesimal specks on the
desolate, limitless waste, silvered by moonlight into an unbroken sea
without ripple or bourne. How easily even a mighty caravan might vanish
in the Libyan desert and no more trace be left of it than of a few ants
crushed under foot on a sandy court. I longed for even one lonely palm
to break the awful monotony. It was the aching solitude of Nature pitted
against the pathetic energy of man and Nature had no need to fight. She
could leave the struggle and the stress to the human midges who would
traverse her trackless silences, and when their pitiful vitality and
force were spent in battling with her winds and her droughts she could
bury them “noiselessly in her fathomless drifts beneath the white
serenity of her moons.” First the fuel failed. Then the food failed.
Then the last water dried.
“With the faith of little children we laid us down and died,
Follow on! Follow on! By the bones upon the wayside
Ye shall come into your own!”
On Christmas Day the camp was astir by 3 A.M. Everybody was prepared for
prodigies of endurance in the way of an immensely long march. Therefore,
when I plunged briskly out of my tent while the moonlight was still
clear, I could not understand why there were no chants or shouts, no
cheerful rushing about with the cumbersome bales. Arabs and blacks alike
were standing about in sorrowful groups. Mohammed, with a plaid rug
wound over the fleece-lined mackintosh, was cleaning a ruthless-looking
knife. Even the camels had the most depressed possible expression. One
of the nagas lay beside the fire with drooping head. It appeared that
she was the direct cause of the agitation, though most of the animals
were suffering severely from their unaccustomed date meal followed by a
heavy drink. The naga appeared to be _in extremis_. Foam frothed from
her mouth and nostrils, her neck was twisted into a stiff distorted
curve, her sides were labouring painfully. I could not have believed
that even the most acute indigestion could reduce an animal to such a
state after so few hours. “She is going to die,” said Yusuf. “Prepare
the knife!” “Wait! Wait!” exclaimed Abdullah. “I will try burning her
first!” Apparently there are but two remedies in the desert, bleeding
and firing. They had already tried the first without effect, as it was
too cold for the blood to run. They now pushed the unfortunate animal on
its side and laid a hot iron on its abdomen. It protested much less than
it usually did at being loaded, but the warmth presumably galvanised it
into action, for it managed to struggle to its feet and wander off with
the others, a sorry-looking, hunched-up group, one of which appeared
dead lame.
During a wasted morning the friction between the two hastily formed
zaribas became intense. The blacks, incensed at the abuse which had been
showered upon them for riding the camels between Aujela and Jalo, now
got their own back. They said that the Arabs knew nothing at all about a
caravan and could not even feed the animals properly. At noon the
miserable naga got much worse, and Mohammed, Abdullah and I spent the
whole afternoon sitting by her side, trying desperate remedies from
massage to soap! When we left at 5 P.M. she was obviously dying and we
prepared to face the problem of the seven days’ waterless journey with
one camel the fewer. We argued about what luggage we could best dispense
with until Yusuf calmly announced that, as we had waited an extra day at
Buttafal, there would not now be sufficient dates to last a week.
Mohammed said that we must announce the death of the Sayed’s camel to
the kaimakaan at Jalo, which meant an extra two days’ wait.
We held depressed councils, at which I insisted on an immediate start,
but apparently the camel shared the sacredness of its master, and even
its body could not be left at Buttafal. “Very well,” said I. “We will
send someone back with the news, but we must leave here at dawn. We will
give all our eating dates for the camels and that will make up for to-
day’s rations.”
Then the real difficulty appeared. The friction between blacks and
Beduins was so strong that both parties feared that it would eventually
come to a fight, and neither wished to decrease their number. When I
suggested a Sudanese going, Abdullah showed his hand. “Yes, yes, send
back four or five,” he said eagerly. “The journey will be easier without
them,” but Abdul Rahim refused point-blank to dispense with one of his
soldiers. “The night we thought we were going to be attacked, on the way
from Jedabia, Abdullah left us and slept with some kinsman near by,” he
remarked shrewdly. The whole party was sunken in the deepest gloom, we
because the camels were already overloaded, the retinue because each
side feared to endanger its power by the loss of a fighting man, when a
black form appeared on the faint rise beyond which we had left the dying
camel. “Mashallah!” exclaimed Mohammed. “It is the influence of Sidi
Idris! A miracle! A miracle!” And two minutes later the source of all
our woe walked calmly back into camp. Its reception must have surprised
it considerably, for everyone rushed out to meet it, firing revolvers
and rifles into the still, starlit air, after which the blacks performed
a wild fantasia to the music of a tin pan beaten by Abdullah’s sinewy
fingers. So ended the most unpleasant Christmas I have ever known!
CHAPTER VII
A FAULTY GUIDE ON A WATERLESS WAY
On December 26 we made our actual start south. The day’s delay in the
sandstorm and the further delay with the sick camel had lost us four
feeds. We had allowed half a sack of dates night and morning, so now we
had only five sacks for the seven days. However, we bought the soldiers’
ration for sugar, threw in most of our own, and thus brought it up to
nearly the requisite amount of “alaf.” As for girbas, the utmost the
camels could carry was eight large ones, containing five gallons each,
and eight smaller, containing four gallons each. We warned our party of
sixteen that they must use only an eighth portion of the water each day.
We then commended ourselves to Allah and started south at 8:30 A.M., for
the weighing and exact distribution of goods, to say nothing of the
quarrels between blacks and Arabs, had occupied a couple of hours.
There is no route to Taiserbo, as no one ever goes there. In the whole
of Jalo we came across only two people who had visited the oasis. One
said he had gone due south and arrived at the palm trees on the evening
of the sixth day. The second was our own sergeant, Moraja, who had
passed through Taiserbo on his way north nine years ago and he had done
the journey in six very long marches. Abdullah, our keen-eyed guide,
with his dark wolf’s face lighted by flashes of brilliant white teeth,
announced that if we headed straight for Taiserbo in a south-westerly
direction we might go too far west and lose ourselves altogether. He
therefore proposed to go south for the first five days, within sight of
the faint landmarks on the Kufara route, and then turn west. All day
long we rode across a burning, desolate waste, flatter than it is
possible to imagine or describe. One could see but a few miles on either
side. The whole of our world had become a flat, yellow disk, reflecting
the scorching sun-rays in quivering mirage. The only break in the
monotony was an occasional camel skeleton. Once a great brown hillock
appeared on the edge of the disk and we thought it might be brushwood or
even a caravan, till the distorting waves of mirage danced away and
revealed it but a few huddled bones to which some dry, brown matter
still clung. We ate a hard-boiled egg and a few dates for lunch, but
clung to our rule of drinking only morning and evening. As we plodded
onwards, for we had agreed that no one should ride the camels unless
they were ill or dead beat, Moraja assured me that our journey could not
possibly be lucky, for we had failed to fulfil a time-honoured Arab
custom and slaughter a sheep at Buttafal. It appears that when any
member of a caravan visits an oasis for the first time a feast is made
in his honour. As none of our retinue had seen all the oases we proposed
to visit, we gathered it would be an expensive journey!
To our surprise the blacks walked all day without grumbling, even
stopping occasionally to dance and sing. The camel who had nearly died
the previous day carried her load gaily. “She was ridden by Shaitan,”
said Mohammed gravely, “but the spirit of Sidi Idris has cured her.” At
5 P.M. Yusuf pointed out the Kalb el Metemma, which he said was on the
left, but I could see absolutely nothing which looked like a hillock.
We saw the sun die in the flaming splendour which is the glory of the
Sahara, we marched for an hour or two by cool starlight and then a great
orange moon swung up in the east and transformed the desert into a
strange silver sea. Across the infinite pale loneliness plodded our
little caravan and, as I looked at the white speck which led us, I
realised why there could be no atheist in the desert. Man must put his
trust in something more powerful and far-reaching than himself. In
Europe, if there be no God to help, at least there is science and the
telephone, an express train or an aeroplane. In Libya, where the Beduin
cannot call for succour by wireless, where there are no signposts to
guide, no surgeon or mechanic to improve his means of locomotion, no
food to be bought or picked, no anæsthetic but death, the lonely
traveller must pin his faith to some power beyond the calm-faced guide
in whose hand apparently lies the fate of his caravan.
When Abdullah met me on the hill beside the clustered palms of Aujela, I
looked at his strong, keen face, lined and shrewd, with steady, self-
reliant eyes, and I felt that I could trust him to lead us safely across
the waterless sands to an oasis whose size varied according to the
imagination of the speaker. When I looked across the moonlit, speckless
waste, with never a blade or stone to break the even surface of the
disk, the tiny, plodding figure, trailing the end of his white jerd in
the dust as his energy waned after eleven hours’ march without a halt, I
felt how frail a thing I relied on for my life and seventeen lives
besides. When we sit in comfortable arm-chairs under our electric lights
and talk of the “Beduin instinct,” we acknowledge the working of a
greater power than radium or steam! Europe may count on a hundred
sciences, but for Libya there can be but one faith, one hope, “Allahu
Akhbar!”
[Illustration: HASSANEIN BEY AND MOJABRAS DRINKING TEA]
[Illustration: FLOCKS WATERING AT BIR RASSAM]
We pitched camp at 7.30 P.M., and an hour later our little cluster of
tents was as silent as the calm sands around us.
[Illustration: SHE-IB’S CARAVAN ON THE MARCH BETWEEN WADI FARIG AND
AUJELA]
[Illustration: OUR CARAVAN APPROACHING AUJELA]
On December 27 we rose at 6 A.M. and got away by 8, for we had decided
that the best way of doing the necessary 50-odd kilometres a day was an
unbroken march of eleven or twelve hours, with a solid meal before
starting and another in the evening. As the last groaning camel rose to
his feet Yusuf pointed out a group of low hillocks to the east. “Those
are the Hameimat on the road to Zieghen,” he said.
Our plump ally was in a reflective mood that day. In spite of
considerable heat, he wore the woolly lined mackintosh closely buttoned
and belted, with a white cloth wound over his cheeks. “What is Allah’s
greatest gift to man?” he propounded to me suddenly. I felt this was a
test of my faith in Islam, so I promptly replied, “The Koran.” He looked
at me scornfully. “The camel! If there were no camels here, there would
be no dates, no food, nothing!” He paused and added solemnly, “If there
were no camels here, there would be no men!”
It is curious how the desert brings out character. Hassanein became so
vague that he never finished a sentence or an action. I developed a
fatalism wholly at variance with my usual ideas. Yusuf showed signs of
pride and dignity beneath his plump laziness. Abdullah became reserved
and impressive as the dunes that guard the holy oasis, but Mohammed
showed the finest qualities. All the Arabs were courageous with an
enduring quiet heroism that we were to appreciate so a few days later,
but Mohammed was infinitely kind and his pride was a fine, clean thing,
bred of silence and religion. He made a vow never to ride, and kept it
through infinite pain. He smiled when certain death was but a few hours
away. He forgave without words a carelessness that nearly cost him his
life. He laboured unceasingly to make everyone else comfortable, and the
only time I ever saw him lose his calm, aloof patience was when his
follower, Omar, had been slighted by the soldiers. As for the “blacks,”
they were a mixture of children and animal. When they suffered, they
were sulky. When praised, they were immensely pleased. Their ideas
germinated simply and slowly and were impossible to dispute. They were
alternately brave and cowardly, but had no endurance until faced with
hopeless danger, on which occasion they showed a rather splendid and
wholly unexpected patience and fidelity.
We nicknamed the opposing camps “the black bears” and the “shepherd
kings” after their first bad dispute, which took place on the second
day. Little Abdul Rahim simply had not the physique to walk thirty or
thirty-eight miles a day, so we were not surprised when he silently
climbed on to a camel, but when the fat Moraja and various others
followed his example I made violent protest. Unfortunately, Yusuf joined
in, calling the soldiers “Slaves!” This fired the fuse, and for a few
minutes a fight seemed imminent. The corporal seized his rifle and
Mohammed pulled out his big wooden pistol. By this time, however, I was
an adept at pouring oil on troubled waters and after plentifully
applying praise to both parties, the atmosphere became calmer.
Thereafter, however, there was open hostility between the two camps.
We camped at 7 near a group of camel skeletons, the bones of which our
own camels reflectively sucked. It was the only moment in the day that
Zeinab and Hauwa were in evidence, for they cooked the Arabs’ evening
meal over a few twigs of wood brought from the neighbourhood of
Buttafal. All through the long march two little shrouded figures, wholly
enveloped in coarse, heavy blankets, huddled motionless, silent on the
camels. They never looked out of the folds. They never spoke, even to
each other. I wondered if they ever thought of anything in particular,
yet one of them, by the strange chance of a night’s phantasy, might be
the mother of the future all-powerful Sheikh es Senussi. In Islam only
paternity counts. Be the mother slave or princess, the eldest son
inherits.
On December 28 we got away at 7.40, and had to march for eleven and a
half hours before we had done 46 kilometres. The first day the camels
had made a good average of over 4 kilometres an hour, for there was no
temptation to wander in order to graze, but the second day everyone was
tired and cross, and it was difficult to make the men drive them in a
straight line. The third day the blacks’ feet began to blister. My own
foot was swollen again. It is very difficult to walk for any length of
time in the huge heel-less slippers. Hassanein and Yusuf were both
limping, and Moraja could not keep on his legs, for all the veins were
inflamed. I was so tired I could hardly smile, but, luckily, the
unexpected distribution of a bag of dates encouraged the retinue a
little. The mirage distorted two tiny heaps of stones into a couple of
hills, and Yusuf playfully built the last camel skeleton into an
original shape with one leg lifted high. It was not till I had laughed
at its fantastic kick that I noticed the human skull that crowned it!
One had to divide one’s attention evenly between the two camps. If one
walked for an hour with Abdullah, and heard how our opponent’s agent in
Jedabia had tried to bribe him not to accompany the caravan and how the
said agent had subsequently received the beating he deserved, one had to
devote the same amount of time to conversation with Moraja on the
glories of the Sudan and the prowess of her soldiers. It was no easy
task keeping everyone cheerful during an eleven hours’ walk on no food
or water. In the evening, after we had eaten our half-ration of meat and
a handful of dates—for we were carrying the least possible amount of
food—a pathetic procession used to rob us of much-needed sleep. We
treated blistered and swollen feet, headache from the sun, toothache
from dates, sores, fever and lots of other ailments before we were
allowed the peace of our flea-bags—very comparative peace, for by this
time we were suffering seriously from sand-rash!
December 29 saw us en route at 6.40, and by 10 o’clock Abdullah stated
that we had arrived at the Wadi Farig. Personally, looking at it from
every angle, I could not see the slightest depression of any kind, but
everyone said it was half-way, so spirits rose high. Nevertheless, it
was a trying day, for by this time nearly everyone was lame. Mohammed
could hardly keep on his feet, but he doggedly refused to ride. The
blacks used to walk on half a mile in front of the camels, then lie on
their faces while their companions stamped on their backs, an original
form of massage.
Abdullah picked up a piece of ostrich eggshell dropped by a passing
caravan from Wadai. “Seventy years ago there was ostriches here,” he
informed us with doubtful accuracy. “What did they eat?” I asked. “Oh,
food, much food!” he answered vaguely.
There was a short shower in the evening which interfered with the
cooking but provided a little extra water. We were very anxious about
our supply, for the first day one of our fanatis had leaked and the
blacks had availed themselves of the excuse to empty it during the
night. We used to arrange the girbas outside our tent and dole out the
water ourselves. Several of the new girbas leaked badly and in spite of
the utmost care we thought everyone would be extremely thirsty by the
seventh day. We ourselves drank one cup of hot coffee in the morning and
two cups of cold tea or water at night. We camped that day at 6.10 P.M.
December 30 we started at 7 A.M. and camped at 6.35 P.M. It was a
terribly hot day and the camels were nearly as crocked as the men. One
had cut a foot, and another had a raw shoulder. Two had bad sore backs,
so their loads had to be divided among the others. In spite of this some
of the soldiers had to be allowed to ride, for their feet were badly
swollen. The country had changed slightly, for faint waves of sand had
marked the neighbourhood of the Wadi Farig, but the flatness of the disk
was now unimpaired, though its yellow monotony was broken by patches of
dark gravel. This gave the mirage a chance to build ebony hills and
islands amidst its blue, shifting waves.
December 31 we started at 6.30 A.M. and walked till 7 P.M., doing 46
kilometres, because the situation had suddenly become very serious. The
previous day Abdullah had surprised us by insisting on a slightly south-
easterly course, as he had not yet seen a small landmark on the Zieghen
route. When we had talked the matter over in Jalo he had assured us
calmly and strongly that he had been to Taiserbo and knew the route. We
had cross-questioned him severely, and always he had been confident of
being able to guide us to any of the southern oases, though he had urged
us not to go to Buseima on account of the danger of being attacked.
Now according to our map it was 350 kilometres from Buttafal to
Taiserbo. It was generally stated by the Arabs to be a seven days’
journey, which was a daily march of eleven to twelve hours at an average
of four and a fraction kilometres an hour. Therefore, in spite of
Abdullah’s change of direction, according to the mileage we had done, we
should have been well within the oases that night. We had confidently
expected it the previous evening, when we noticed a certain vagueness
about our guide. “Don’t talk to him, or he will lose his head,” said
Mohammed on the sixth day. It is looked upon as a definite disease, like
fever, this losing the head on the part of the guides. It was
extraordinary to see the change in the Beduin’s face that day. The whole
outline of his features seemed to have become blurred, while his eyes
were restless and troubled. He stooped as he walked and kept asking if
we thought he was going straight, so that by the end of that day we had
to direct him by the map, which we had every reason to believe
inaccurate. It must be remembered that while we always knew roughly
where we were, we never knew where Taiserbo was. We started half-rations
for the camels on the 31st and tried to cut down the water ration still
more, though since the girbas had begun to leak we had dispensed with
the half-cupful for washing.
New Year’s Day dawned gloomily. We had two half-feeds for the camels and
barely enough water for two days at less than a pint per day per person.
We were, however, a little cheered up when, as we were loading the
camels, Abdullah pointed out a faint blur to the east and said it was
Mazeel, some hillocks he had hoped to see the previous day. On clear
mornings, about an hour after dawn, when the desert is very flat, a
mirage of the country about a day’s journey distant appears on the
horizon. For a few minutes one sees a picture of what is some 50
kilometres farther on. The Arabs call it “the country turning upside
down.” On January 1, the seventh day of our march, we saw this mirage
for the first time—brushwood and hillocks quite clearly to the south,
yet our guide turned deliberately west of it. My camel was ill after his
unaccustomed date-feeding. Hassanein was in great pain from his
blistered feet. A permanent north wind, warring for a week with a
burning sun, had implanted rheumatism in my right shoulder. The firewood
had given out, and there had been a sharp quarrel between the blacks and
the Beduins on this account, each accusing the other of using more than
their share.
Abdullah kept on his south-westerly course for a few hours, and then
began to wander slightly. The blacks wanted to beat him. Even Mohammed
was impatient with him. We steered almost due south. Hassanein had to
ride all day and Mohammed’s eyes were bloodshot with the pain of his
feet, yet he struggled on. That night there were no fires in the camp,
and I fully expected Abdullah would be murdered. However, when I woke
before the dawn on January 2, I heard him laughing, so hoped he had
recovered his head. We dared not start till “the country had turned
upside down” and revealed to us what lay in front, so we occupied
ourselves in finding our exact position. According to our map we were
now within the borders of Taiserbo! This raised the problem of whether
it were one consecutive oasis or whether it were possible to go between
two groups of palms without seeing either!
At 8 A.M. the mirage showed us one sharp dune very much to the west. I
wanted to go straight there, hoping by sunset to be able to climb it and
have a good view of what lay beyond, but both Abdullah and Moraja
insisted that no such dune lay anywhere near Taiserbo. “If we go as much
west as that we go straight to Hell,” said the guide decisively. With
the ever-present danger of going beyond Taiserbo into the uninhabited
western desert it was impossible to argue. With only one day’s water and
no fodder we dared not risk everything so boldly, but I there and then
made up my mind that Taiserbo was smaller and much farther west than is
generally supposed. I believe if we had gone to that dune we might have
reached it. At that moment a thick, icy mist came down and blotted out
everything, so I decided to go south for five hours, in which case,
according to Jalo information and our map, we should have gone right
through Taiserbo and possibly be able to recognise some landmarks near
Buseima.
It was a terrible walk. Everyone knew that, humanly speaking, they were
going to die of thirst within a day or two. Nearly everyone had
blistered feet, and no one had had enough to eat, yet everyone laughed.
“It is evidently the will of Allah that we die,” said Farraj politely,
“but no one will die before Sidi Abdullah.” I doubt if the guide heard.
He trailed along with a blank, dispirited stare, first edging west, then
east. Mohammed was tottering on swollen feet. “I think that I would
rather die beside my luggage,” he said placidly. “Doubtless Abdullah and
Yusuf would like to wander about to the end, but I do not know this
country, Hamdulillah it will be quick!” Thereafter everyone spoke of
death, and I was amazed at the way they calmly accepted its advent. The
only thing that stimulated them was the demise of the guide. “By Allah,
Sidi Abdullah shall go first and show us the way!” said the toothless
one. “When I am certain of death I shall shoot him,” said Shakri firmly.
“But he called you a fool yesterday,” reminded Farraj. This worried
Shakri for a moment. Then he cheered up. “I will call him a fool first,
and then I will shoot him,” he said. Amidst this cheerful conversation
the mist suddenly lifted and revealed nothing but the same flat, pale
sand devoid of faintest shadow of grass or brushwood to give hope of an
oasis.
It is amazing how desperation affects one. That morning Hassanein could
not put his foot on the ground, but when he realised that his end was
imminent he walked for eight hours without feeling pain. Mohammed also
forgot his ills and I found myself wondering how soon I should awake
from this realistic nightmare. When our southern course produced nothing
but fanciful blue lakes and pools—for a burning sun now added to our
woes—we took council and, ignoring Abdullah, decided to march east-
south-east till water and camels gave out. There were several chances of
salvation on this new bearing, we thought, for we might hit the most
easterly end of Taiserbo if it were anywhere near its mapped position,
or we might find ourselves in the recognisable country south of Zieghen
or among the dunes near Buseima. We supposed these places to be too far
away to reach with the camels, but if we could get anywhere near we
could send a messenger for help and lie down to await his return. We
knew there was a little water in the tins of vegetables, and hoped that
if we kept very still this would keep us all alive for an extra day.
It was a terrible afternoon of mirage. I do not know whether weariness
had affected our eyes, but on every side we saw hills, dunes, brushwood,
and always they were the same dark patches of gravel. “It is a simple
route to Taiserbo,” had said the kaimakaan at Jalo, “but one mistake
means destruction!” Had we really made the one mistake? Curiously
enough, I felt no anger against Abdullah, even when he suddenly
acknowledged he had not been to Taiserbo for twenty years. In fact, an
odd fatalism had absorbed us all. The Beduins began discussing other
disasters on these terrible southern routes.
One man had died within fifteen yards of the water he had failed to find
in time. Another, whose water had gone bad on the Kufara route, had been
found dead beside his camels, one of which he had killed for its blood.
The blacks took an impersonal interest in these gruesome tales while
they walked on with stolid calm. I gave them our last bag of dates, but
warned them it would probably make them very thirsty. They replied with
extreme cheerfulness that they did not want to drink in the least. They
were really splendid that afternoon. They sang and laughed and cheered
each other on. Little Abdul Rahim stalked on ahead with a grim smile,
his rifle over his shoulder, his weakness forgotten. The only really
dispirited member of the party was Abdullah, who trailed along at the
heels of the caravan with downcast head. Once, when a low rise appeared
to the south, he walked briskly towards it in hopes of a further view,
but returned an hour later more gloomy than ever. The hot midday hours
dragged along intolerably slowly. I did not feel very thirsty myself,
but we had all drunk so little lately that our skins had become
extraordinarily dry and parched. Our lips and gums were cracked and
sore. The camels had had only a half-ration of dates the previous day
and nothing that morning, so they were ravenous. They tried to eat the
stuffing of the baggage saddles, and ran to every dark patch of stones
in search of grass.
At 3 P.M. some faint dunes appeared on the south-east horizon. We
expected Abdullah to recognise them, but his demoralisation must have
been complete, for he showed no interest in them. Yusuf and Moraja began
speculating as to whether they could be the “hatia” which ran between
Zieghen and Taiserbo. If so, there might be vegetation on the farther
side and the mystery of our position be solved. Nearly everyone ran on
ahead, and only Abdul Hafiz and Omar were left to drive the camels, who
were stumbling badly. It was their ninth day without water, but this
mattered less than the scarcity of food. For an exhausting hour everyone
struggled along at their best pace, limping, wavering, with parched
mouths and bloodshot eyes, before which danced the tantalising sheets of
water and cool, dark mirage hills. Suddenly Yusuf, who was on ahead,
flung himself on his face and embraced the earth, afterwards executing a
wild, bareheaded dance, during which he waved his long kufiya on the end
of his stick. We rushed to join him and found him lovingly stroking a
little mound covered with dry, brittle sticks. “It is brushwood-hattah,”
he said simply. “Inshallah! There is more beyond.” Two other mounds
appeared shortly with a little coarse, green shrub, over which the
camels fought and struggled till the last scrap had disappeared. By this
time sunset was near and we had to force our unsteady, aching limbs into
a run to reach those elusive dunes in time to catch the clear, far view
devoid of mirage that always comes at sunset. It was a pathetic race of
the halt and the lame in which Hassanein and I were out-distanced. We
saw the others clamber up the dune—we saw them stand gazing eastwards—
and then we saw them sink motionless in silent groups. I think at that
moment I felt our death warrant was sealed. I turned hopelessly to my
plucky companion. “It is no good. They would have danced if it had been
the ‘hatia.’” “Yes, they would have made a noise,” he said dully.
We crawled up to the top of the ridge, a series of wavy, curling dunes
running north-west to south-east, expecting to see the same level,
monotonous country that lay behind us. Instead, we were amazed to look
down over a few lower dunes to an entirely changed tract. On every side
were uneven mounds and hillocks covered with decayed scrub, leafless and
brown, but a few hundred yards in front was a cluster of huge green
bushes. We could not understand the apathy of the soldiers, who were
dejectedly rolling pebbles down the slope. “Surely there is water
there,” I exclaimed impatiently. “Wallahi! But that Abdullah does not
know!” said Farraj. “He says only that it is not the Zeighen country.”
As I ran down the dune the camels literally rushed past me to the patch
of green. But they did not eat. Apparently the great feathery bushes
were not fodder, and the only other things among the mounds were a
couple of skeletons to which the hooves and chest pads still clung.
“This place is El Atash—the thirst,” said Abdullah suddenly. “There is
an old well here, but its water will kill you! It is salt and bad.”
At the time we were obliged to rely on his statement, but since then I
have discovered that he was entirely mistaken. The water at El Atash is
brackish, but quite wholesome and the well can be dug out at any time.
It is only filled up with sand because travellers never come there
unless they have lost their way and are driven to the disused well by
thirst—El Atash! There was plenty of brushwood, so we built enormous
fires to cheer ourselves up, but we could cook nothing without water.
The blacks ate macaroni dry and the Arabs tried flour, though we offered
them our tinned meats. The soldiers had a cupful of water each, but the
Beduins had none, so we had to share our last hoarded bottle with them.
We dared not eat our meat ration because of the salt, so we sucked
malted milk tablets and eagerly drank the water from some tinned carrots
which were cool and damp. Then we tore up the baggage saddles to give
the straw stuffing to the camels, for we thought we could manage one
more day’s march by riding.
The morning of January 3 was misty. Ripples of white fog blurred the
landscape, while we silently loaded the camels, using blankets, tents,
anything soft as pads to support the panniered luggage. We ate a tin of
spinach because it was wet, but it was a hollow-eyed procession that
started due east along the “hatia” in the hope of hitting one of the
wells in the neighbourhood of Zieghen. Abdullah had held out many hopes
the night before, but now all he would say was “Inshallah!” We left El
Atash at 7.30 and toiled laboriously round the small mounds which looked
so oddly like graves. Three green ones gave the camels a little respite,
but there was no sign of the “gherds” (dunes) that generally mark the
presence of water. The whole retinue spread out in a straggling line
across the horizon, marching east, and every faint rise was passionately
scanned and discussed. At last Mohammed said, “If you cut my throat now
you will not find one drop of blood,” referring to the Arab idea that
when a man is in fear of death all the blood in his body rushes to his
head. “It is time that Sidi Abdullah dies,” said Farraj firmly, his
finger on the trigger, and then, of course, the unexpected, the
impossible, happened, and a faint dark blur appeared on the horizon.
I have no recollection at all of the next two hours. Whether I walked or
rode or ran I do not know. What happened to the others I have no idea.
My whole being was concentrated on those green mounds, which continually
vanished and reappeared until at last they consolidated at 2.30 P.M.
into a few clustered palms and some “gherds” covered with stubble. I
remember tottering down a hollow and seeing some nude black figures
madly scooping up sand, and then a silent little group crouched
pitifully on the edge of the freshly dug pit that meant life or death.
The water came very slowly, for they had chosen a bad place in their
hurry, but it came. Oozing through damp sand, the first muddy pool
brought all the primitive emotions to our hearts—joy, relief, gratitude,
too deep for words! An hour or two later life had become normal again
and the deepening water brought us only the idea of a hearty meal and a
bath in the biggest receptacle in the canteen.
I wonder how many readers will understand the tale of those three days,
because being lost in Europe means merely an appeal to a map or a
passer-by, but in Libya there is often no well for several hundred
miles, and, perchance, two caravans a year or none at all! A few, just a
very few, will comprehend: quiet men with tired, keen eyes—an Italian
after whom a Tripolitanian “gebel” is named, half a dozen Frenchmen
scattered over the great white desert south of Insalah, any Australian
who has been bushed without water and certainly one or two Englishmen in
strange, sunburned corners of our ruthless Empire!
We camped near the largest clump of palms within sight of the blessed
well, and all afternoon I lay on my camp bed with my “zemzimaya” beside
me, drinking every few minutes and when I could not drink any more I
would shake it now and then to hear the delicious clutter of the water
inside. In spite of all this joy we were not really out of the wood yet,
for the “hatia” contained practically no forage. The camels were all
feeble after their long journey and the fast at the end of it. They had
to be driven here and there, from small bush to smaller tuft. It was a
laborious business for our tired men and I had to leave my water-bottle
once or twice to see how matters were progressing. Abdullah and Abdul
Hafiz were very anxious that night, for the camels would not drink
properly, so we tore up some straw mats, soaked them, and gave them to
the beasts. I wanted to try them with rice, but Abdul Hafiz said they
would die if they ate it.
Our guide had recovered some of his calm when he realised that we were
camping at El Atash in the Zieghen district, at least a day and a half
to two days’ journey east of the elusive Taiserbo. I was delighted when
I understood this, for fate was obviously giving me a chance of
accomplishing my old desire for travelling to Buseima by the uncharted
route which had tempted me at Jalo.
I explained this to the retinue, and was met with blank dismay. They
wanted to go to Zieghen and then safely by the caravan route to Kufara.
They assured me that Buseima was most dangerous, that a particularly
savage portion of the Zouia tribe dwelt there and attacked every strange
caravan at sight. I gathered that while Kufara is a large and imposing
group of oases round the belad of the holy qubba, a big desert market
and the centre of the whole Sahara trade, besides being the headquarters
of the Senussi Government and the sacred headquarters of its religion,
Buseima, although very sparsely inhabited, is also to a minor extent a
“business centre,” for caravans from Wadai and Jalo visit it. There is
no zawia there and no Government official. The Zouias fiercely assert
their independence and refuse to admit the complete authority of the
Sayeds in order to avoid paying taxes in money, although they pay great
respect to the Senussi family and to their wishes. They have never seen
a soldier within their boundaries, and on no account allow a stranger of
any race or sect to enter their country.
“If they do not kill us in the oasis,” said Yusuf dolefully, “they will
lie in wait for us outside among the dunes and murder us on our way to
Kufara.” I said that I thought we could massacre a few Zouias first, but
even Mohammed was frightened. “It is a bad country,” he remarked. “Why
did not Allah allow us to reach Taiserbo in safety? There is a zawia
there and I have heard of the sheikh, Sidi Mohammed. His brother was
with me at the Jaghabub zawia.”
I asked about the tribes in Taiserbo and was told that it was the second
largest oasis, but unimportant and sparsely inhabited, that many of the
date-trees belonged to the people in Buseima, that there were a few
Tebus and some Zouias, of whom the larger part were Senussi. “There are
different parties there,” said Moraja, “but they are all good people—
nahs taibeen. Beyond Taiserbo is a country of fighting. No stranger may
go there. There is much danger. If we escape the Buseima people we shall
fall into the hands of the Tebus of Ribiana or of wandering Tuareg
bands.”
In spite of these gloomy prognostications I pointed out that the camels
certainly could not go five days to Kufara without food and that I had
no intention whatsoever of trusting Abdullah’s ideas as to the location
of Taiserbo. Instead, I made the guide and Moraja each draw his idea of
the famous gebel at Buseima. They both outlined in the sand a long, low,
square-topped ridge. “Very well,” said I firmly. “At sunset we will
climb to the top of the largest gherd here and see if we cannot locate
that mountain!” Having once and for all put our decorative but useless
map out of our heads, we were able to reason out that Taiserbo lay to
the west, ran north-east and south-west and could not be more than 25 to
40 kilometres in length, while I pinned my faith to due south for
Buseima.
[Illustration: THE MOSQUE AT AUJELA, WHERE IS BURIED THE CLERK OF THE
PROPHET MOHAMMED]
[Illustration: DESERT WELL AT JALO]
The desert had nearly killed us in her most ruthless mood, but when we
mounted the sandy gherd and saw the red splendour fade into cold mauve
and grey of the sand, while the evening star blazed as if it were a drop
of liquid flame in a sapphire cup, we forgave her, especially as due
south, just exactly where “instinct” had suggested to us, a faint black
ridge rose, low and square, over the horizon. I took some bearings for
fear of mirage and ordered an early start next morning in spite of wild
protestations and appeals.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR WITH THE TWO SLAVES—ZEINAB AND HAUWA]
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT BUTTAFAL]
As a matter of fact, everyone was so tired that we did not get off till
7.30. The camels groaned plaintively and continuously, refusing to rise
from their knees. I had insisted on filling girbas enough for a four
days’ march, though Abdullah said it was only two, and with no saddles
it was difficult to balance the packs on rolled blankets and canvas. All
that day was a weary succession of changing loads. When one camel sank
wearily down and refused to move, we dragged off his load and placed it
on another. No one rode, however blistered were his feet. Some of the
blacks had raw toe joints, but we dared not risk the camels further.
After about three hours we left the little mounds and sparse sticks of
the “hatia” and the unbroken sands lay in great flat waves before us. We
stopped at the last moment to pick the brittle wood for our evenings
fires, and then marched on steadily till 6 P.M.
The “gara” of Buseima appeared suddenly at 12.30. It looked like a
solid, black ridge on the horizon, but we knew it was more than a day’s
journey away. The camels wandered and lagged and stumbled. I doubt if we
did more than 2 miles an hour. In the afternoon the sand waves developed
into hard dunes, low and round-backed. We could no longer make straight
for the black mark in the distance, but had to swerve eastward to avoid
the higher dunes. About four I thought the camels could not go another
step. Several of them lay down at the same time, but somehow we got them
to their feet again, chiefly by dint of song! The reiterated refrains of
the Sudanese had a great effect on the weary beasts, but never had the
barraking cry “Adaryayan!” “We have arrived at the house, oh sick ones!”
sounded more welcome. It was the cool, pale hour that precedes night
when we encamped in a great hollow among white dunes. The stars were
triumphing over the last glowing rays of the sunset and the mysterious
mountain that had fired my imagination for so long lay, violet-hued and
sombre, to the south.
Next morning, January 5, we again started at 7.30 and plunged
immediately into a maze of dunes, great, curved, hard-backed ones, with
a few soft patches in the hollows into which the camels sank,
protesting. They walked rather better than the previous day in spite of
a continual series of ascents and descents. Perhaps it was the sight of
the strange, sinister ridge in front, coal-black against the surrounding
white sand. Perhaps it was the very cold south wind which blistered our
faces as we moved into it. At any rate, at 12.30 we arrived at the
mysterious gebel which had first appeared as a solid, even ridge with a
flat top, had then added to itself a sort of squarish, sugar-loaf hill
at each end and now turned out not to be a ridge at all but a chain of
cliffs, some square, some roundish, but all of sombre dull black stone
with faint reddish patches. To my eyes, uninitiated into the by-ways of
geology, it looked like a vast volcanic eruption, for passing east of
the main body of the hills, we entered a veritable inferno of
desolation. Right in the middle of the white, curly sand dunes lay a
tract of about 8 kilometres of scattered black stones. Their brittle
sheets of ebony matter stood up in lines—it looked as if all the old
slates in the world had been flung in careless piles in this dreary
region. Experts later informed me that the black stone was Nubian
sandstone impregnated with iron and manganese, nothing volcanic at all.
The other stones were sandstones of lighter colour, fossilised wood, and
flints.
For two hours we stumbled and clattered over this blistered, black
waste, picking up specimens of as many kinds of stone as possible and
then, as we clambered up a rough bank between two of the sombre sheer-
cut hills, the long line of Buseima palms spread before us with the thin
silver strip of lake—real water, no mirage—that had seemed to be but a
fable of Jedabia imagination! Till we reached the stony track by the
gara we had marched in very businesslike formation—three soldiers ahead,
the camels in the middle, and scouts flung out on the highest dunes,
while everyone had rifle or revolver ready. Abdullah, himself a Zouia,
had mocked the blacks with “Look out, you soldiers, for now you are
coming to the land where men fight!” and therefore every slave was
athirst for battle and revenge!
CHAPTER VIII
THE LAKE IN THE DESERT
When we drew level with the hills Abdullah decided to go on ahead and
explain our harmless design and see if it would be possible for us to
camp in the oasis. I was amused to see that even he would not go into
the belad without his rifle, while the rest of the retinue implored me
to take only food for the camels and then go on to Kufara, but I was not
going to be cheated of my lake and my mountain, the first I had seen in
Libya! I drove them protesting down the stony slope to where the
desolation ended in a little sandy wadi full of huge palm clusters and
coarse brown vegetation, half grass, half moss. While Abdullah tested
the feelings of the two villages, one at either end of the long strip of
palms that border the lake, we set up our tents in the usual camping-
ground and I turned the opening of mine to face the mountain, now purple
and ruddy in the afternoon sun.
The soldiers, still overwhelmed with visions of a night attack, urged us
to avoid the green clumps, to whose welcome shade we clung, and pitch
our tent in the open on the edge of the stony waste, but we refused, and
soon Abdullah returned with news that the brother of the sheikh el zawia
at Taiserbo lived in Buseima and was coming to see us. Our guide brought
with him a pale-faced sister with great velvet eyes, and heavy silver
necklace mixed with many leathern amulets. She gave us a kid-skin full
of very good large dates, for her husband owned palms and gardens in
Buseima, and the retinue began to cheer up.
We were just preparing coffee and rejoicing in our first really clean
date—for up to then all we had eaten had been plentifully flavoured with
sand—when Sidi Mohammed el Madeni, the brother of the Taiserbo sheikh,
with Sidi Omar and Sidi Bu Regea, arrived, prepared to welcome us most
hospitably in the name of the Sayed. It appeared that the brother of the
former was in Kufara at the moment, so we should have missed him had we
arrived in Taiserbo. Abdullah made tea and I made coffee, and we all sat
round a little zariba with our backs to the sun and our feet to the
startling cliffs. “Fadhling” had begun again, and this time we learned
many things, all because when we asked if the water were good, Sidi
Mohammed said, “In the Nasrani well it is very sweet!” “Nasrani? Did a
Christian make it?” “Yes; many years ago a Christian came here, flying
from Kufara, where he had lost all his belongings, and he dug that
well.” At last we had found Rohlfs’ traces! In great excitement we
followed the lead the sheikhs had unwittingly given. After an hour’s
conversation we discovered that a man called Korayim Bu Abd Rabu had
protected Rohlfs in Kufara and saved his life by escaping with him to
Benghazi, and that his son, Hamid Bu Korayim, was then in Kufara. They
recognised the name of Bukr Bu Guettin as the man who wished to murder
Rohlfs and said that his son, Mansur, was now living in Jedabia. They
knew nothing of the German’s southern journey, but with regard to his
statement that he had gone from Jalo to Taiserbo in four and a half
days, they said it was quite possible, as in olden times the Zouias
always used to ride the waterless stretch without stopping and eat their
meals on their camels. Sidi el Mahdi and the Senussi family had started
the fashion of travelling more slowly and camping by the way.
The curious thing was they all said that when Rohlfs escaped from Kufara
and passed through Buseima in his flight, he was alone with Korayim,
whereas he speaks of having three Germans with him. The name by which
they recognised the Teuton explorer was Mustapha Bey. Oddly enough, Sidi
Omar and Bu Regea proved to be nephews of Haballah el Abed, mentioned by
Rohlfs as the head of the Ait Anira, part of the Zouia tribe at Kufara,
and a descendant of the last Tebu sultan, while Abdullah turned out to
be a near relation of the same chief.
We tried to discover where in the Kufara oasis the fight had taken
place. “There was no fight,” they said. “The man was a Nasrani. He came
without the permission of Sidi el Mahdi, who was then at Jaghabub. He
deserved to die. His caravan was eaten up by Bu Guettin and the Zouias
and he did not go to the belads at all.” “Where did he camp, then?” I
asked. “We do not know,” they said. “We were young then. Senussi
influence had only just started. There were but four ekhwan in Kufara,
but the Nasrani did not go into the country.” It was impossible to pin
them down to details, but they evidently believed that the gallant
Teuton had camped on the outskirts of Kufara and been obliged to retire
after the loss of his caravan. To our amusement neither Abdullah nor our
two visitors were proud of their connexion with the Tebu sultan. “It was
before Islam,” they said. “The Tebawiya were infidels—Kufara!”
We asked if there were any of these savages left in Buseima and were
told that the Tebus were rapidly dying out and while some had been
converted to Islam and continued living in Kufara and Taiserbo, the
remainder had ensconced themselves in Ribiana. Our informant added that
when the Zouias made their voluntary submission to Sidi Ben Ali es
Senussi the Tebus were already their servants or slaves, for they had
been originally conquered by the Fawai tribe, who had been forced to
give way to the Ghawazi, who in their turn had fallen before the prowess
of the fighting Zouias. This tribe originally came from the Fezzan,
where some of the stock still exist in the Aulad Bu Hassan.
We went to bed that night feeling really triumphant, for the shadows
that for so long had veiled the strange Libyan oasis were being
gradually rolled away. At the same time we realised how difficult it is
to dig out even recent history from the cautious Arab brain. We were
anxious to open a Tebu tomb, but in order to do so we had to talk for
nearly an hour about Egyptian mummies, so that we could ask if perchance
the infidels who used to live in Buseima had buried their dead in the
same way. I must acknowledge that Sidi Mohammed el Madeni was the most
intelligent and broad-minded Arab whom I have met. From him we learnt
much of the history of the spread of the Senussi influence through the
Sahara, and he offered to show us all over the oasis on the following
day.
We woke late on January 6 and found both our watches had stopped, but
the sun was strong, so we imagined it must be about 8, and hurried
through a breakfast of coffee, dates and unleavened bread in order to
begin our voyage of exploration. Our start, however, was delayed by a
furious quarrel between the blacks and the Beduins as to whose duty it
was to re-make the baggage saddles and fetch water for the camp. For
once I discarded soothing words and rated them all so soundly that in a
few moments the toothless Farraj was creeping off in one direction with
a girba and Shakri positively running to the wadi in search of “leaf.”
Earlier in the morning there had been another squabble as to who should
go to the village for the festal sheep. We now learned that the Sudanese
dared not approach the village singly. They had spent most of the night
on sentry duty of the most primitive kind. They had made a fire and sat
well within its light, so that no lurking marauder would have had the
slightest difficulty in shooting them at all. They also talked at the
top of their voices, which disturbed our sleep and naturally after such
unusual energy they were feeling cross and tired. The arrival of the
black and white sheep, led by the undismayed Omar, cheered them up
somewhat, and we left them already making plans for its division.
It is generally impossible to buy food in the desert oases. There are no
regular customers and no suq. Each family produces enough for its own
consumption only. Thus neither bread, eggs nor milk were forthcoming,
though we were reported rich. Dates are always an exception to the rule.
A mejidie buys a great sackful and though Buseima and Ribiana do not pay
taxes in money, they feed the Sayed’s camels free when they happen to
pass through. They also pay a percentage of sacks of dates yearly to the
Government. An official comes from Kufara to collect them. Faqrun
offered us some of those that were stored ready for removal. “You are
the Sayed’s guests. You have a right to them,” he said. Though there was
no fodder or grass for our beasts, there were plentiful date rations. We
had bargained endlessly over the sheep with a strong-minded female in
the attractive Buseima dress—white tobh with scarlet girdle, a black
cloth wound closely round the face like a nun’s coif and the barracan of
rose and saffron just doubled and flung over her head like a great
shawl. Finally, we bought it for fourteen mejidies, and a small boy
suddenly appeared with ten eggs, for which he asked a mejidle
(fivepence) each! Abdullah contributed the most bitter goat’s milk I
have ever tasted, mixed with fresh laghbi—the juice of the palm, which
ferments after twenty-four hours and makes a very potent liquor. The
stern Senussi law decrees that anyone getting drunk on laghbi shall be
flogged and fined.
After all disputes were settled we mounted the two least weary camels
and started picking our way across the waste of salt that lay between
our camp at one end of the semicircular strip of palms and the village
at the other. It was difficult going, because the salt was caked in hard
and uneven formation, but it was a wonderful morning, vividly clear and
cool in spite of a brilliant sun. To the east of us lay the chain of
cliffs, no longer black, but purplish red, against the pale dunes
beyond. To the west was an iridescent blue lake about eight kilometres
long, very salt, so that no fish can live in it, but exquisitely
translucent. Beyond it was the border of massed palms and the faintly
coral sands, for the reddish dust from the gebel tints the neighbouring
country.
Half-way across the salt waste we were met by Sidi Mohammed, and before
we left it the whole male population of Buseima had joined us. Our
amusement may be imagined when we discovered that it numbered about a
score! Including men, women and children, I don’t believe that there
were more than fifty human beings in the danger spot that all our fully
armed retinue were mortally afraid to approach! Thereafter we had the
profoundest distrust of the far-spread tales of marauding bands and
murdered caravans.
I also came to the conclusion that the Senussi influence was much more
firmly established in the smaller oasis than is generally supposed. Sidi
Mohammed had kissed the Sayed’s letter and touched his eyelids with it
and the important Faqrun family, about whose loyalty our retinue had
entertained the gravest doubts, had only waited to welcome us until they
were certain we were under the protection of Sidi Idris. Once assured of
this, the two brothers Faqrun, Maihub and Salah, met us most amicably
and showed us the ruins of a Tebu village on the north-west shore of the
lake. The Tebawiya must have led cramped existences, for their houses
are tiny and of an odd formation, a series of small, round constructions
like immense native ovens. Some of them had three or four of these round
“rooms” clustered together without regular order, like the cells in a
honeycomb. They were made of stones and quite hard mortar, and were
windowless unless there had originally been some windows higher up.
Unfortunately they were all roofless, the highest walls being about 15
feet 8 inches. Only one door gave access even to the biggest clusters.
Before we came to these ruins we passed east of one of the smaller round
hills of the Gara and faint traces of a Tebu fort were pointed out to
us. There had been another on the main cliff of the gebel opposite, so
the Tebu must have been a warrior race. These forts would have been
impregnable, situated on the top of almost perpendicular rocks,
commanding a view of the surrounding country 50 kilometres on every side
and, moreover, showing a very good idea of defence, for they must have
utilised various ridges of rock as walls and barricades. On the main
gebel are some Tebu tombs, but they are difficult to find among the mass
of stones. These primitive people were buried in a sitting position
exactly as Rohlfs describes the one he saw in Taiserbo, but generally
they have sheepskins wound round them. Apparently they had no knowledge
of textiles and wore only skins.
The main village of Buseima, at the north-west end of the lake, with
well-kept and well-fenced date gardens, in which grow a few vegetables
and fig-trees, stretching to the water’s edge, was another surprise to
us, for it contained but six houses, square buildings with solid, well-
constructed walls, and regular, neatly finished yards, with strong
wooden doors. They looked neat and comfortable, and had none of the
crumbling aspect so common to Arab villages. Here we left the men of
Buseima after they had promised to come and share our woolly sheep with
us in the evening. Sidi Mohammed continued the tour of the lake to show
us the Bir Nasrani, a tiny hollow at the roots of a great clump of
palms. We had brought our fanatis to fill, as this was supposed to be
the best water in the oasis and, while two blacks were slowly scooping
up the cold liquid, we “fadhled” in the shade and drew maps in the sand,
locating the elusive Taiserbo where “each man sticks to his village and
never goes beyond it; so no one meets them or hears about them.”
Ribiana, we found, lay a day and a half’s journey due south, through bad
sands, which put it in the middle of Kufara (Kebabo) according to our
map.
After leaving the well we skirted round the whole of the outer shore of
the lake and wondered if we had wandered into fairyland by mistake. It
seemed incredible that after fourteen days in the intolerable sands,
unchanging and characterless, we should be in an iridescent setting of
turquoise, emerald and amethyst. Buseima is the loveliest oasis I have
ever seen, with its strange, ruddy hills—jewels purple and crimson
reflected in the silver salt mirage which girdles the bluest lake in the
world. All this colour is clear-cut against the soft, pale dunes. It is
seen through a frame of drooping palm branches with perhaps a rose-hued
figure, scarlet sashed, guarding a flock of goats by a dark pool among
high green rushes. Time stood still for us that day as we wandered
slowly on from green of the palms to gold of the sands and so back to
our tents in the wadi. We had eaten nothing since the date and damper
breakfast, so we urged Faraj to cook some part of the sheep—which now
hung in neat portions in the thickest palm clump—as speedily as
possible, but certainly our day was out of gear, for the sun set as the
smiling black triumphantly produced our lunch—a raw-looking leg of
mutton in a small frying-pan with two minute, sandy, poached eggs
balanced on top of it!
Later the two Faqruns, Sidi Mohammed, Sidi Omar and Bu Regea, came to
partake of our sheep flanked by two enormous bowls of rice. Everybody
ate out of the same dish with their fingers, scooping up the food
swiftly, without speech, but with loud sucking noises. Afterwards we
drank so much green tea that sleep became impossible, and with the stars
for lamps and the palm clumps for walls, we sat round a little fire and
talked slowly with long pauses. We were told that when Sidi Idris passed
through the oasis he camped for two days under an immense cluster of
palms within six feet of the blue lake and the spot was now regarded
with awe and reverence. We informed our guests that the Emir had lately
gone to Italy to visit the King. Sidi Mohammed seemed puzzled that the
Holy One should have established such a precedent. “Why did not the King
come to see the Sayed?” he asked, “for it is the visitor, not the host,
who confers honour in Arab land.”
Finally the question of departure arose and we discussed the possibility
of going to Taiserbo first, thinking from Rohlfs’ description that there
must be some interesting Tebu ruins there. Taiserbo was supposed by the
adventurous German to have been the seat of the Tebu sultanate and he
suggested that some ruins at Diranjedi might have been the stronghold of
the reigning potentate. For this reason we were anxious to see the
second largest of the desert oases, in spite of the fact that
geographically and commercially it was described as uninteresting.
Kufara is the centre of the Sahara world; Buseima produces the finest
dates in Libya and caravans come from Jalo to fetch them; Ribiana is
apparently the haunt of the most lawless human element in the
neighbourhood. We were told that there were five hundred Tebu there, but
it was probably incorrect.
Taiserbo is outside the trade circuit and contents itself with a
peaceful, self-centred existence. We heard the number of its inhabitants
put as low as fifty and as high as two hundred. With regard to its size,
it was generally supposed to be between 25 and 30 kilometres long and
about 10 kilometres in breadth. It lies from north-west to south-east,
with its northernmost end but a point or two west of due south of Jalo.
It comprises eleven so-called villages of which the largest is Gezira,
containing ten houses. The traveller from the north should arrive at Ain
Jelelat or Ain Talib, within a kilometre of each other. Two kilometres
south of these wells is Gezira, where there is the Senussi zawia, whose
sheikh is Sidi Mohammed el Madeni, brother of our friend with the same
name. South of Gezira lies Mabus el Awadil and Mabus Gaballa, some 2
kilometres apart. Sixteen kilometres east of Gezira is Kusebeya, the
most easterly point in the oasis. Eight kilometres west of Ain Jelelat
is El Wadi and a kilometre farther on is El Abd. On the extreme West is
Tunisi. At El Wadi is the Kasr Diranjedi, where there are some old Tebu
buildings, one of which might have been a castle or a palace. El Wadi is
the most populated part. There are other Tebu ruins at Dahwa, Ain
Jelelat and Gezira.
There are clusters of palms round all the villages, with patches of
“halfa” (half grass, half moss) in between. A band of “hattab”—small
mounds with some brushwood and fodder—surrounds the whole oasis. Some of
the smaller villages contain but two or three houses. The larger
dwellings are made of sand and stones, and the poor ones are merely
shelters of woven palm leaves with small, square courts of palms.
Most of this information came from the Sheikh el Madeni, whose people
had originally lived in Jaghabub, where they had a violent quarrel with
another family of ekhwans. Blood had been shed and Sayed Ahmed Sherif
had arbitrarily ordered the emigration of the Madeni to Taiserbo, where
two brothers now lived. The one we met had quarrelled with them, and
been banished to Buseima. It speaks well for the prestige of the Senussi
family that the Madeni are still their loyal adherents, though poor Sidi
Mohammed spoke of Kufara and Jaghabub as centres of civilisation and
culture and Buseima as the back of beyond.
We spent hours drawing sand maps in the firelight, while a waning moon
gleamed pale in the amazing sky of Africa, sapphire blue, yet soft as
the azure veils of a Circassian bride. Occasionally the toothless Farraj
challenged an imaginary passer-by with a sharp “Min?” Occasionally there
was a rustle in the palms, which Shakri said was a cat who wanted to
investigate our temporary larder. Before that night I had no idea how
exciting it was trying to make geography. For a year I had worked and
plotted to reach Kufara because the thought of this holy oasis, nucleus
of the greatest Islamic confraternity, rigidly guarded from every
stranger, the centre of the mighty influence against which every
European Power has battled in turn, stirred my imagination. As I
gradually learned more about this group of desert cities, Hawari, Jof,
Boema, Tolelib, Tolab, Zuruk and the holy Taj, and realised how they
represented the spider at the heart of the web, whose threads were the
long caravan routes spreading out in every direction from Tripoli to the
Sudan, from Lake Chad to Egypt, the commercial side of the problem
fascinated me. Kufara controls the desert trade of half the Sahara. So
few of the old routes are open now and others are almost impracticable
for lack of wells, but there are infinite possibilities in the future.
Camels need not remain for ever the only means of transport in Libya.
Cisterns of water might be stored at various known posts, as is done
between Jalo and Jaghabub, where the Sayeds have caused water to be kept
in great stone jars for the use of travellers.
That night at Buseima, when our guests departed, we returned to the tent
athirst for map-making. We shut the flaps and drew out our secreted
apparatus. We ruined many sheets of paper and lost our compass in the
sand a dozen times before we produced the first rough chart of the
desert oasis, but we felt the effort was worth while when we saw the
wells we had added to the 1915 Egyptian Survey map. “Let us hope we
shall have saved the next European quite a lot of trouble!” said
Hassanein, unconsciously adding sand to his already ruffled hair.
Sidi Mohammed spent the night in our camp. I thought it was to avoid the
long walk back in the dark, for he lived in the farthest away of the two
villages. In the morning I discovered he had done it as a precaution.
Apparently the tales of danger were not so absurd as we had thought. The
Faqrun men had said to Mohammed, “Wallahi! If it had not been for Sidi
el Madeni, we would have killed you all!” It remains a complete mystery
how they proposed to do it, but there could be no further doubt about
Buseima’s dislike of strangers. A pale-faced woman had slipped out of
the bushes to talk to Moraja as he went out of the camp. The sergeant
had Arab blood mixed with his Sudanese and the figure in blurred reds
and fawns was of his kin. “Why did you bring these Egyptians here?” she
asked angrily. “We do not want strangers. Make them go, or they will
suffer!” The morning of January 7, therefore, everyone had a new panic.
It was in vain that we asked them if they were afraid of a mere handful
or of shadows. They resurrected all the old stories and, with frantic
glances at the deserted dunes, they implored us to depart at once.
The pitiful thing was that Mohammed’s spirit was utterly broken by the
last three days of thirst. “Allah has given me a new life,” he said. “I
dare not risk it again.” We were quite used to the cowardice of Yusuf
and Abdul Rahim, a pathetic little wisp of a man who had no physique and
no fighting spirit, but I was very sorry for Mohammed. He had been my
greatest ally, always ready for work or for risk. Now his mind seemed to
have suffered as well as his body. I wondered whether he would be of
much use to us in the future. As I poached eggs on a sweet-smelling fire
and made coffee in the “Nasrani water,” which tasted so sweet but which
made one’s mouth terribly dry, I wished the retinue could absorb a
little of the scene. The only things that moved in the purple and gold
of rock and dune were the little grey and black birds, like water-
wagtails—the “abu fasada” of Egypt. I suppose one should make an
exception for the insects, for there were several kinds of beetles, as
well as long, sandy locusts and actually mosquitoes, though the latter
were either particularly merciful or abhorred the European as much as
did the other inhabitants of Buseima.
[Illustration: CARAVAN ON THE MARCH BETWEEN BUTTAFAL AND TAISERBO]
[Illustration: THE MOUNTAINS OF BUSEIMA]
After breakfast we climbed to the top of one of the rocky cliffs. Moraja
assured us that it would take the whole day. We completed the ascent in
three-quarters of an hour, probably about 100 metres. Our camp level in
the wadi was just under 380 metres. The view was marvellous. The whole
oasis spread below us, with the great gap in the cliffs through which we
had come two days before and beyond, on every side, were the waving
lines of creamy dunes, growing steeper as we looked south to Ribiana or
south-east to Kufara. Two spots of black broke the monotony of pale
curves—outlying blocks of the Buseima Gara.
[Illustration: CARAVAN IN DUNE COUNTRY NEAR BUSEIMA]
[Illustration: THE FIRST MEETING BETWEEN THE FAQRUN FAMILY AND OUR PARTY
AT BUSEIMA]
On our way back we explored a good many ruined Tebu houses scattered
here and there on the rough salt waste between our camp and the cliffs.
The walls were still in good condition and the houses were larger than
on the farther side of the lake. The biggest round beehive room measured
8 feet 6 inches in diameter. I left Hassanein to tell the retinue that
we would start the next morning and to listen to their elaborate plans
for defence upon the way, while I went with Abdullah to visit his
relations in the neighbouring village. His sister lived in a low hut
made of palm branches and a little square court in front, with a wall of
the same waving leaves. There was nothing inside the one room except
some mats of plaited fronds, a few woven grass bowls full of dates, a
couple of yellow gourds, a kid-skin of water, and some rather doubtful
blankets. The whole life of these people depends on the palm. Their
houses, mats, bowls, food, drink, baskets, string, shoes, stuffing for
camel-saddles, all come from it.
Several women gathered round me in the cool darkness. Most of them were
pretty, with pale olive faces and pointed chins. The dark eyes of a
Latin race looked out between heavy, black-fringed lashes, their
features were finely cut and they had the most beautiful pearly teeth I
have ever seen. They told me it was the effect of dates and the thing
that most interested them in me was a gold stopping! They thought it was
a new form of jewellery and everyone in turn was called upon to inspect
and poke my unfortunate tooth. “If we have gold,” they said, “we make it
into necklaces and ear-rings. Why do you wear it in your mouth?” They
insisted on unwinding my cumbersome red hezaam, which I had always
rolled round my waist, and swathing it very low on my hips, which gave
me the immensely long-bodied effect of all Arab women. They showed me
all their jewellery—huge silver ear-rings, necklaces and amulets—and
asked me why I had no tattoo marks to show my tribe. Altogether we spent
an amusing hour in the dark palm-room, varied by drinking sour goat’s
milk out of bowls made of palm wood, and eating dry, black dates almost
too hard to bite.
From Buseima there are two routes, one due south to Ribiana, described
as a day and a half through very big dunes, a hard road that no guide
likes to face, and another slightly south-east, taking three and a half
days, of which two are difficult. From Ribiana it is possible to
continue through the same high dunes to the Kufara group. By the more
direct route one arrives at Hawari and by the longer one at Tolab. We
took the straight road without hesitation, for our camels had by no
means recovered from our last disastrous journey. Two of the nagas were
expected to foal at any moment and all looked extremely thin and weak.
Abdul Hafiz shook his head over them despondently. “Allah is great,” he
said, “but so are the dunes!”
We left Buseima at 8.20 on January 8. Bu Regea walked with us to the top
of the first sand ridge, from where there was a marvellous view of the
whole oasis, palms, lake and mountains, the latter like ruddy amethysts
in a gold setting. The “Fatha” was solemnly repeated on the summit of a
sharp rise; then, after many good wishes and blessings, we plunged
sharply into the maze of dunes. The strange little scene stuck in my
mind because of the treachery that we knew underlay it. The preceding
evening, after they had eaten our food, one of the Faqrun family had
said to Yusuf, “Wallahi! Had we but a force equal to yours, you should
not now depart,” while the loyal Sheikh el Madeni had urged Mohammed to
leave the oasis as soon as possible.
The morning of our departure a spy arrived from Ribiana, saying, “The
Bazama family have just returned from Jedabia, and they tell us that
strangers are coming to this country. We cannot believe it is true that
the Sayed has given permission to any stranger to visit Kufara. I have
been sent to discover the truth.” Now the aged ekhwan who originally
intended to accompany us on our journey, Haji Fetater, had warned
Abdullah that the Sayed should not allow the Bazamas to go to Ribiana
until we had returned in safety. Amidst all the complications of our
departure the warning had been ignored, yet when the spy’s words were
repeated to us we felt at last we understood the situation. Ever since
we had left Jedabia there had been a strange undercurrent that we could
not understand. We met with much hospitality and friendliness, yet
always an odd distrust dogged our footsteps, while queer, impossible
rumours spread before us. There was the robber band that laid in wait
for us near Bir Rassam. There was the change of front at Aujela. Even in
Jalo there was a faint uneasy shadow, which Hameida Bey Zeitun explained
by saying that some of the sheikhs were old-fashioned and ignorant. Then
came the actual enmity of Buseima, with all the rumours and warnings
that terrified our retinue and were disregarded by us. The culminating
point was the arrival of the spy, whose tale gave us every reason to
suppose that we should be attacked on the way to Kufara, for he made
exhaustive inquiries as to the strength of our party and the retinue we
were taking.
It was Mohammed who elucidated the mystery. He told us that the Bazamas
were an old and highly respected Senussi family, who had been ekhwan
since the ancestor, who was sent to Kufara by Sidi Ben Ali, was one of
the original four who were to instruct the Zouias in the faith of Islam.
There had been an ancient dispute about the possession of some land in
Ribiana between the Sayeds and a member of this family, but Sayed Ahmed
had settled matters amicably by making them sheikhs of Ribiana.
Unfortunately, they had lately evaded the payment of “Onshur” (the tenth
part) to the Government, on the grounds that they had not enough
servants to till the lands. Sidi Idris had just removed them from office
and appointed another man in their place. Consequently the whole Bazama
family were in search of revenge. What better opportunity could offer
than the murder of the Sayed’s guests, who were, moreover, generally
supposed to be engaged on an important Senussi mission?
Now we could trace all the threads to one spinning-wheel. We had
attributed the robbers to chance greed, the affair at Aujela to the
meanness of a surly Zouia who did not wish to feast the travellers, the
rumours of danger in Buseima to the strained imaginations of the
retinue. As a matter of fact, we probably owed our continued existence
in the first place to our disguised flight, which misled Jedabia. Later
on, Hassanein’s eloquence the first night in the She-ib’s tent at
Aujela; at Jalo, the loyalty of the kaimakaan; at Buseima the smallness
of the population doubtless saved us from disaster; but what about
Kufara? The Bazamas might have much influence there, and in a large Arab
oasis there are always factions only too glad of an excuse to squabble.
The sacred character of the place and the fierce fanaticism of the older
Senussi would give our enemies every chance of fomenting the distrust
which the advent of the first strangers in their history must naturally
arouse. Mohammed and Yusuf were exceedingly troubled. For the hundredth
time I imagine they wished they had never started on this southern
journey! The story invented by the Bazamas, the one most likely to unite
every faction and family against us, was that Sidi Idris had sold
Kufara, Ribiana and Buseima to Europeans, and that Christian strangers
(sometimes I was reported to be the Queen of Italy!) were coming to gain
all information about the country, so that the Europeans could occupy it
with greater ease! Unless this amazing rumour could be rapidly
discredited, every man’s hand would be against us and our lives not
worth the fraction of a centime!
We calculated that the spy would waste at least half the day “fadhling”
at Buseima, after which it would take him a day to return to Ribiana. We
expected that more time would be wasted there in organising the attack
and so hoped, by moving speedily, to arrive at Hawari without a battle.
It would not matter much, in case of attack, whether we were victorious
or not, for in the former case we should have started a blood feud and
the relatives of the slain would lie in wait for us on our return.
Unfortunately, the dunes made rapid progress impossible. The camels
slipped and fell going down them; the ungirthed loads were flung off in
all directions. The beasts had to be urged up them slowly and
laboriously. We were obliged to wind round the largest and our course
that day was an infinitely slow zigzag. We rose to a height of 580
metres, with great waves and ridges of dunes running irregularly on
every side. At 3 P.M. we arrived at an almost flat stretch with one very
high pointed dune measuring nearly 100 metres high at the farther side.
We clambered up this and had a wonderful view over the turbulent sea of
sand. Behind us the great cliffs of Buseima appeared just sunk among the
dunes. On the western horizon rose another long, square-topped
formation, dark as the gara we had left. This was the mountain of
Ribiana. It appeared to me at least 60 kilometres away. To the east were
clearly visible the Fadil hills and the Hawaish between Zieghen and
Kufara, mere little blots of indigo among the curly sand ridges. At 5
P.M. we were forced to camp because one of the nagas was foaling. She
walked up to the last moment and an hour later she appeared to have
recovered, but, alas! the foal was reported dying, which depressed the
Arabs intensely, for camels are gold in their eyes, and gold to them is
Alpha and Omega and a great deal else in between!
The Sudanese amused me greatly that evening. “Don’t be afraid! We will
defend your life,” said Farraj cheerfully. With memories of their
various panics in Buseima, I replied, “Don’t you worry about defending
my life. I can do that all right. Keep your minds fixed on defending
your own!” This was a new point of view and elicited the doleful answer,
“But I don’t want to fight without a reason. There is a little girl I
want to marry when I go back!”
January 9 was a very cold morning, so the retinue dawdled hopelessly
over their meal. The Sudanese prefer the fiercest sun to a touch of
cold, which literally freezes them. We started at 8 A.M., and made
better progress than the previous day, in spite of the fact that the
foal, having completely recovered, had to be carried in a sort of
pannier on the mother’s back. The dunes were very uneven in size.
Sometimes for a kilometre or two there was a stretch of mildly
undulating sands and then we would come to great massive dunes like
small mountains, from the top of which one had a view of the four black,
rocky chains, roughly east, south, north and west. At 10 A.M. we climbed
to the top of the Seif el-Biram, which the Arabs say is the highest on
the route. It is called the “Dune of Firepots,” because the Zouia women,
flying south before the Turkish occupation of the northern oasis, took
their clay cooking pots with them on their camels. As the beasts crawled
down the precipitous slopes of the mighty dune the vessels fell off and
were all broken! To a certain extent our caravan repeated the
experience, for most of the baggage collapsed and a strange woman who
was travelling with us—a pale girl-widow, who had left her baby in
Buseima because her husband’s family refused to give it up and had
claimed our protection to go to Kufara to join her own people—turned a
complete somersault over the head of her surprised camel. Luckily the
sand was soft! It became distinctly pinkish as we went farther south, a
pale coral colour. Unfortunately, another naga took it into her head to
foal, after we had done only 28 kilometres and we were forced to camp at
3 P.M. Luckily there was no doubt about this foal’s health, so we
avoided the gloom of the preceding evening.
Yusuf and Abdullah sat with me while the tent was being erected in a
wide open space, splendidly open to attack, but the fatalistic spirit of
the desert had made us careless. They told me stories of Sidi el Mahdi,
who is supposed among the Beduins to be still alive and a mystic
wanderer in the Sahara. Some day he will return to lead the Senussi to
further glory and power, “Inshallah!” They say that he disappeared
suddenly at Garu on the way to Wadai and another was buried in his place
in the holy morabit in Kufara. As an instance of his continued existence
they quoted the experience of some Arabs seated round their camp fire
amidst the starlit dunes. To them came a stranger who asked them for
news of the Mahdi. “Our lord is dead,” they replied; “the Sayeds at
Kufara say so.” “He is alive,” said the stranger, “Huwa fi Wasst.” The
Beduins translated this to mean that Sidi el Mahdi was in a town called
“Wasst” in Algeria, and they rushed with the news to Kufara. “Why did
you not hold the man?” asked the sheikhs. “That was the Mahdi. He is
alive. He told you he was ‘fiwasst,’ ‘between you.’” The play on the
Arabic words is clumsy in English. “Fiwasst” means “between,” “in the
middle of,” while “fi” means “in,” and “Wasst” might be the name of a
place.
The previous night we had camped with a feeling of unrest and
apprehension. Everybody clung to his rifle and I remember Hassanein and
I had a fierce dispute over an ancient musket, left behind by a soldier
who had deserted at Jalo, reducing our army to nine, inclusive of
commandant and sergeant. As a matter of fact, the weapon which really
filled the Beduin soul with terror was Hassanein’s useless target
pistol. Its long barrel thrilled them and we overheard Abdullah telling
a friend that Ahmed Bey had a revolver which could shoot people an hour
away!
The second night the desert had stuck in her claw again—fatal anæsthetic
which makes one utterly careless of the future—“What matter dead
yesterday and unborn to-morrow, so that the day be good?” In truth the
days are generally extremely trying, for there is either a blazing sun
which burns through the thin cotton barracan over the wound
handkerchief, or a bitter wind which pierces every bone in one’s body.
Sometimes there were both together and then one side of one is frozen
and the other baked! One’s skin split and blistered under this
treatment, but there was only one hour I shall never be able to forgive
the desert. This was the moment when, at 5 A.M., one crept shivering out
of one’s warm flea-bag into pitch darkness, placed one’s feet gingerly
on icy cold sand, fumbled with numb fingers for a candle and matches,
and proceeded to drag on cold, stiff garments from each of which fell a
shower of sand. Meanwhile, with chattering teeth, one had to call out
loud, cheerful greetings and hearty good wishes to rouse our improvident
following, although one’s mind contained nothing but venomous invective!
However, the nights were good. On that particular one, Shakri, being
sentinel, stationed himself clear-cut against the starlit sky on the top
of the highest dune and, in case his presence were not sufficiently
obvious, he played mournful little tunes on a wooden flute.
Next day, January 10, we started at 6.30 A.M., after the usual breakfast
of half a plate of rice with a dozen dates and a cup of coffee. It is
amazing how one gets accustomed to much work on little food. We walked
for eleven and a quarter hours, doing 44 kilometres as the crow flies,
with only a handful of dates at midday. Moreover, when we reached camp
there was always map-drawing and writing to be done before we thought of
supper.
That day Abdullah and I started off briskly in front of the others, for
it was very cold and the sun had not yet risen above the dunes. We were
soon stopped by the sight of something white a little to our left. Upon
inspection it proved to be a pathetic reminder of the desert cruelty we
had escaped just a week ago. Three human skeletons lay in a huddled
group, half-covered with sand. “Thirst,” said Abdullah grimly. It must
have been a fairly recent tragedy, for the men’s white clothes were in
good condition, and the skin of the hands was still yellow and dry. The
strange woman bent over them pityingly. “Three men were lost on their
way from Ribiana to Kufara,” she said. “Their baggage was found but they
had disappeared.” The soldiers, however, said they were probably blacks,
for they had many Sudanese hejabs on them. We found some leather
amulets, a fox’s foot and the complete bones of a bird, but I would not
let the men disturb the desolate scene further. With a “Rahmat Ullahi
Allahim!” we passed on to join the caravan.
The foals were being carried in panniers, one on each side of the
biggest naga, and occasionally we had to stop to let them feed.
Otherwise we made good pace, for the dunes were gradually getting less
steep. At 8 A.M. we mounted the last big rise and saw before us a sea of
low coral waves, for the sand was getting steadily pinker, with the
black mass of the gebel in front. Great was our excitement, however,
when, with binoculars, we were able to follow this chain, apparently
with scarcely a break, to very near the position of the Ribiana Gara. In
fact, the whole horizon seemed to be enclosed in a semicircle of
irregular violet hills, stretching from the Fadil and Hawaish to the
north-west and west with scarcely a break where Kufara lay, to the long
chain of the Gebel Neri. From the map we had seen we had supposed the
hills to be in small, regular groups. This marvellous view of a land
enclosed by strange cliffs was so unexpected that it was like
discovering a new country. From that point the ranges appeared to run in
a complete half-circle from north-west to south-east. With blazing eyes
Hassanein began tracing his sand maps. “Don’t you see the Hawari Gara is
a continuation of the Gebel Neri?” he said. “Yes, and the Ribiana Gara
is a bit broken off the other end,” I answered with rising excitement.
“Do you know, the Hawaish mountain was originally called the Keid el
Adu, ‘vexation of the enemy,’” he continued, “because no one could break
through it?” “To enter the enclosed land,” I interrupted. “Of course,
these oases are all linked in a circle by the black hills. Taiserbo
alone has no gara—she lies outside.”
From that moment I have always thought of Buseima, Kufara and Ribiana as
the mountain oases of Libya. Some day, no doubt, geologists will come
and prove our theory false or true, but for me the palm gardens isolated
in the middle of red sands, each with its guardian crag, will ever be an
island country within the arms of the strange dark mountains.
The name Hawaish means a great beast; therefore we questioned Yusuf and
Abdullah closely about these mountains. “No one ever goes there,” they
said. “The jinns live there!” “Does anyone ever go to Gebel Neri?” “No;
they are afraid.” “What are they afraid of?” “They do not know.” “Have
they seen anything?” “No. When they go near the mountains they have a
feeling.” “Are there men there?” “No. There is no water nor food. Men
lived there long ago and drank rain water.” “They may be there still,
then?” “No. There are jinns.” “What do they look like?” “Nobody has seen
them.” “How do you know they are there?” “In the morning one can
sometimes hear a loud noise as of many birds.” “And no one has seen
anything?” “They have seen bones.” “What kind of bones?” “They do not
know. They are afraid.” Pressed on this point, Yusuf said the bones were
big and drew a picture in the sand which might represent the vertebræ of
anything from a man to a camel! I repeat this conversation verbatim in
order to show how difficult it is to draw information from a Libyan
Arab!
CHAPTER IX
TREACHERY AT HAWARI
In the afternoon we left the dunes behind and emerged on flat, rolling
country, with broad sand-waves ahead and the purple crags of the Neri
running south in an irregular mass of peaks and square-topped ridges,
with dark stretches of stones and lava in between. The sand was now the
colour of mellow brickdust, with occasional streaks of purplish red and
scattered patches of stones of all colours, like those I had picked up
in Buseima. Some of the ground looked almost like mosaic work in blues,
mauves and reds. Hoping to arrive at Hawari on the morrow, the caravan
moved briskly through the sunset, when the land turned an ugly hot brown
and the aching cliffs tore the orange sky with sombre violet crests. We
barraked beneath the first big, round sand wave, from where we could see
the dark gara of Hawari—a continuation of the Gebel Neri—and while we
triumphed in our success as geographers, the retinue developed a
beautiful new panic!
They had heard that one man had left the Bazama caravan at El Harrash
and gone on to Kufara. Abdullah suggested that he would have spread all
kinds of libel about us and Abdul Rahim grew pale beneath his ebony! The
pitiful thing was that Mohammed had so completely lost his nerve that he
too was terrified. He had changed very much in the last week. He no
longer looked out upon the world with his old, frank, boyish glance. His
eyes wavered and fell. He never laughed or sang these days. I think that
he was really the only imaginative and sensitive man in the party and
therefore he alone had conjured up visions of what dying of thirst
really meant. Also his reserved pride had been violently wounded by the
attitude of Buseima, though he would never acknowledge it.
Unfortunately, that morning he had seen the skeletons and drew on his
vivid imagination for details and comparisons. This completed his
demoralisation. He joined with the guide and the soldiers in imploring
us to go past Hawari by night and arrive at Kufara proper before dawn,
so that by the time anyone woke up in Taj we should be established in
one of the Sayed’s houses, presumably in a state of armed defence. In
vain we argued and protested. They all foresaw a well-organised attack
the moment the inhabitants of Hawari perceived us. To do Yusuf justice,
he was the only one who declared this was nonsense. “There may be
robbers,” he said, “but how could they openly attack the Sayed’s
slaves?” We found an unexpected ally in him when, sitting round the camp
fire, we tried to instil a little courage into the retinue while at the
same time insisting on staying in Hawari.
It had been an exceedingly hot day and feet had blistered anew, which
perhaps accounted for the mental depression. Yusuf was our most reliable
barometer. When he discarded the fleece-lined waterproof and strode
along in his fluttering white shirt and a skull cap, as he had done that
afternoon, we knew it must be almost torrid. I never saw Mohammed walk
without my plaid rug wound over the top of the torn woolly waterproof!
January 11 I saw the sun rise from the top of the immense dune that had
guarded our slumbers. The dull sand turned slowly pink as the purple
cliffs of the Gebel Neri came into view in low, irregular masses to the
south, while a little to the east of them appeared the solitary black
rock of the Hawari Gara. It looked at least a day’s journey away.
Abdullah said we should reach it by midday. As we marched towards it I
tried to draw out more tales of the desolate mountain on our right, for
I was intrigued by the description of the sounds heard therein, “a noise
of birds.” Hornemann, the first modern writer to speak of the Tebu
oasis, says that the people of Aujela described the speech of the
inhabitants as “like unto the whistling of birds.” Curiously enough, the
Tebu women I met had extraordinarily high-pitched, sweet voices, which
sounded rather like clear warbling. Moraja and Abdul Hafiz both
volunteered the information that “footprints” had been seen near the
haunted Gebel. “Footprints of what?” I asked. “Well, they are like
snakes!” they replied. The anti-climax was too great. I could not bear
my jinn or prehistoric savage to turn into a serpent!
After two hours we left the pink sands and passed into the waste of
stony ridges and small hills on the outskirts of the mountains. The
colours were quite extraordinary. Occasional banks of vivid vermilion
lay between patches of loose black stone, with here and there scattered
blocks of grey, rose and mauve, at the foot of the smaller cliffs. All
round us the basis of the sand was fawnish red and as the stones grew
thicker we found odd hollow tubes and balls, heavy and black, but filled
with sand. The largest balls measured more than a foot across, the
smallest about an inch. The blacks were delighted with these new toys
and broke open the solid ones to see the sand run out, after which they
used them as cups and candlesticks. I had never seen the formation
before and did not know what it was. We passed the Hawari Gara at noon.
It does not stand out particularly from the rest of the Gebel Neri, as
it is but one cliff among many in the neighbourhood, but a few hundred
yards beyond, the ridges of stones and red sand rise sufficiently to
allow one to look, as it were, over their edge on to a country of paler
sand beyond. Here reigned our old enemy, the mirage, so it was difficult
at first to distinguish the false from the true. On the far horizon
loomed the purple hills of the Kufara Gara. Somewhere beyond those peaks
and cliffs lay the mysterious, elusive oasis that was so near and yet
always just beyond our reach. Up till that moment we had considered
Hawari as a part of Kufara, but Yusuf, pointing joyfully to a pale sand
wave just before the distant hills, said, “Do you see the white sand?
Before we come to that, below it, are the palms of Hawari, but Kufara is
‘bayid,’ beyond the Gebel.”
For a couple of hours we straggled across uneven country, dotted with
rare patches of stones and mounds, with ever more and more tantalising
points appearing to the south till we wondered if the mountains ever
ended. Nobody waits for anyone else in the desert. Everyone walks at his
own favourite pace. If you cannot keep up, you drop behind and your
companion does not stop to ask the reason. If you pause to shake the
sand from a shoe, he does not halt with you. It is against the custom,
unless you are ill. The Beduins often speak of the long, waterless
routes as “The roads where we do not wait for a dying man. An hour for a
camel, two for an Arab, then we leave them!”
At last a stronger sand wave than most gave us a sudden perfect view of
Hawari, a long, very narrow strip of palms running for about 12
kilometres very nearly north and south, with two little isolated groups
of palms at the southern end. All round it lay a band of very red sand,
broken into thousands of small mounds of “hattab,” the little dry sticks
we had seen before. A third naga started to foal, but we ruthlessly left
her to the care of Abdul Hafiz and pressed on, so that we entered the
oasis at 3 P.M.
Against the wallflower sands the thick, low-growing, heavy-foliaged
palms looked almost grey. There were few tall ones, so it was easy to
cut great clusters of yellow dates, which were very sweet and tasted of
honey. I did not like them very much. The retinue began to panic
frantically, chiefly because a group of blacks we passed cutting dates
amidst a picturesque circle of goats and blue-robed women, asked, “Where
is the caravan with the Christian? The Bazamas sent news of it.”
We went straight across the southern end of the oasis to the palm
gardens of the Sayed, which were kept in excellent order with neat leaf
fences, many wells, rows of newly planted young palms and continuous
patches of vegetables, brightest green amidst the monotonous brick-red
sands. The whole of this portion of the oasis was inhabited by the
Sayed’s slaves and we saw numbers of blacks, men, women and children,
working in the gardens or driving small, pale grey donkeys laden with
dates. We camped on the edge of the village and Abdul Rahim nearly had a
fit when he saw me wander off to photograph the houses, gleaming white
between the palms. He ran after me almost foaming with terror. The
general state of nerves was beginning to get boring.
[Illustration: GARDENS AND LAKE AT BUSEIMA]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR ON A CAMEL AT BUSEIMA]
The houses of Hawari are almost like European buildings. They are
exceedingly well constructed of sand bricks in regular lines, square,
solid, flat-roofed, with windows, but many of the yards have quite low
walls, all of which are neatly coped. We had scarcely put up the tent
when the sheikh of the zawia, Musa Squaireen, arrived to inquire our
business. He was soon followed by the leading Zouia headmen, among them
Musa Gharibeel and Mansur Bu Badr of the Gebail. Soon a circle of a
dozen were sitting round our hastily built zariba, while Mohammed’s
faithful follower, Omar, hurriedly made coffee. The tribesmen were
slightly depressed at first and we wondered if it had anything to do
with our arrival, until it appeared that one man had made a bad bargain
in buying slaves from a Wadai caravan a few days before. He had paid 400
mejidies (about £70) for a man and two women, and now the man was very
ill. “It was bad business,” he said sadly. They all repeated the same
formula, “The Sayed’s orders are above our heads,” and added that our
visit was welcome, saying, “Your coming is a blessing. May Allah bless
our Sayeds and those who come from them!” Yet Abdul Rahim started the
rumour that night that we were prisoners and were not to be allowed to
move till permission arrived from Kufara.
[Illustration: ZOUIA WOMEN AT BUSEIMA]
[Illustration: AT BUSEIMA: TEACHING THE FAQRUN FAMILY TO USE FIELD
GLASSES]
We were too sleepy to inquire into the truth, but the following morning
gifts of sour leban and milk arrived, together with a couple of
chickens, so we thought that probably the Zouias, while paying all
honour to the Sayed’s guests, were anxious to show how impossible it was
for strangers to penetrate their well-guarded borders. Yusuf and
Mohammed implored us not to move from the camp, which they had pitched
in an unsheltered, torridly hot and fly-ridden spot to avoid robbers in
the palm groves. “Wait till the big men come to see us,” they said.
“Then you can walk with safety.” This was palpably an excuse, for Hawari
is only a little village suffering from its nearness to a big centre.
The whole life of the country depends on the town beyond the mountains.
The big sheikhs and ekhwan live in Jof and Taj. In Clapham or Tooting
one does not expect to find Ministers of the Crown. So in Hawari
everyone says, “There is nothing here. All things come from Kufara.” The
important sheikh of the place, Bush Naf, was at the moment in Jof. For
this reason we had sent on Abdullah as a herald of our coming to present
our credentials to Sidi Idris’s wakil and to prepare a dwelling for us
in Taj.
That morning we over-ate on eggs, dates, fresh bread made with yeast—oh,
but it tasted good—and goat’s milk. Then, while Hassanein lazed—he
called it absorbing the spirit of the desert—I hid two kodaks in the
folds of my voluminous barracan, veiled my unfortunately white skin and
went off to explore the town. The corporal and the largest Farraj
offered to escort me, but they were not happy till they realised how
little interest we aroused. We saw many well-kept gardens wherein grew
vegetables, peaches, barley, thorn-tree figs. In each of them were one
or two Sudanese working the primitive wells, sometimes with the aid of
the delightful little grey donkeys, the cleanest things I had seen in
Libya. We walked all through the village, encountering no opposition,
but of subjects for photographs there were few. The big, square houses,
with their complicated yards and outbuildings, were dotted here and
there among the scattered palms or over the broad bare spaces of sand.
There were no winding streets or passages as in Jalo and Aujela. A
small, insignificant mosque, a low, square building with a row of
windows, a little zawia established by the great Sidi el Mahdi, with a
“qubba” that looked rather like a horse trough with an upright stone at
each end (a former muezzin of the zawia), made a group at one end of the
village. We climbed one of the vermilion dunes, half-covered with the
feathery grey bushes we had first met at El Atash, in order to get a
better view for a photograph, but the scattered houses were too far
away.
On our return we passed one or two buildings with mud porticoes, whose
arches could be seen above the walls of their yards. Some women came out
to talk to me in high, clear voices. They were practically unveiled and
wore straight, dark red tobhs, unbelted, so they made an attractive
group under a large thorn-tree between high sand walls. One and all they
asked for medicine, and when I returned to my fly-filled tent a group
gradually gathered outside with various tales of woe. The most important
entered and sat uncomfortably on my folding bed, from which they soon
slipped thankfully to their accustomed crouched-up position on the sand.
My treatments were simple, consisting chiefly of boracic powder and
quinine, but the recipients tied the pills carefully into corners of
their barracans and departed with blessings.
Suddenly a blaze of colour obstructed the view beyond my tent flap. The
smallest of the grey donkeys, almost covered with a gorgeous striped mat
of reds and blues, and still further obscured by the voluminous
draperies of a small, huddled figure in the vividest scarlet I have ever
seen, was led up by a tiny urchin in a tattered white shirt, while
another beat from behind. “The mother of Sheikh Musa has come to visit
you,” announced one of the Farrajes. The flaming folds disengaged
themselves, trailed into the tent and crumbled into a red heap on the
sand, from which emerged the oldest, frailest Arab woman I have ever
met. She was bent and wrinkled beyond belief, toothless and almost
blind, yet she carried on an interested conversation about the Sayeds
and finally offered me a Moslem rosary blessed by Sidi el Mahdi.
As the heat was terrific I was glad when the visit came to an end and
only wished we had fixed our departure for that afternoon instead of for
the next morning. Hassanein suggested our wandering down to the other
end of the oasis where there is another small village, Hawawiri. We
borrowed a donkey from the reluctant sheikh el-zawia, who told us we
should be killed before we were out of sight of the belad, and called
for a guide to show us the way. At that moment there were half a dozen
Zouias seated round our zariba, but none of them moved. I began to
understand the sufferings of Rohlfs when I looked at the cruel, anæmic
faces of these Arabs. Brave they may be, but they had not the keen,
fierce looks of the warrior Beduin. They had small, cunning eyes that
shifted restlessly, long, mean faces with thin lips and generally a
fretful scowl between the brows. The Zouias are known as a bad tribe and
these people certainly looked untrustworthy to the last degree. When we
offered a bribe of tea and sugar one of them got up to accompany us, but
none of the soldiers would come. Moraja and Abdul Rahim hid in their
tent and Yusuf said he was lame. We were just starting off alone when
Mohammed sprang up and slung on his gun. “They are a pair of eagles!” he
exclaimed. “I will not be less brave than they.” After we had gone a few
hundred yards there was a soft thud-thudding in the sand behind, and the
big Farraj, who had become our sort of personal slave, together with the
corporal, silently joined us.
Our progress, however, was almost instantly stopped by a band of young
men and boys rushing wildly after us. “Do not walk! Do not walk!” they
yelled, and pointed to a large group of white-clad Arabs marching
rapidly towards us. We turned to meet them. “For God’s sake do not go!”
said Mohammed. “There is bad work here. I do not understand it. Let us
go back to the camp!” He followed gamely, however. The Arabs were all
armed and they looked very angry, for they were gesticulating and
talking in loud voices. I always wore my revolvers underneath my hezaam.
I managed to get them out under the folds of my barracan and wondered
with an odd, fierce pleasure how many shots I could get in. The corporal
pretended to busy himself with the donkey, but our Farraj came on, his
rifle ready. The Zouias surrounded us, a wild, threatening group. “You
shall not move from here till orders come from Jof!” they shouted. “We
have been warned about you. We know. No strangers shall come to our
country. They die quickly here!” Hassanein suddenly had one of his
inspirations. “You wish to show that you are brave and will defend your
country to the last, but you should behave thus to strangers, not to the
guests of the Sayed!” he said angrily. They were puzzled. They expected
us to be frightened and impressed. Instead, we were angrier than they.
If you can make an Arab talk he generally forgets to fire.
While loudly arguing we led the way to the camp and soon there was a
large “megliss” seated outside our tent. Some Tebus joined the Zouias.
They were coal-black like the Sudani slaves, but with more refined and
intelligent faces. Most of them do not talk Arabic, but their head man
explained the situation to them and to our surprise they ranged
themselves on our side. “The guests of the Sayed are welcome to our
country,” they said. The Zouias, headed by Bu Badr, were angrier than
ever. “Why does not a messenger come from Jof?” they asked. “Sidi
Abdullah went last night and he promised to send back news. We told him
you should not follow until permission came.”
We looked blankly at each other. We had not told the guide to send back
a messenger, and he had breathed no word to us of such intention, nor of
his tribesmen’s threats. “It is a plot,” said I grimly. “Yes, but where,
why——?” murmured Hassanein vaguely. Mohammed leaned forward
triumphantly. His eyes shone, his voice was strong. I think in that
moment he recovered his self-respect and we our old ally. “I understand
it all,” he cried. “Wallahi! I will never stroke my beard again till I
have settled with Abdullah who has betrayed us. You men of Hawari, you
are fools and you have insulted the Sayed’s guests because you are like
the foolish woman in the suq who buys the first thing that is offered to
her!” He whispered to Hassanein in Arabic too rapid for my
comprehension, “By Allah, hear and believe, for I speak the truth!”
shouted the latter above the babel of angry voices. Even Sheikh Zarrug
of the Hawaij ceased from exclaiming that if no messenger came from Jof
on the morrow the Zouias would know that we had deceived them and it
would go hard with us. “You get no news here and you believe the first-
comer,” continued Hassanein. “Abdullah told you that you must prove to
the strangers that you were brave and strong lest they think that anyone
can enter your country easily. Is it not so?” They acknowledged
uneasily, some even with crooked smiles, that this was the case. Then
they remembered the point which changed a bluff meant to impress
strangers into a grim reality. “Abdullah was to send back a messenger if
the ekhwan approved of your letter and would receive you. It is a short
journey and none has come.”
At these words smiles vanished and the pale, cruel faces grew more
cunning and suspicious. The Tebus grouped themselves behind us. It might
be a good battle, I thought, and wondered if the Zouia rifles were
modern. A fight is always stimulating and not like that awful, helpless
day of thirst when one could not war with nature! “Of course, no
messenger has come,” said Hassanein triumphantly. “None will. You have
been fooled and so have we. To-morrow you would have prevented our
going. There would have been a fight. You are brave but so are the
slaves of the Sayed. Perhaps his guests would have been killed and
Abdullah would have been saved. Do you know why?” Then followed the
story of the guide who had lost his head and his reputation at the same
time and I suddenly grasped Abdullah’s neat little plot.
If none of the caravan returned to Jedabia, or even if the two
strangers, chief witnesses against him, disappeared, he would be saved.
He knew full well that no one would employ him as a guide after the
story of his Taiserbo mistake became known. His future depended on our
lips being sealed. His best chance lay amongst his suspicious Zouia
kinsmen, always distrustful of strangers, fanatical and warlike, yet the
caravan could not be attacked while he was with it. Therefore he
suggested going to prepare the way for us at Taj. When we agreed, it was
easy to arouse the _amour propre_ and suspicions of the Hawari Zouias.
“Show your courage by not letting these doubtful strangers cross the
borders of your land. If their story is true and the sheikhs of Jof will
receive them, I will send back a messenger.” He had never the slightest
intention of dispatching anyone to rescue us from the ever-growing
hostility at Hawari, and he calculated that in a day or two we should
make an attempt to escape and be promptly fired upon. The blacks would
be obliged to defend us and, after the general carnage, the story of his
failure would be buried with the slain.
Mohammed having discovered the plot, Hassanein rose nobly to the
occasion. His words poured forth with all the subtle rhetoric that sways
the Beduin mind and when their brains were steeped in this river of
speech he suddenly flung down Sidi Idris’s letter. “Do you wait for
orders from Jof when your Sayed sends us here? Is this the insult that
you pay him when he trusted you to help his guests?” There was an
uncomfortable pause. The shifty eyes of the circle would not meet ours.
Sheikh Saad, the feki of the town, who had been the spokesman against
us, murmured incoherent words. Mansur Bu Badr sent hastily for a sheep.
The group began to split into twos and threes. A party was forming in
our favour. Musa Gharibeel exclaimed, “He is speaking the truth. We have
made a mistake.” For at least an hour arguments raged on every side, but
we ignored them and planned low-voiced revenge with Mohammed in the
tent. It was delightful to see how the man had taken hold again.
“Wallahi,” he repeated five times running. “May I never see my wife
again if Abdullah does not get his reward from the Sayed!”
From the pleasant task of plotting the guide’s downfall we were summoned
by a smiling Yusuf. “Your words are flames,” he said to Hassanein. “The
people are feeling very foolish and they regret what they have done.” I
felt it was Hassanein’s triumph, so left him to receive the apologies of
the Zouias with condescending coldness, but even this did not content
them. Musa Gharibeel and Bu Badr insisted on wishing me personally a
good journey on the morrow. “I shall be glad to rest in the house of
Sidi Idris,” I said coldly. “He told me it would be an easy journey, but
I think he has been mistaken.” The Zouias were silent.
Yusuf told me afterwards that Abdullah had insisted that the caravan was
to follow him to Jof the next day without waiting for any news from
Kufara. To make things quite certain he had told the men of Hawari that
we were looking for gold in the mountains and we would return with an
army to conquer the land and take the treasure it contained!
When it was dark the slave-girls, Zeinab and Hauwa, crept into my tent.
“We thought we should all die to-day, but now we are happy. The people
are bad here, but we have been saved!” they said. Our greatest triumph,
however, was the moment when a very meek Zouia deputation woke us up to
ask us if we would care to go to Hawawiri on our way to Kufara on the
morrow. They dared not approach the tent themselves, so sent Yusuf to
offer their olive branch.
CHAPTER X
FEASTS IN THE HOLY PLACE
January 13, therefore, should have seen the successful termination of
our long journey, instead of which it saw us prisoners in earnest until
a furiously ridden white donkey appeared on the horizon, amidst a whirl
of tarboush tassel, rifle and long legs ending in bright yellow
slippers, each swinging wildly at different angles. All this because
Abdullah over-reached himself. In order to make our destruction certain
he went to the kaimakaan at Jof and warned him that we were two
Christians from Italy disguised as Moslems and that we were learning all
about the country in order to conquer it later on. “It is impossible,”
said that official loyally. “They have letters from the Sayeds.” “What
is writing?” said Abdullah. “They have cheated the Sayeds, I tell you.
Ever since they left they have been secretly making maps. They had
watches on the feet of the camels, and the Sitt held a watch in her hand
all the time [my compass]. They hang a strange thing on their tent—a
weapon to kill us if we come near [the barometer] and they have
spectacles which make the country look big while it is far away.” He
drew such lurid pictures of our nefarious designs that the kaimakaan was
determined at all costs to protect his beloved Sayeds from the
consequences of their mistake. “They must not leave Hawari,” he said
firmly. “In a few days they must go back. The honour of our princes will
thus be saved.” Abdullah agreed warmly, believing that in a few days
what was left of us would hardly be worth sending back! Then the blow
fell. “You must take an order at once to Yusuf and Mohammed Quemish.” In
vain the guide protested, pleaded, argued. The kaimakaan was firm. It
was then the afternoon and there was plenty of time to reach Hawari
before night. The energetic official hustled Abdullah out of the town
and the plotter saw his neat little plan for our destruction in
jeopardy.
He knew that Mohammed was intelligent and that Yusuf was known to many
people in Kufara. Both were loyal. Therefore, unless we were killed
fairly quickly, in the general inquiry his own perfidy would come to
light. He had meant to ensure that we were not immediately invited to
Jof. He had no desire to return to us even with an order for our
detention, for though it might make things uncomfortable for us
temporarily, in the long run he was bound to suffer. Therefore he spent
the night in the mountains and only arrived at our camp at 9 o’clock,
hoping that by this time we should have come to blows with the Zouias,
for he had particularly instructed Yusuf to start off with the caravan
at dawn.
I do not know which was more aghast at seeing the other, Abdullah or I!
At that moment, of course, I knew nothing of his work at Kufara. I only
felt that we had jumped to wrong conclusions the preceding day and when,
with restless eyes downcast, he murmured that we could not leave Hawari
yet as they were preparing a house for us in Jof which would not be
ready for several days, but that the slave-girls were to go on at once,
I felt that something was seriously wrong. He tried to avoid presenting
the note to Yusuf and Mohammed in front of me, but I would not leave
him, so the paper, which was presumably meant to be private, was read
before me. It ran, “You will see that you do not stir from Hawari until
you receive further orders.” Abdullah murmured something incoherent
about going to the village and the remark galvanised me into action.
Once the Zouias knew of that message we should be prisoners. It,
therefore, behoved us to send someone reliable to Taj to find out what
had happened before the suspicious tribesmen set a guard round our camp.
Mohammed was the only possible person and he loathed the idea, for had
he not the written order of the Sayed’s wakil that he was not to move?
However, he yielded to persuasion. Perhaps the long miles trudged side
by side through hot sands under a hotter sun, the precious water shared,
the jokes over our aching feet, the first cold nights when we had
divided our blankets and coats, above all, the day we had torn up the
baggage saddles together and distributed the straw to our starving
animals with little hope that we could ever provide them with another
meal, all bore fruit. “Wallahi!” he swore. “I shall discover the truth.”
Abdullah almost lost his self-control. He burst into the tent with the
cowardly Abdul Rahim, while Hassanein was penning a tactful letter to
the kaimakaan. Angry protests flowed from his lips. He threatened to
fetch the Zouias. The little commandant stuttered feeble futilities.
Mohammed wavered.
At that moment I saw the dream of so many scorching days and weary
nights fading like the mirage of noon. The object I had striven for,
laboured for, for which I had studied Arabic during gay London summers,
for which I had plotted in Cyrenaica, for which I had pored over route
maps and charts from Khartoum to Tripoli, for which I had waded through
ponderous tomes from Ptolemy to Behm and Duveyrier, balanced trembling
in the scale of this man’s mind. Every nerve and sinew, still aching
from our almost intolerable journey, spoke of the strenuous effort made.
Surely this must weigh heavier than Abdullah’s guile. It did! Somehow
the dark-faced guide, the cringing commandant, ceased to exist.
Hassanein called for a donkey for our messenger and pushed the cleverly
worded letter into his wallet. Then for a moment Mohammed and I were
face to face, and I looked straight into his keen, boyish eyes, wringing
his hand with a few words of intense confidence and knew instantly that
he would not, could not, fail us!
Thereafter it did not matter that we could not leave the camp, that
Abdullah’s face was thunderous, that the soldiers hid in their tents
with the exception of the large, faithful Farraj, who offered me
pathetic little gifts every hour to cheer me up, raw onions, parsnips
and dry cut grass which makes a kind of liquid spinach! I had to pretend
to be ill and lie on my bed all day behind the harem curtain to escape
the distrustful Zouias, who peered into the tent every two or three
minutes to see that we had not escaped. It was a distinctly trying time,
for angry councils were held at intervals outside the camp, but we were
not invited to attend them and the friendly Tebus were absent, though
once a bronze maiden with wide brown eyes, a cheery smile and a large
white pea-nut stuck in a hole in her nostril, crept to my guarded
quarters and offered me four eggs with many kindly “Keif halak.”
In the sunset came Mohammed, smiling, triumphant, breathless, having
ridden 20 kilometres to Taj over a strange country he had never seen
before, without track or guiding mark, argued with a justly suspicious
kaimakaan anxious to defend the prestige of his princes, convinced him
of our good faith, learned the whole story of Abdullah’s treachery,
remounted his white donkey and plodded back over the rough sands to our
rescue—all in eight hours. Certainly Mohammed justified that day my
long-established faith in the Beduin race and their future. He brought a
letter of enthusiastic welcome to “their Excellencies the honoured
guests of the Sayeds,” asking them to proceed to Kufara on the morrow
and to bring blessings and honour to the town by their presence therein.
The mentality of Libya is as changeable as its barometer. That night,
the men who had wished to kill us a few hours before, sat amiably round
our camp fire and actually told us of their own accord the stories that
had preceded our coming. They varied extremely, for whereas most of them
put us down as the heralds of a conquering army one said we were cousins
of Rohlfs who had come to make inquiries as to his treatment. “I
remember that Nasrani well,” said old Zarrug. “He came with a Zouia
caravan.” “How many other Nasrani were with him?” we asked, remembering
the Buseima tale that on his return, at least, the German was alone.
“There were none. He came alone with his big horse and a cook called
Ali.” The sheikh was quite definite on this point. He told us that
“Mustapha Bey” had gone to Hawawiri to avoid the larger village and
then, skirting to the east of the Kufara dunes and hills, had camped
outside Boema, where he was promptly made a prisoner.
January 14 produced about the most unpleasant specimen of desert
climate. The sun, no doubt, was hot, but a cold, strong wind blew from
the east, raising clouds of sand and making progress difficult.
Nevertheless, we sent the caravan direct to Kufara and ourselves started
for Hawawiri. The Zouias meekly allowed us to go anywhere we liked, but
they did suggest that perhaps we were tiring ourselves unnecessarily,
for there were only three houses in the farther oasis, as all the palms
were owned by people in Jof and Boema. However, we felt we had to visit
the place as a lesson to the soldiers, who had refused to accompany us
the previous day. Therefore, muffled to the eyes in the thickest
blankets and jerds we could find, astride two minute, barebacked
donkeys, we plunged into the east wind and laboured down the whole
length of the narrow Hawari oasis.
The village of our captivity proved to be unexpectedly large, for more
houses were scattered continually along the strip of palms. When we
asked the number of inhabitants, the only reply was the one word which
denotes any form of size, long, big, great, powerful, plenty, numerous,
etc., “wajid”—but I imagine that there must be a population of two
hundred or more. There was a gap between the palms of Hawari and those
of its little companion, which was only a few square kilometres in size,
and whose three houses were surrounded by a few huge fig-trees. The figs
were nearly all small and hard, but the villainous-looking Zouia, brown-
haired and green-eyed, with very low brow and narrow skull, who
accompanied us, knocked down a few little purple ones from the top. They
were very good and comforted us for the awful wind, which froze us even
at midday, as we tramped over the stony gherds that lie on the way to
Kufara.
The red sand continued, mixed with more and more patches of black
stones, while little rocky ridges rose into low dark hills or big
mounds, increasing in size after Hawari was lost to sight beside her
vermilion gherds. Each time that we mounted a faint ridge and saw black
hills in front of us we said, “Those are the last—behind those is the
secret of the desert.” A dozen times we were disappointed as a further
waste of stones and rock obscured our vision. Finally, when from quite a
high hillock we saw nothing but mounds and low hills where the boulders
had almost conquered the red sands, we began to wonder if Kufara were a
huge joke by which the African mind retaliated on European curiosity. By
every map the oasis is a solid flat block of green just beyond the Gara
of Hawari and we had already walked 35 kilometres at least beyond that
imposing cliff and apparently could see half as far again in front with
not a sign of a palm. “Look! The sand begins again on the horizon,” I
said. “It is much paler and there are more hills.” “If Kufara is beyond
those, I shall give up and send home for an aeroplane,” answered my
companion firmly.
Thereafter we covered our faces in our jerds and struggled on blindly,
so that the Sahara gave us her secret suddenly and when we saw one of
the most wonderful views in the world spread almost at our feet, we
first blinked and rubbed our eyes to see if we were asleep and then
cursed ourselves as fools for not having guessed that the explanation of
the mystery was—a wadi!
For this reason one almost falls over the edge of the last black cliff
into the soft pale sand of the oasis before one realises it is there.
They say anticipation is better than realisation. They say that success
is tasteless and that it is only the fight which thrills, but I am not
ashamed to confess my excitement when a whole new world seemed to be
revealed to me. To the east where the cliffs ran out a little, the
sacrosanct village of Taj perched clear-cut against the sky, high above
the oasis it guarded. The massive block of the zawia rose above the
group of strong, dark houses, square, solid, all built of blocks of
black stone with red sand mortar. The endless blind walls gave away no
secrets, but here and there within the courts rose the triple arched
porches of some big dwelling and already there were blotches of white
that told of watchers for our arrival.
This is the holy place of the Senussi, where are the houses of the
Sayeds and the blessed qubba of Sidi el-Mahdi, with clustering colleges
and mosque all looking like grim fortresses, for Taj boasts no blade of
grass nor speck of green to relieve the monotony of black rock and red
sand. Below it, east and west, runs a wide, flat wadi, its pale, faintly
pink sands broken by a great mass of palms and green gardens, acacias,
figs and feathery bushes, all surrounding a curly, vividly blue lake—
this to the west; while eastwards beyond the guardian sanctuary on the
cliff are more dotted palms and then a broad splash of emerald round
another lake, while the whole enchanted valley is encircled with low
amethyst hills or gherds. Scattered here and there upon the rose-petal
sand are villages whose strong, dark walls look as if fortified against
more formidable weapons than the peering eyes frustrated by their
windowless secrecy.
Jof lies in front by the side of the greenest gardens, east of the first
blue salt lake. Beyond it Zuruk is hidden amidst her palms. Tolab and
Tolelib are too far away to be visible, for they lie at the western end
of the oasis, where emerald and coral blur together at the foot of the
strange purple hills. To the east is Buma, on the way to the second
lake, with a smaller village, Boema, close beside, and beyond again more
palms, till the pale sands rise to the dusky cliffs that shut in the
secret oasis from the south.
[Illustration: THE FOUR EKHWAN WHO RECEIVED us AT TAJ]
[Illustration: HASSANEIN BEY TALKING TO EKHWAN AT TAJ WHILE THE AUTHOR
PHOTOGRAPHED THEM]
We gazed and gazed as if afraid the whole glorious view might fade
before our sunburned eyes and leave us lost in the desolate, dark waste
that lay behind us. Then suddenly we felt how very ill and tired we all
were, for the one well at Hawari to which our suspiciously guarded
followers were allowed access contained very bad water and we were all
suffering strange pangs. “Wallahi!” said Mohammed. “It is beautiful and
I am grateful, but how I want to sleep!” And he wound himself up in his
jerd and flung himself down on the nearest patch of sand. I followed
suit, with a blanket over my head and one by one the foremost of the
retinue sank down beside me, so that when the lingering caravan caught
us up it had to wake half a dozen exhausted explorers before we could
make a dignified entry into the Holy Place.
[Illustration: THE KAIMAKAAN AT TAJ]
Abdullah came out to meet us, for he had taken Zeinab and Hauwa the
previous night to Sayed Rida’s house, as it was not meet that the
personal slaves of the Sayed should be looked upon by the people. He
tried one last shot when he saw me riding a camel. “Get down! Get down,
Khadija!” he shouted loudly so that the interested group of loafers
might hear. “You cannot ride into this holy place!” We were still nearly
half a mile from the nearest house, so we ignored him, but when we came
to the last hillock we dismounted, I covering my face completely, and
with the army of nine in battle array behind us we marched towards a
very dignified group who came forward to greet us.
Except for the Sayeds themselves and the ekhwan I had met for a moment
at Jedabia, I had so far talked only with merchants and Government
officials, a few sheikhs of the smaller zawias and the Beduins. Now we
were meeting the great men of the Senussi, important ekhwan, shrewd
statesmen as well as religious chiefs. They welcomed us with grave, calm
dignity, that unconscious, simple dignity that the West can never learn
of the East, for rank in the former is a ladder up which all men may
climb, but in the latter it is a tableland apart. It is such a remote
world, so utterly unattainable by those who do not inherit it, that the
sheikh may safely invite the camel-driver to “fadhl” with him or the
ekhwan unbend to the bread-seller. Men talk of the democracy of the East
because there appears to be but one distinction—the free-born from the
slave, yet even the black Sudani girl may be the mother of a Mahdi!
There is no shadow of democracy in the untainted East. There is only
heredity. A man lives by the glory of his father and his father’s father
and when he may not take pride in them it is to the glory of his tribe
he clings.
With the grave, massive figures in spotless white jerds, under which
gleamed the richest colourings, orange, red and purple, in splendid
embroidered jelabias, we entered the first big house on the edge of the
cliff. It was the dwelling of Sidi Idris, so a great honour was done us.
Along one side of the big central court ran one of the high arched
loggias we had seen from the hill and this opened into an equally long
room, immensely high, thickly carpeted, its white plaster walls
decorated with texts from the Koran and small, regular alcoves wherein
were unglazed windows protected by green shutters, over which hung
immense glass balls like those we put on Christmas trees. The ceiling
was covered with gay chintz and a row of huge ornate lamps, with more
pendant green and blue balls hung from it. We found ourselves seated in
a circle facing the open door with four of the reverend ekhwan. In the
place of honour was Sayed Saleh el Baskari, a cousin of Sidi el Abed,
his wakil and the acting kaimakaan of Kufara, in daffodil yellow and
black, with purple lining to his wide sleeves. He had a broad,
intelligent brow and dimples in his bronzed red cheeks, a long, drooping
black moustache above a firm-lipped mouth and tiny thin beard. His eyes
were kind and his smile frank, but he was the typical Eastern statesman
of few bland words to hide much thought.
Next to him sat Sayed Abdil Rahman Bu Zetina, a small man with broad,
grey beard and dark, reflective face, level brows and fine-cut nostrils.
He might be a philosopher, a divine! Then came the mighty Mohammed Bu
Fadil, brother of the absent kaimakaan, enormous of person, in pale
saffron yellow, with a primrose kufiya wound round and round his head
above the turban, so that much of his plump, shining face, with wide-
lipped smile and humorous eyes, was hidden in its folds. The fourth was
a very old man, long and lean, with pointed, trailing beard, shrunk,
hollow cheeks, parchment coloured as his robes, but something of the
seer burned in his still vital eyes. He, Sayed Osman the judge, had
known the wonders of Sidi el Mahdi, and the passionate faith which makes
martyrs was in him. The little council read and re-read our letters and
expressed calmly and graciously their satisfaction. Then the subject of
our detention in Hawari came up, and with it smiles. “You did not choose
your messenger well,” they said. “Had you heard the stories of Abdullah
you would have sympathised with our hesitation. We did not like that
talk ourselves. However, we will now relieve you of him.” The tone was
decided. We wondered what would happen to Abdullah. Justice is tactfully
slow in the East, but when it comes it is final.
Immediately after our visitors had left, while we were putting up gaily
painted canvas partitions in the long room, black slaves appeared,
bearing a banquet in many blue bowls on an immense brass tray. This was
placed on a vermilion cloth on the floor and beside it we sat cross-
legged, dipping our fingers first into one dish and then into another.
“This is the real joy of Kufara,” said Hassanein, voraciously devouring
most of a lamb cooked in “mulukhia,” a sort of thin spinach sauce. I was
silent from pure joy—and a wonderful vegetable which I discovered at the
bottom of one of the messes of thick, buttery gravy and meat. I hoped
Hassanein did not know it was there, so I encouraged him to continue
with the pseudo-spinach, but he pounced upon it suddenly. “Bamia! We
have it in Egypt,” he exclaimed, and thereafter it was a race! There is
practically no sugar in Kufara. It costs three mejidies an oke, so there
were no sweets to our banquet, but a great brass bowl and a long-necked
ewer were brought to us to wash hands and mouth in and, as we shook the
five weeks’ conglomeration of sand from our flea-bags, we were
blissfully happy.
I feel that one should not acknowledge it, but certainly January 15
stands out in my mind as a day of food! I have described so many fasts
that I remember feeling an intense pleasure in writing my diary that
night, while Hassanein concocted warm letters of thanks to be sent back
to Sidi Idris and Sayed Rida by a north-bound caravan.
I had scarcely woken up and blinked at the unfamiliar sight of a red and
blue carpet when Sayed Mohammed el Jeddawi (who had come from Jedda some
forty years ago, a follower of the sainted Mahdi, and was now wakil of
Sidi Idris and Sayed Rida) appeared with an offering of a bowl of sour
curdled milk and a palm-leaf platter of marvellous stoneless dates,
huge, soft, clean, golden things which melted in one’s mouth—such as
Europe has never known! We were warned that at 9 A.M. there would be a
banquet for the whole party in the house of Sayed Saleh, so we arrayed
ourselves in our cleanest garments, not a very imposing spectacle, for I
had to wear a jerd belted with a scarlet hezaam, as my only barracan had
served forty days without washing!
Slaves came to show us the way and we followed these cheery black
personages through a winding sandy path between high walls, across a
wide space before the massed buildings of the zawia with the high,
square block of Sayed Ahmed Sherif’s house. I began to see that there
were few houses in Taj, but all of them were large, intricate buildings
with a maze of courts and passages. As a matter of fact, in the holy
place, beside the clustered houses of the Sayeds, which occupy about a
third of the town, and the many dependencies of the zawia, only the
important ekhwan live. Therefore, one saw but two classes of people
among its dark walls. Many slaves in strips of bright colour, or
imposing and generally portly figures in immaculate white turbans and
silk jerds over straight tobhs or jelabias in all imaginable colours. I
noticed one delightful and massive old man in a garment the colour of
blood oranges with what looked like a white shawl bordered with
vermilion round his shoulders, but it was difficult to see clearly
through the one tiny little chink I allowed myself in my thick white
draperies.
In the desert I had been as careless of my veil as my namesake Khadija,
Mohammed’s first wife, a lady of forceful character, in whose service
the prophet took a caravan to Syria before he espoused its owner some
twenty years older than himself. In Kufara, however, the greatest care
was necessary and I had to learn to endure a more or less perpetual
headache from the heavy folds and also to make swift photographs from
between them. The faithless Abdullah had taught us one thing at least—to
hide our cameras and note-books with more care!
Sayed Saleh’s house was like the maze at Hampton Court. However often I
went in, I do not think I should ever be able to find my way out again.
A resplendent person with a dark green cloak, much braided in gold,
flung over his khaki uniform met us in the second court, where we left
our soldiers to be royally feasted in one of the rooms leading off it.
After that I counted three more courts and five passages before Mohammed
and Yusuf were spirited away to their separate banquet. Still our guide
went on past various pairs of yellow shoes discarded at several
entrances. At last, after two more yards and several passages, we
entered the central court, with broad, matted and carpeted verandas
running along two sides.
Hastily removing our shoes, we went to meet our stately host, who beamed
his welcome and waved us across the wide space between the arches into a
long, high room whose walls seemed to be entirely hung with clocks,
barometers, thermometers and other such objects. I cannot tell how many
instruments there were, but I counted fifteen clocks, most of them
going. At either end was a row of the huge painted, carved chests that
the great folk carry on their long caravan journeys and in most of the
alcoves, which were hung with rugs, were tea-caddies of every size,
shape and colour. A large pianola bore reels of _Pagliacci_ and
_Carmen_. Thick dark carpets were piled on the matted floor, with rows
of stiff cushions round the walls, but the thing that interested me
most, after the meagre rations of our journey, was the fringed, scarlet
cloth in the centre of which reposed a round brass tray laden with food
and flanked with all sorts of bowls and bottles.
Our host wished us good appetite. “Bilhana! Bilshifa!” “With pleasure
and health!” He then vanished and a slave lifted an exquisite silver and
brass ewer to pour water over our hands into its companion bowl with a
fretted cover. Another brought minute cups of black coffee strongly
flavoured with red pepper. Then we sank cross-legged beside the tray,
wide-eyed with wonder at the array before us. Arab hospitality is
prodigious. Everyone gives of his best, but only a very great man could
provide the Arabian Nights’ feast which was offered us. It brought back
memories of Sayed Rida’s marvellous dinners at Jedabia, especially as it
was to him and to Sidi Idris that we owed our welcome in Kufara, the
most loyal and devoted of all the Libyan oases, for it is the keynote of
the Senussi faith. I heard Hassanein repeating rapidly the vital points
of the speech he intended to make to the kaimakaan concerning our return
journey and I almost shook him. “Never mind those details now!” I
exclaimed. “How long do you think they will leave us alone with this
food?”
There were twelve dishes of lamb cooked in different rich sauces, with a
monster bowl of strange oddments, which I imagine also belonged to the
private life of a sheep, floating in rich gravy. There were a score of
poached eggs on silver plates and fifteen vegetables and green sticky
mounds of “mulukhia” which hid all sorts of intricate delicacies. Then
there were bowls of curdled milk, which I had begun to like, or powdered
mint leaves and of an unknown liquid which I thought was sweet-scented
vinegar, with bottles of water, because the Senussi law forbids strong
drinks. When we paused for breath a slave brought us another bowl, this
time of bitter lemon juice, to renew our appetites and when at last
these failed, a second cup of the peppered coffee appeared before the
ceremony of washing hands and mouth in the carved ewer. Then fly-whisks
were given us and we leant against the hard, stiff cushions, feeling
beautifully replete, until our host joined us and we did business in the
Oriental fashion, while he made three series of tea, the first bitter,
the second scented and the third with mint. He had an elaborate silver
tea-set spread before him and he warmed the teapot himself on a little
brazier, while we skirted round the subjects nearest our hearts,
approaching, retreating, avoiding obstacles or shadows of such and
winning his obvious approval by the tactful way we left the matter of
our future travels in his hands. As I regretfully relinquished my third
empty glass a slave poured scent over me, strong and sweet, and another
offered me a silver incense burner over whose warm perfumed smoke I
might dry my scent-drenched hands! In all the generous-hearted East I
had never met this last pretty custom before.
When the due proportion of business for a first visit—a very minute
amount it would appear to Americans—had been discussed, we bade farewell
to our host and returned to our cool house on the cliff. Since I said
this was a day of food, let me add immediately that about midday the
delightful wakil appeared with an enormous basin of “couss-couss” about
two feet in diameter. On the top of it reposed most of the jaw of a
sheep and the whole mass was encircled by a continual line of sausages
and a phalanx of hard-boiled eggs. Now, if there is one thing on earth I
love it is “couss-couss,” but for once I looked at it almost
indifferently. Hassanein suggested various desperate remedies, such as
instantly walking round the wadi, but I would not be parted from my
“couss-couss.” I looked at it lovingly and, after a violent argument
with Farraj over the possibilities of heating a quart or two of water
for a bath, found energy enough to eat a pathetic little hole in one
side of the floury mess.
The climax to our day was at sunset, when we were summoned to another
huge banquet at the house of the ever-hospitable Sidi Saleh, who was
determined to honour the Sayed’s guests by every means in his power. The
memory of that last meal is somewhat blurred, but I believe the centre
dish was the larger part of a sheep on a mountain of rice, flanked by
bowls of hot, very sweet milk. As we waited for our host to join us in
order tactfully to brush the antennæ of business, I complimented
Hassanein on the thoroughness with which he had assimilated the grave,
aloof dignity of a Sheikh el-Alim. He looked at me blankly. “It is not
dignity. It is torpor!” he said.
Of course, there were other moments in the day. The most delightful
little person about nine years old came to see us after we returned from
the kaimakaan’s morning feast. He had the largest and most velvety brown
eyes, surrounded by a thick fringe of curly lashes, with a faint shadow
of kohl to accentuate their beauty. A prince and the son of a prince,
little Sidi Omar had all the dignity of his race. He was garbed in a
long purple silk jelabia, opening over a rose-coloured embroidered
jubba, while his little pale face was framed in a miniature white kufiya
under a purple tarboush. He insisted on accompanying us as we wandered
round the sacred village, giving us grave advice. “Sitt Khadija, cover
your face now,” he would say as the snowy trappings of a bulky ekhwan
appeared at an unsuspected door, or “Sidi Ahmed Bu Hassanein, you must
salute So-and-so; he is the son of So-and-so.”
From the edge of the cliff, where the last houses almost overhung the
steep descent, there was a glorious view of the whole wadi. One could
stroll east of Taj and look across pale sands, broken by green of barley
and wheat, to the lake amidst palms and the narrow end of the valley
where the hills close in. One could gaze straight south over the Sayed’s
gardens to the solid walls of Jof rising in tiers on slight mounds with
the famous ancient zawia standing a little apart and in the far distance
the line of Zuruk’s palms, where a wide break in the guardian dunes gave
a glimpse of flatter sands. To the west the view was limited only by
one’s eyesight. A few large isolated houses lay beside the great mass of
palms, which swept round the second streak of blue water beside a dry
salt marsh and away, ever widening to the far horizon where lay Tolab
and Tolelib in a dark blur as the valley ran beyond the strangely
luminous hills.
When we started to stroll down one of the steep defiles that lead from
the rocky tableland to the smooth sands below, Sidi Omar’s brilliant
smile disappeared. “Do not go down alone,” he urged. “The Zouias are bad
people. Perhaps some of them will ask you questions—why you have come to
their country and for what business?” Therefore, we stayed that day on
the plateau and I took many photographs beneath the shadow of my heavy
draperies. For once I was grateful to the Moslem veil, for Hassanein
used tactfully to lure our companions away to look at a view and I would
wander shyly and slowly, with the uncertain gait of the harem women, to
the desired point of vantage, whip out the 3A kodak from my enormous
sleeve and snap some aspect of the enchanted valley before aimlessly
straying back. I risked a lightning snapshot at the main block of the
zawia while Hassanein greeted a learned sheikh, but I felt it was
dangerous, because there were a few students lingering round the door
beside the round tower in the wall and they must have seen the flash of
the lens between the white folds of my girdled jerd.
CHAPTER XI
THE “CITIES” OF KUFARA
On January 16 our battles began again. Unfortunately Hassanein was ill,
but he dragged himself up for a last effort. Perhaps success had gone to
our heads a little, for not content with visiting Taj and Jof, the
religious centre and the seat of Government, we had lately made plans
for exploring the oasis to its farthest limits. In vain the unfortunate
retinue pointed out that it would be another case of Hawawiri. “The
Zouias are in the two ‘cities,’” they urged. “There is nothing in the
villages. You can throw a stone into Buma from these walls, so why tire
yourselves further?” We felt that this sudden thought for our comfort
had an ulterior motive, so we pursued the subject. “I should like to see
the people,” I said to Yusuf. “You will see them all in the suq at Jof.
Every week they come in to buy and to sell. They are savages, the Zouias
who live on the edge of the oasis, and they are poor people without
interest.” “Well, I should like to see the western end of the wadi.”
Yusuf looked puzzled. “But you can see everything in Kufara from this
mountain,” he said with some truth. I was reduced to retorting that I
could not see the actual houses of Tolab and Zuruk. Our fat retainer had
a distinct sense of humour. “Nor could you see the houses of Hawawiri
from our camp!” he reminded. “I want to meet the heads of the Zouias and
if I go to all the villages I can talk to them.” Yusuf seized upon this
happily. “They can come and see you and then you can ask them about
their people.”
Thus word went forth from the kaimakaan that all the tribal headmen were
to come to Taj to meet the important strangers and the hour and place
appointed for this most solemn council were “four hours before sunset in
the house of Sidi Idris.” We had anticipated battle, because Abdullah
had been absent for twenty-four hours and we learned too late that he
had been making a tour of the small villages, expounding the treacherous
stories which had failed in the Senussi centres, but we did not expect
quite such a disastrous meeting. The fifteen sheikhs who appeared nearly
two hours late at the rendezvous, were weak and convinced that if they
carried out their designs they would be acting against the wish of the
Sayeds whom they respected and honoured. Yet so great was their long-
cherished loathing of the stranger, which had been fostered by years of
isolation till it was as much a part of their creed as the Shehada or
the Zakah, that they were determined at all costs to prevent our
penetrating farther into their country. One gradually absorbed something
of the mentality of this strange, distrustful people as one sat amidst
the circle of gloomy, suspicious faces.
For generations the Zouias have been known as a lawless tribe.
Originally they came from the Fezzan by groups of families, each owning
a particular headman, but they never seem to have possessed one supreme
chief. The two most famous of the ancient sheikhs were Abdullah Shekari
and Helaig, though it was Agil who met Sidi Ben Ali es-Senussi in Mecca
and told him of the strange enclosed land in the centre of the Sahara
which the Zouias had conquered from the enfeebled Tebu. The great
ascetic had already set flame to the religious imagination of North
Africa from Morocco eastwards, but he knew nothing of southern Libya.
Yet he told the half savage tribesmen that in a wadi near Taiserbo would
be found an irak tree, from the wood of which the Arabs make their
primitive form of toothbrushes. The tree was duly discovered, the
miracle announced to the tribe and, later, Agil went north again to
Gebel Akhbar in Cyrenaica, to offer the allegiance of his people to the
great Senussi. Kufara, the original sultanate of the Tebus, had become
since the Zouia conquest some two hundred and fifty years before, a
danger spot to every caravan, for it was a regular stronghold of
brigands who lived by plunder.
It was a definite custom that all travellers, especially merchants,
passing through the oasis, should pay “darb,” a duty which varied
according to the value of their merchandise, otherwise the caravan would
be attacked and plundered.
Before the coming of the Senussi there were only palms in the oasis and
the tribesmen were content with the most primitive clothes, hardly
better than those of the skin-clad Tebus. It was Sidi el Mahdi who
introduced the jerd and the jubba.
The dawn of civilisation came with the ekhwan sent by Sidi Ben Ali, but
the Mahdi made Kufara the wonderland it is to-day and by extensive
planting started the cultivation of grain, fruit and flowers. Sidi Idris
owes some of his influence among the Zouias to the fact that he is the
great Mahdi’s son, though his own strong personality counts for much in
a land where striking individuality is rare. Under the Senussi
government the Zouias were obliged to give up their organised
brigandage, but with such a long history of murder and plunder behind
them—half the tragedies of the Sahara may be laid at their door—it is
not to be wondered at that they are still lawless and wild. Every man
fears them and only a power as great as the Senussi could hold them in
check. They were practically infidels before they made their submission
to Sidi Ben Ali, having very nearly lapsed from Islam, though, as they
come from Yemen, they probably formed part of the armies who followed
Beni Suleim in the eleventh century, from Midian through Syria and Egypt
to Cyrenaica where some tribes settled, notably the Abidat, Hassan,
Faied, Brahsa, Hohsa, Abid Auwaghir and Mogharba. With the fierce
religious fanaticism which they absorbed fresh from the fervent ascetics
who were enthusiastically preaching a new, pure Islam, were mixed the
hatred and scorn of all who had not received this teaching. “He who is
not with us is against us,” was interpreted literally and the land was
closed against the stranger, be he Christian or Moslem.
It was easy, therefore, to understand the attitude of the white-robed
figures who crouched immobile round one end of the long room. They felt
that they were defending not only their jealously hidden country but
their religion from the strangers whom they hated and feared. In their
hearts they could not believe that the greatly revered Sayeds had
authorised our journey. Continual distrust and suspicion are bad daily
companions. They had marred and lined the brooding faces round us till
there was little left of the frank, fearless Beduin. On one side sat
Hamid Bu Korayim, son of the man who had saved Rohlfs, his dark, narrow
face set in mute obstinacy. In front of us was Sheikh Suleiman Bu Matar,
the only spot of colour in the group, for he wore a brilliant orange
robe under his jerd, and Bush Naf el Ghadad, an old man with a grey
beard who occasionally poured a little oil on the troubled waters.
Others present were Sheikh Badr and Mabruk Bu Helayig.
The whole assembly had made up its mind to oppose us and they would
listen to no argument. “Khallas! It is ended! It is ended! Of what use
further speech?” they cried. “If you have a letter from Sidi Idris,
saying that you are to visit all our villages by name, then you shall
go,” said Bu Korayim. “You know that we have the Sayed’s permission to
visit Kufara. No traveller can set foot beyond Jedabia without it. Do
you think we should have risked certain death? We know that no one can
hope to visit even the outskirts of your country without the consent of
Sidi Idris, but we are his guests!” They changed their ground. “You have
seen Kufara,” urged Suleiman Bu Matar. “Jof and Taj are the ‘markas’
[centre of government]. The villages are not interesting. There are no
zawias even.” Argument was useless, for none dared give way before the
others. We saw that one or two were weakening out of respect for the
fact that we were guests of their rulers, but the old inherited instinct
welded them together. Generally it would be impossible to get fifteen
Arabs to remain united against strong arguments for a quarter of an
hour, but we were fighting a principle as profoundly part of their
existence as food and drink. “Khallas! Khallas!” resounded from every
side and, without even waiting for the usual ceremony of tea-drinking,
the meeting rose hurriedly. “We have spoken,” they said, “and argument
is of no avail.” “If you go, you go at your own risk,” added Sheikh
Badr. Yet before the last flow of protest they had read the “Fatha” all
together to show that they honoured the Sayed in the persons of his
guests!
So the strange council of impulse and reason came to an end and, as the
last white-robed figure fumbled for its shoes at the edge of the matted
loggia, Hassanein turned to me despondently. “We have failed
absolutely!” he said. I would not agree. The guests had come to us
strong with a great resolve, wound up to battle pitch, each man
determined to support the others. Now they would separate and, each
alone, would have the nasty cold feeling of wondering what he had done
and what the final result of his action would be. “Wait!” said I. “Very
soon they will feel that they have shown us how dangerous it is to cross
their borders and they will only remember in whose house they met us!”
Later in the afternoon a Mojabra merchant, Tawati Haifan, cousin of our
old friend She-ib, and one of the ekhwan, Sayed Mohammed Semmen, visited
us, partly to welcome and partly to console us for the behaviour of the
Zouias. “They are bad people,” they said. “They have always been like
that.”
Then sunset came and with it the summons to dinner in the house of many
courts. The Wadi of Kufara is always beautiful, but at sunset it is
magical, for the girdle of strange hills glows with wonderful mauve and
violet lights and the oasis lies half in shadow where blend the emerald
and sapphire of palm and lake, half in flame, where the burning sands
reflect the glory of the sky. It used to make me catch my breath with
ever-new surprise as I came out of the discreet little door in the wake
of the ebony slave, who took a great interest in the state of my
appetite and never could understand why I could not cope with three
separate breakfasts sent me by as many hosts.
[Illustration: ZAWIA TOWER AT TAJ]
[Illustration: KUFARA WADI, FROM TAJ]
I never realised more fully the remoteness of Kufara than when, after
the deft-handed slaves had spirited away the huge, brass tray, and with
it every trace of our meal, we sat motionless beside our host in the
long shadowed room, while he silently and very slowly made his carefully
prepared tea. The many high-walled courts produced a silence in that dim
room of thick carpets and rare lights as profound as the stillness of
the desert. Words, even smiles, would have been out of place during the
little ceremony, while rose-water or mint was being measured gravely by
the sensitive fingers of our host. Beyond the circle of light cast by a
solitary candle in a high silver sconce were only vague forms of
cushions or huge chests looming in remote corners. Within it was a dark,
thin-faced young sheikh, all in white, from his silken kufiya to his
flowing jerd and beside him our grave, reflective host, with a vivid
green shawl bordered in purple framing his bronzed face and drooping
over a long green jubba, which showed the richly embroidered sedairi
beneath. A jewelled hand slowly poured drop after drop of essence into
the amber glasses, while the scented smoke of a little brazier drifted
gently across the picture. One heard Time pause to catch the shadows of
thoughts that wavered between the light and the dark, so mystic was the
silence. Then suddenly and startlingly clear came the sound that
perfected the harmony—the cry of the muezzin for the evening prayer!
[Illustration: BARRAKING: A TOO SUDDEN DESCENT]
[Illustration: A LUNCH IN KUFARA VALLEY]
Next day a small and somewhat forlorn party descended one of the steep
defiles into the wadi. It consisted of Hassanein and myself, mounted on
microscopic yet exceedingly unruly donkeys, the Commandant of the
Gendarmerie, resplendent in pale grey uniform slashed and faced with red
and an immense tasselled kufiya, with four fully armed soldiers and a
most picturesque Zouia sheikh, Mohammed Teifaitah, the only tribesman
who was brave enough to accompany us. He was splendidly mounted on a
white Arab horse, curved of neck and long of pastern, with a scarlet
saddle, bow-pommelled, five different coloured saddle-cloths, and silver
stirrups rather like sharp coal scuttles.
Kufara is narrow at the eastern end and with a break in the southern
wall of cliff, where a broad space runs out beyond Zuruk, it widens
gradually as it goes west. The main mass of palms begins between Jof and
Taj and sweeps west to Talakh, but there are several isolated groups, of
which those of Boema and Buma are the largest. We rode first eastwards,
along the foot of the cliffs and I realised as we ambled through thick,
pale coral sand that if one wishes to keep the impression of an
enchanted valley one should never leave the heights. There are beautiful
spots in the valley, where palm and tamarisk and rush blend their shades
of green beside some unruffled lake, but it is from above that one
grasps the whole wonder of water and wood and decorative dark-walled
towns, set in the close circle of jewelled hills.
As we neared Boema, its few houses, large, square or oblong blocks of
reddish-purple, standing just below the northern cliffs a little apart
from its gardens, the sheikh grew very nervous. White figures came out
to look at us and he urged us away, but I wanted a photograph! Let no
one imagine it is easy to manage a wild, toy donkey, keep one’s face
completely hidden and secrete about one’s pocketless person two kodaks
and a spare roll of films!
The oasis at Boema is lovely, for various kinds of thorn, a few dark
green olives, tamarisks, acacias and the feathery grey trees described
as “firewood,” all mingled their foliage with the clustered palms. A
kilometre away is Buma. At one end of the oasis are a few poor dwellings
of the slaves who tend the gardens, some of them made of palms, some of
uneven sand bricks. At the other there is a village of the usual dark
houses, while a lovely turquoise lake, bordered with high rushes, lies
in the centre. On the southern shore, where there is a stretch of rough,
dry, salt waste, we found the ruins of a large Tebu fort. These ancient
people chose their sites well, for this high, round honeycomb stood on
the very edge of the water, its grey, broken walls one with the salt
stone that surrounded it and made passage difficult from the land. There
were one or two of the small, round oven houses scattered near the lake
and we wondered if Buma had been the capital of the old Tebu Kufara—then
called Tazerr—for this fort was bigger than anything at Buseima, but
roofless and windowless as usual.
From the plantations of pumpkins, radishes, parsnips, onions, with
neatly irrigated patches of wheat and barley, we drove our escort south
down the long, flat stretch of gravelly sand to Zuruk, a long strip of
palms chiefly owned by Sidi Idris and other Sayeds. There is no village
in this southernmost oasis. It is inhabited only by the Sudani slaves
who look after the dates. We stopped at a palm-leaf fence to ask a huge
ebony figure in a tattered white shirt for some dates. He dived into his
plaited leaf “tukel,” reminiscent of the Sudan, and reappeared with a
gourd full of large, dry, purplish dates mixed with the lemon-coloured
unripe ones that the Arabs eat to quench their thirst. We rode the whole
length of Zuruk’s palms, for by this time the Zouia had laid aside his
suspicions and was becoming confidential. We asked him how long ago his
people had come to Kufara, and he replied, “My father, my grandfather
and his father have all lived here, but before then the tribe came.
Sheikh Mohammed was fifty-six, so we gathered that the conquest had
taken place some hundred and fifty years ago. It is a pathetic thing
that the Tebus are disappearing from the wadi even faster than the
traces of their odd round houses. Only a few years ago there were about
five hundred of these dark-skinned, round-faced people, with smooth
hair, broad nostrils and wide mouths, but devoid of the thick negroid
lips. Now there are between fifty and a hundred. Nearly all of them live
in a palm-leaf village with a few round mud hovels on the outskirts of
Jof. They are more pastoral in habit than the Arabs, so, in spite of
their debased position as employees of the Zouias, they own a good many
goats and sheep and a few camels.”
There is practically no pasturage in the wadi, only a little coarse
grass or rushes by the lakes and sparse tufts of the brown, mossy hattab
we saw at Buseima. Therefore there are very few flocks indeed and milk
and meat are luxuries except among the prosperous ekhwan of Taj. Fresh
water is not plentiful, for there are no springs. There is absolutely no
rainfall. Sometimes for eight consecutive years there is not a single
shower. All the gardens are irrigated from wells, but slave labour is
abundant. Yet Kufara in summer must be a veritable Eden. From her grapes
she makes the sweet vinegar we drank at banquets and from her roses the
essence dropped into our tea, as well as the heavier perfume used in
braziers. She has olives for oil, almonds, lemons, figs, melons and
peaches. Her leather comes from the Sudan and the shoemakers in Jof
fashion delightful red heel-less shoes of soft, pliable hide without
nails, but with thongs to bind round the ankles. The Tebus make baskets
and rope from the palm leaves, but there is no weaving. The rich clothes
of the princely ekhwan, which were our envy and admiration, came from
Egypt. “Before the war there were many caravans. One came nearly every
day” (which means that one was nearly always within the confines of the
oasis, perhaps a weekly arrival). “Now there are very few,” said Sheikh
Mohammed.
We learned that when a caravan came from the Sudan it consisted of 150
camels, belonging to perhaps a dozen different merchants, who brought
ivory, feathers, sandal, leather; but smuggling of slaves had been
difficult since the stringent French law had decreed that the whole
caravan should be confiscated if one slave were found in it. As a matter
of fact, we had been thirty-seven days on the route from Jedabia and we
had not met a single caravan from Wadai, nor did any arrive while we
were in Kufara; but this may have been partly due to the fact that the
Beduins prefer travelling in summer, when they march all night and sleep
most of the day. They can go farther this way, without suffering from
the intense cold of the winter dawn. Also the winter is the foaling time
for camels in Libya, which makes travelling precarious.
There is a large market in Jof twice a week, to which people come from
as far off as Hawari and Tolab to barter pigeons, eggs, fowls, girbas
and foodstuffs. Slaves are not now sold in the public square on Mondays
and Thursdays, but many a human bargain is arranged in the shuttered
houses around it. For 100 mejidies one can buy a man and for 200 a
woman, but young girls of fourteen and fifteen fetch up to 250 mejidies
(nearly £50). “These be high prices,” said the Zouia despondently. “But
the people in Barca have bought many slaves lately and there are fewer
caravans.” We learned that the Tuaregs of the west had regular slave
farms, where they bred and sold human beings as we do cattle. “You can
see sixty slaves in one farm,” said our guardian sheikh. As an instance
of how uncivilised were the Zouias before the coming of the Senussi, he
told us that a certain Sheikh Mohammed Sherif went to Benghazi, the end
of the world, and came back with an oil lamp which was looked upon as a
miracle by the tribesmen of Kufara. By the power of a little kerosene he
ruled them for years, giving judgments and discovering malefactors by
interpreting its light.
Deep in conversation we skirted the rough, rocky ground to the south of
the broad belt of Jof palms and came to Talakh, at the end of the
emerald maze where Sayed Ahmed owns many gardens. A whole colony of
slaves dwelt in clusters of “tukels,” within neat palm-leaf fences and
there were some biggish houses of sand bricks, on whose flat roofs
masses of dates were drying in the sun. The afternoon was far advanced
by this time, but the Zouia was anxious to show us the beauty spot of
the oasis, so we rode through the thickest palm groves between mounds of
grey bushes until quite suddenly we came to a little round lake, whose
still water reflected every frond of the palms drooping round it under
the shadow of high amber banks which shut in the pool on every side, so
that duck sported on it peacefully without fear of onlookers. It was a
lovely picture, with the rose-red hills in the distance, but we were
glad to turn our donkeys’ heads homewards and still gladder when the
massive houses of Taj appeared on the most precipitous cliff in the
distance.
The names of the villages in Kufara are interesting, for whereas Taj
means very suitably “a crown,” and Jof “inside,” Zuruk and Tolab are the
names of two tribes which are still to be found in Egypt. Sheikh
Mohammed told us that they had helped the Zouias to conquer the
unfortunate Tebu and had received the places bearing their names as
their share of the spoil. Later, however, they had grown tired of the
remote valley and of the endless disputes between Zouias and Tebus,
which lasted till the coming of the Senussi, and had returned to their
own country.
January 18 saw the virtual end of our pilgrimage. As we took leave of
Sidi Saleh, after our third cup of mint tea, he asked us if we would
like to visit the Zawia of the Asayad. Daily we had passed the massive
block of buildings from which generally issued the sound of the chanted
Koran. We knew that inside those formidable walls was the qubba of the
Mahdi, a symbol only, for the Senussi believe their saint still living,
but nevertheless, the goal of all Senussi pilgrims and the object of
almost as much veneration as the tomb of the Prophet. In the course of
slow, dignified conversation, with the correct proportion of prolonged
silences, we had delicately approached the subject of visiting the
revered shrine, but no other sanction than “Insha-allah” had been
vouchsafed us. Time and date are never suggested in the East. Thus we
had to wait patiently till the kaimakaan was satisfied that the suitable
moment had come.
We passed through the large, low mosque which joined the zawia. Rows of
great, square, whitewashed pilasters supported the heavy wooden palm
trunks forming the beams of the flat roof. It was utterly unadorned and
the “mimbar” was of the simplest description, without paint or carving;
yet for a moment, as I stood on the threshold of the holy of holies of a
great warrior confraternity, austere and fanatical, I forgot the
troubles and dangers of a long journey. I understood something of the
awe and reverence of any other shoeless pilgrim, who, after much travel,
steps at last from the white mats of the mosque into the dim chamber
where he will kiss the sacred qubba. For the first time I realised the
great peace which comes at a journey’s end, yet the long, narrow room
was unlike our Western idea of a shrine. Nearly the whole of the floor
space was occupied by the graves of members of the Senussi family,
oblongs of desert sand, with a stone edging and an upright slab at
either end. A narrow carpeted pathway ran round these to the farthest
corner where stood the qubba of the Mahdi—an ark-shaped wooden framework
covered with a red cloth.
As befits a creed which forbids all luxury, the simplicity of the room
was striking. There was nothing to impress the pilgrim except his own
passionate reverence. His worship must of necessity be a thing of the
spirit and not of the senses. Yet that low dim chamber in the middle of
the Sahara is in its way as impressive as St. Peter’s at Rome, or the
Temple of Heaven in Pekin! Cardinals and mandarins may bring mixed
motives to their worship, but the fierce-eyed Beduin in rough white
burnus, worn wooden rosary hanging from sun-dried fingers, prays with a
strenuous simplicity and earnestness that must impress the very
atmosphere with the sincerity of his devotion. Thus I felt as, hands
raised to Heaven, I murmured the “Bismallah Arahman Arahim” under keen
watching eyes; but when we passed out into the sunlight the impression
faded and one’s guard was up again!
First there was a fight with the blacks who had become hopelessly
unruly. Having been only remarkable for their absence when there was any
real danger, they now devoted their time to eating, sleeping and talking
of their prowess. We, therefore, decided to send them back to Jalo by
the main caravan route and go on ourselves to Jaghabub. This time the
retinue protested in vain. We had suffered too much from their fears
coming in to wish to return through the continual minor panics of the
Zouia country. The Jaghabub route is considerably shorter, for it cuts
off the angle of Jalo and, above all, it is utterly unknown to
Europeans. As it necessitates at least twelve days without water, some
600 kilometres, it is rarely attempted except by very large well-
equipped caravans, who can afford to lose a few camels by the way, or by
the Senussi family, who can send camels laden with water on ahead to
fill some reservoirs especially placed for the purpose.
We had seen the dangers of travelling with a moderately large and
inefficient retinue, so we now determined to try the other extreme. We
proposed to take with us only Mohammed and Yusuf, a guide and perhaps a
camel-man. We should have to take four camels for water alone and
another two at least for fodder, before we could think of luggage and
provisions. The latter are easy, for it is no use providing for more
than seventeen days at the outside after leaving Hawawiri. If by that
time the traveller is not safely in Jaghabub he is dead, for there are
no wells on the route after leaving Zakar, three days from Hawawiri.
Altogether it would be an exciting journey and, looking at the blank
white space on our survey map, where not even Zakar was marked, we
longed to put a long red line across it. Caravans from Egypt should
logically do the Jaghabub route unless they go direct from Siwa, which
means an extra half-day without water. The alternative is seven days to
Jalo, one to Buttafal, then seven to Zieghen and a further five to
Hawawiri. The worst point of the more direct route is that there are
four days of bad dunes just before reaching Jaghabub. However, anything
was preferable to trying to keep the peace between Beduins and Sudanese
for three weeks, with the accompanying tale of sore feet and overladen
camels, water squandered, fuel all used during the first few days and
doubtless a delay at each well.
We spent most of the morning arguing with the soldiers, who all
apparently wanted to get married at Jaghabub, probably on the reward
they hoped to get for accompanying us there. Then visitors began to
arrive, which proved that the mental atmosphere was changing. The
chilly, doubtful feeling I had predicted was beginning to trouble the
Zouias who had so stormily swept from our presence two days before. The
dark Hamid Bu Korayim was the first to come. He had been one of the
loudest to denounce the strangers. Now he said: “I wanted all the men to
come out to meet you with drums, but there was dissension. What you said
at the meeting was true, but it would not have been good for me to have
agreed with you then. I was obliged to support the others, for we had
arranged what we were going to say beforehand.” This was a poor specimen
of Arab mentality, but he was followed by an entirely different type,
Suleiman Bu Matar, old and much-travelled, very devoted to the Senussi
family. At the original meeting he had been calm and suave, only saying
that we should waste time by going to the villages. Now he said with
very quiet dignity, “Your words were wise, but you must not judge the
people here by your own countrymen. Egypt is the mother of the world.
The villagers here are very ignorant.” He then offered to accompany us
to the other end of the oasis.
Thereafter the retinue were somewhat less frightened and we went to Jof
without difficulty. We rode along a little causeway which crossed the
big, curly lake in the midst of the Jof palm gardens and when we came to
the rough, salt marsh on the farther side, we found the ruins of a whole
Tebu village. Some of the houses were amazingly small but very well
preserved—the hard mortar smooth and always polished on the outside—
looking exactly like round clay ovens. As at Buma, on the very edge of
the water was a castle. It appears that the Tebus fought only with
spears, so a strip of water was a good protection against attack.
Therefore, wherever there is a lake in the Kufara or Buseima oases, one
is pretty certain to find the ruins of villages and primitive forts. The
Zouias won an easy victory because they had guns and gunpowder. Jof is a
large native town stretching for about a kilometre in a line of solid,
long walls without door or window. At one end is the old zawia
established by the ekhwan of Sidi Ben Ali. It is an insignificant
building, very low, with a dark, bare mosque, large and very well kept,
and in a further room a qubba of the daughters of Sidi el Mahdi. This
tomb is enclosed in a green wooden frame and hung with quantities of
ostrich eggs. It is much venerated and in one of the courts we saw some
pilgrims from Wadai, fierce-looking blacks with rosaries and long palm
staves.
The whole life of an Arab town goes on within the high, impenetrable
walls. Otherwise they are cities of the dead. I doubt if we saw a dozen
figures in the streets of Jof till we came to the Tebu settlement, yet
it has a population of some seven hundred. The women literally never set
foot outside their houses. The whole time I was in Taj I never saw a
woman except one or two elderly black slaves. It must be an
extraordinary life within a few square feet bounded by blind walls. The
ladies of the Sayeds’ families can visit each other perhaps, as in Taj
the houses of the Senussi family are adjoining. But I have never been in
any Eastern town where life was so reserved and aloof. Presumably the
men gossip, but if so, they do it in each other’s houses, for one never
sees a group in the streets. Very occasionally one notices a grave
figure with brass ewer or humble teapot, performing the necessary
ablution at sunset before saying the obligatory prayers, or perhaps a
reflective grey-bearded individual standing at an open door. The great
difference between the Senussi towns and any other desert city is the
entire absence in the former of the cafés, which usually form the centre
of life and movement. They vary in size and splendour, but, from
Omdurman to Tuggourt, one finds in every village at least a mud-walled
room with rough benches and little tables, or, in the more primitive
places, merely a raised ledge running round the walls, where all the
menfolk gossip over longstemmed narghilehs, while generally a dancer
performs some variation of the _danse du ventre_. In Libya, smoking,
drinking and dancing-girls are forbidden by the Senussi law. Therefore
the café has no _raison d’être_ and the towns are silent, apparently
deserted, infinitely discreet!
We rode all round the scattered masses of Jof’s houses, meeting She-ib’s
brother, Ahmed el Khadri, a well-known Senussi clerk, who greeted us
warmly and was delighted to get news of his family. Then we climbed the
little group of gherds beyond the town and looked down upon the Tebu
village whose headman is Sa-ad el Tebu. Very primitive were the
dwellings after the solid Zouia buildings, for the greater part were
just palm-leaf huts. The men were generally tall and clad in sheepskins,
the wool worn inside. Their food, when they travel, consists of powdered
locusts and powdered dates mixed together. The women wore only one long
dark piece of stuff, wound round them like a barracan, but generally
tattered and somewhat inadequate. The young ones were distinctly pretty
with charming round faces, wide, long-lashed eyes, almost black skins,
but without any of the swollen negroid characteristics.
As we rode back across the wadi I discovered the right adjective for the
cliffs of Kufara. Of course they were amber, a rich, mellow amber, which
detracted from the green of the palms, so that the gardens of Jof took
on a wonderful silvery-grey appearance against the burnt gold of the
hills.
That night, while meticulously measuring the just proportion of tea,
sugar and spice, the kaimakaan offered to show us an original letter of
Sidi Ben Ali es Senussi to the people of Wajanga on the road to Wadai. I
think our enthusiastic interest pleased him, for he at once detached an
immense key from his belt and gave it to a slave, who brought a casket
not much bigger than the key. This was placed solemnly in the circle of
light on the dark-piled carpets and in the almost tangible silence that
seemed to reign within that house, Sidi Saleh reverently drew forth a
single sheet of rough quarto paper, three-quarters of which was covered
with minute, old-fashioned Arabic. I give the literal translation in the
appendix because the letter is of historical importance as it announces
the Senussi’s intention of accepting the allegiance of the Zouias, of
coming to Kufara with the tacit understanding that his rule would be
accepted so far south of Wajanga. It was an exceedingly interesting
document and one fully appreciated its value in the exotic house of Sidi
el Abed in the middle of the legendary oasis.
CHAPTER XII
THE FLIGHT FROM TAJ
Thereafter we settled down for a day or two to the reserved and placid
life of Taj. We got up shortly after sunrise and while there was yet no
sign of movement among the dark, discreet walls we wandered miles along
the cliffs, trying to get the exact positions of the various oases and
villages. The latter are almost invisible in some lights, as they are
made of the sand and stones amidst which they stand. We found that the
wadi narrowed to a strip to the north-east beyond Boema, while to the
west it widened out into a wide expanse of hattab, high mounds covered
with sticks and leafless bushes. To the south-west these hillocks rose
from twelve to twenty feet and then beyond Tolab, which was too far away
to be seen from our cliffs, the hattab gradually merged into the flat
desert.
One morning we explored the whole of the salt marsh, from whose hard,
grey, stony matter the Tebus had built their houses. We found the
remains of a whole village, though some of the houses were but broken
circles on the ground. The main fort had one chamber sixteen feet in
diameter and the highest bit of wall existing measured eleven feet, but
round it was a crumbled mass of walls and smaller rooms, or separate
buildings perhaps, as each was neatly finished off with perfectly
rounded surface, like the damp clay pots one sees made on a rotary
wheel. I think the Tebus must have found the salt, hard sand especially
good for their very enduring mortar, for their ruined villages are to be
found only on marshes, as at Buseima, Buma and Jof. When we heard that
there were Tebu remains in Taiserbo and actual Tebus in Ribiana, we
instantly concluded that there were marshes in these two oases and the
idea proved correct.
When we returned from our matutinal walks we had enough appetite to cope
with Sidi Saleh’s prodigious hospitality. Every morning on the stroke of
nine a light tap came on my green and yellow door and there was Durur,
with smiling ebony face, ready to lead us by sandy path and intricate
court and passage to the wide, carpeted loggia, where waited our kindly
host to wave us into the long, dark chamber redolent of roses and
cinnamon. After we had gravely washed our hands in the Damascus basin,
we crouched cross-legged beside the immense brass tray and there was a
moment of thrilled expectation while another slave lifted the lids of a
dozen dishes. Sometimes there was a small carved tray, inlaid with
silver, on which stood half a score of bowls of sweetmeats, stiff
blancmanges of all colours adorned with almonds, very sweet pastes
something like Yorkshire pudding, junket made of the milk of a newly
lambing sheep, all sorts of date concoctions, couss-couss made with
raisins and sugar, a white, sticky cream flavoured with mint. Always
there were bowls of sweet hot milk and piles of thin, crisp, heavy bread
fried with butter and eaten hot with sugar, called in Egypt “bread of
the judge.” Arab custom ordains that a guest must be entertained for
three days and three nights, but the generous kaimakaan would not hear
of our getting anything for ourselves. The story of Jedabia was repeated
over again. Once we protested about the mighty meals provided in the
house of Sidi el Abed and the next day, as a reminder that the
hospitality of the East is unbounded and must be accepted with the
simplicity with which it is offered, the number of dishes was doubled
and there were no fewer than twenty loaves ranged round the tray, while
the centre _plat_ was no longer a bowl, it was literally a bath of
mellow, golden rice in which lay the buttery fragments of a whole sheep.
Two hours each morning were spent in that quiet room going through the
various ceremonies dependent on “breakfasting.” When the highly spiced
and peppered coffee was finished, there were always the three glasses of
green tea, hot and strong, with dignified slow conversation, punctuated
by many pauses, while the brazier smoke made little hypnotic spirals,
and through the open door a splash of sunlight crept over the
castellated wall and lingered on the purple and rose of the carpets
between the great arches of the loggia.
[Illustration: A TEBU AT AWARDEL IN KUFARA]
About eleven o’clock, scented and very replete, we took ceremonious
leave of our host and departed slowly, but the instant the doors of Sidi
Idris’s house closed on the last “Aleikum salaam” of the departing
slave, we dropped the ponderous and reflective gait suited to our
exalted position and ran across the great court to shut ourselves up in
the “harem,” the only really private bit of the house, with pencils and
paper. How we regretted, as we struggled with angles and degrees, the
perverse distrust with which the Zouias regard even a compass. We used
to have the most frantic arguments about our primitive maps, but
Hassanein was nearly always right as to direction and I as to distance,
fruit of so many long journeys in the desert, where all landmarks appear
three times as near as they really are. We worked solidly till four or
five, though there were nearly always interruptions—Mohammed, to say
that we should have to buy a camel-man for twenty pounds and sell him
again at Jaghabub, Yusuf, to say the girbas still leaked after all his
cunning treatment, little Sidi Omar, resplendent in a wonderful yellow
jubba, to hint about the scarcity of pocket-knives in Kufara, Sheikh
Musa, from Hawari, to tell us that the men of his village were too over-
awed to visit us in the house of the Sayeds, but were exceedingly
regretful concerning their reception of us.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT AWARDEL]
[Illustration: LOADING AT AWARDEL]
So the hot hours wore away and about five we wandered out to see the
amazing sunsets over the wadi, when for a few minutes the whole oasis
was dyed in rainbow flames. Generally, before the crimson disk had sunk
beyond the western sands, Surur was anxiously scanning the landscape to
announce the dinner hour. We had long ago lost count of European time.
We used vaguely to calculate that the sun rose at 6 A.M. and set at 6
P.M., but for all practical purposes we followed the Arab day, which
begins an hour after sunset. We set our watches each evening to solar
time and found ourselves counting the changing months by the lunar year
of Islam. I never knew what day of the week it was till Friday came,
when, if we were in a town, we joined the stream of worshippers, clad in
their best clothes, who wended their way to the mosque. In the desert
the most learned would recite the Koran and read a simple form of
prayer. While the muezzin was crying the melodious call to prayer, “La
Illaha ill’Allah! Haya alla Salah! Haya alla Fallah!” from the round
tower at the end of the zawia wall, we passed between the shuttered
houses, gravely greeting the few white shrouded forms who crossed our
path. As the last appealing yet triumphant “Allahu Akhbar!” rang out to
the evening star we entered the first low door, and the oppressive
secrecy of the house shut us in. How many cloistered lives were hidden
behind the little wooden shutters that never opened for dark-fringed
eyes to peer shyly at the passing strangers! Sometimes little Sidi Omar
ran out to kiss my hand and say, “On my head and my eyes, I love you!”
Sometimes we saw a long row of red leather slippers before one of the
smaller porches and caught a glimpse of white figures bent over a huge
platter from which, with the right thumb and two fingers—it is very bad
form to dirty more of the hand than this—they ate rapidly. Otherwise the
house kept its secrets well and we never knew who lived in it or how!
After the evening meal the atmosphere mellowed with the candle-light and
mint tea. Our host talked to us of the Sayeds he served, of their great
history and their great influence. We learned that Sidi Ahmed es Sherif
was respected and revered as the supporter of the old régime. He stood
for the stern, unbending laws of the first Senussi. His judgments were
ruthlessly severe and rapidly executed, as in the case of the
unfortunate Mukhtar. The malefactor saw only a stately white figure,
completely veiled, and from behind the snowy cloth came the immutable
words of judgment. Sayed Ahmed broke men. He never bent them. Yet the
older ekhwan, serious and simple, venerated him because to them he
represents the power of tradition, the inviolate Islam, fanatically
opposed to European progress. On the other hand, Sidi Idris is loved. As
the son of the Mahdi, the Senussi saint, the wonder of whose works and
words is rapidly becoming legendary, he inherits a great power. The
Beduin likes to worship something tangible under Allah. He must feel
convinced that there is one being on earth who blends spiritual and
temporal power so that he can himself dwell in a sort of mystic
security. “Inshallah, and if our lord Idris wills it!” is an oft-
repeated phrase. The Emir has a reputation for justice and patience. The
former is as stringent and as merciless as that of his predecessor, but
it is tempered with the infinite patience always taken to ensure the
whole of the case being examined before judgment is given. This is
essential in a land where the justice of the Koran is the only code. “An
eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.” Drunkenness is punished by
flogging. The thief loses his right hand. Treachery means death. Sidi
Idris is too good a Moslem and too great a mystic not to have secured
the whole-hearted devotion of his father’s followers, while his broad-
minded and intelligent foreign policy has secured him the respect of the
modern element. The accord at Regima was one of his greatest triumphs.
It showed his power in Cyrenaica. The tribal sheikhs of the coast,
almost without exception, announced, “The word of Idris is ours!”
The closing scene of our day will always be connected in my mind with
the chanting of the Koran in the zawia and the most brilliant clear
starlight, as we returned to our house in silence, only broken by the
soft shuffling of our heel-less slippers in the sand. While the cold
white light warred with our candles and the melodious words of “The
Book” were still humming in our ears, visitors would gradually make
their appearance: the judge, Osman Quadi, Mahmud el-Jeddawi, the wakil,
a few of the more advanced ekhwan, among whom was Mohammed Tawati,
“close friend of the Mahdi.” The last-named is partially paralysed, and
the Senussi mind, always alert for signs and miracles, explains that, in
defiance of the direct orders of Sidi el Riffi, the unfortunate man
started to journey north. Before he reached Hawari his camel died and he
himself was stricken with paralysis.
In those dim evenings, while I made scented tea, the talk was a little
less formal. We learned how much the Mahdi had done for Kufara, for
besides giving it flowers, fruit and vegetables, he introduced pigeons
and duck and the cultivation of grain. He built the fortress sanctuary
of Taj, where the wells are ninety feet deep, so that water is always
scarce and a girba full is a gift, since two hefty slaves have to wind
up the heavy buckets foot by foot. The site is well chosen, but the town
depends for its life on an army of slaves, for every vegetable or
flower, every date and piece of firewood, must be carried up from the
wadi below. The fuel is dry hattab and huge palm leaves. There is also
charcoal made in the valley. The Mahdi instituted the regular caravan
route to Wadai and encouraged a very extensive trade between the Sudan
and Cyrenaica. He “miraculously” discovered wells on the southern route
and old Sheikh Suleiman Bu Matar told how his father had been with the
saint when water failed the caravan at Sarra, on the way to Wadai. The
Senussi leader pointed to a spot which appeared to be solid rock and
bade the men dig. Hour after hour they laboured till the well had sunk
beyond the sight of the watchers up above. Only their faith in the Mahdi
could have made possible so gigantic a task, for the water did not
appear till the almost inconceivable depth of 120 “kamas” (the length of
a man’s forearm and hand from elbow to first knuckles). “Only a man with
amazing eyesight can see the water and the rope is unending,” said
Sheikh Suleiman.
We learned a list of the prices in Kufara from a ponderous merchant
whose striped brown and yellow jerd reminded one of Biblical pictures.
Hejin (trotting camels), all of which belonged to the Tebus, cost
seventeen to eighteen pounds in gold. Sheep were five mejidies, goats
four and a half, fowls half a mejidie, and pigeons four and a half
qurush. Eggs were very cheap—a hundred for a mejidie (two a penny), but
sugar was two mejidies an oke (eight shillings for two pounds) and tea
three mejidies an oke. Butter fetched two mejidies for three rotls (one
pound). Practically no other produce is sold. The owners of the gardens
keep their vegetables for themselves. Mahmud el-Jeddawi volunteered much
information about dates. “This year the grazing is good in Barca, so you
may buy several camel-loads for a mejidie, but when there is no grass in
the north the Zouias come here with large caravans and buy all our
dates, so that for a mejidie you can purchase but a few rotls!”[4] He
added that many tons of the Sayeds’ dates were even now rotting, as
there were no camels to take them away.
Footnote 4:
The usual exchange for paper money is six mejidies for one pound, but
for gold one receives seven. No paper money of any country is valid
beyond Jedabia. Ten qurush make one mejidie.
“I have noticed that there are very few camels in Kufara,” I said.
“There are very few men also,” he replied. “The Zouias have all taken
their camels to Barca this year to feed them on the good grass. They do
this every winter when the nagas are foaling, as there is no fodder
here. They leave their families in Kufara and come back to them in the
summer.”
I used to get very sleepy before the last visitor departed, having
generally urgently urged us not to do the Jaghabub route. They are the
most depressing of Job’s comforters with regard to journeys, for they
always remember terrible stories of death from thirst or loss of
direction, which they relate with infinite detail. Thus we learned that
the Gebel Fadil, on the east of the Zieghen route, was so called because
some twenty years ago one Jebail Fadil had missed the well at Zieghen on
his way from Jalo and had perished in the mountains with all his family.
Concerning the Jaghabub route, the most encouraging sentence was
generally, “If you miss it, you go either to Siwa or to hell!” uttered
in a tone that left no doubt as to which was the more probable!
We had secured the only guide in the place, Suleiman, and we had
ascertained that he really had done the journey four years before and
that previous to that he had done it with Yusuf. He was a little, quiet
old man, bent and grey, of few words. When we asked him the length of
the journey, he said, “Wallahi! I cannot tell. My walk is twelve days
from Zakar, but I do not know your walk.” We assured him with the utmost
fervour that our walk would most certainly be twin brother to his own,
but personally I thought the whole caravan would probably sit down and
die of complete inanition. Hassanein and I had never yet managed to walk
a whole twelve hours on end. Mohammed had nearly died in the attempt.
Yusuf had grown fat and soft again on the rich fare of Taj, while
Suleiman looked much too ancient and frail for such a stupendous march.
Our weakness was equalled only by that of the animals, for the best had
all foaled and only the young, unreliable nagas, three years old, and a
couple of ancient camels were left, beside the caricature and various
halt and lame, who looked as if they were dancing all the time, because
they had cut feet! However, we had become completely fatalistic. We
proposed to take vast stores of water and put the rest of our trust in
Allah.
We also proposed to leave Kufara as soon as possible. Firstly, because
our hosts were so prodigious in their hospitality that we could not bear
to take advantage of it longer than was absolutely necessary for our
work. Secondly, because, though what may be called the party directly
responsible to the Government were very kindly disposed towards the
guests of their rulers, the ancient and old-fashioned ekhwan held aloof.
They would not believe that any strangers could have been given
permission to penetrate their guarded privacy. They were torn between
their desire to do honour to the Sayeds and their horror of diverging a
hair’s breadth from immemorial custom. Among the Zouias there were now
two factions. Many had been infected by the stories of the Bazama family
and Abdullah, but a small party had gradually formed in our favour under
the leadership of Suleiman Bu Matar.
There were always, however, currents and cross-currents under the
surface which sometimes rippled into open suspicion. Also there had been
many very persistent inquiries on the part of the most lawless elements
as to the exact date of our departure and our proposed route. It was
known that the soldiers would not be travelling with us, so we should be
an easy prey if the tribesmen wanted to play their last card. We
therefore spread the rumour that we should remain at least a fortnight
longer at Taj and privately began to make preparations for another
flight, this time aided and abetted by the kaimakaan, who planned to
send our little caravan a day’s march ahead while we were still openly
in Taj. Under the guidance of a trusted sheikh we could overtake it on
fast-trotting camels.
Meanwhile it was necessary that we should investigate the western end of
the oasis. For this purpose Sheikh Suleiman offered himself as guide and
host combined. “I will arrange everything,” he said quietly. “Do not
trouble yourselves. You shall travel in comfort.” We rather wondered
what represented his idea of comfort when he announced that we would
start two hours before dawn, as it was a very long way. However, we duly
rose at 9 o’clock by night Arabic (3 A.M.), and shortly afterwards a
muffled thudding on the door warned us that our escort had arrived. We
hurried out, clutching all available blankets, for it was extremely
cold. The moon had set, so at first I thought two immense towers had
sprung up in the night outside the house. A second glance revealed them
as very tall hejin. They were barraked with difficulty and I mounted the
most uncomfortable saddle I have ever met. It must have had the
advantage from the camel’s point of view of being exceedingly light, for
it consisted merely of two bars about ten inches apart, across which was
doubled a carpet, with an upright spoke in front and behind, but it had
every possible disadvantage for the aching bones of the rider. Little
did I guess that I was destined, with a few short pauses, to spend no
less than seventeen hours upon that seat of torture. The commandant,
Saleh Effendi, with his gold and green cloak thrown across his thickest
jerd, and Hassanein mounted donkeys, which looked microscopic from my
towering height. Two soldiers perched themselves, one behind the other,
on the second hejin, and down into the wadi we swung, picking our way
slowly till we came to the massed palms, when the party settled down to
ride.
The silvery stone of the marsh was a frozen grey in the starlight and
the houses of Jof but a blur on the low ridge. The leaf hedges were
rustling fingers stretched out to bar our way, and the great beams of
the “shadouks” (wells) ghostly gibbets in the shadow of the palms.
Outside one of Jof’s blind walls we barraked, when, after prolonged
knocking, a sleepy slave announced that Sheikh Suleiman was not yet
ready. Arab life is very adaptable. Within a few minutes of receiving
the news the saddle carpets had been spread in the shelter of the wall,
a fire of palm leaves (sent out by our host) lighted, dates produced
from the same hospitable source and we had all settled down for a
prolonged wait under the still brilliant stars. I think I slept for a
few moments, my head on a stone, for when I was roused by a soft “Salaam
Aleikum!” the stars were less brilliant and a third slender-limbed hejin
was outlined against the grey sky. We set forth briskly to the south,
and soon the long block of Jof’s houses and the neatly fenced gardens of
the Sayeds lay behind us. The donkeys kept up a sort of short amble,
while the camels slipped into the tireless swinging stride, half swift
walk, half trot, the most comfortable pace in the world. As the light
grew clearer I saw that mine was a big Tebesti beast, palest grey, long-
haired and stately, but not as finely bred as the other two. They were
the fast Tuareg breed of piebald grey and white, with blue eyes, very
thin, like greyhounds in their lean slenderness. They ought to be able
to do the racing trot which covers 10 kilometres an hour.
Through the dawn we rode and till the sun grew hot, always west with a
hint of south. The large sweep of Jof palms disappeared on our right.
Zuruk was left on the other side. Then, as we came into the open space
beyond, where the large mounds of hattab begin, we saw that we were
leaving the enchanted wadi behind us. We skirted the long strip of palms
which forms Tolelib. There is no proper village in the oasis, but,
scattered through the green, one catches sight of a few houses of the
slaves who tend the palms. As we went farther west the mounds grew to
hillocks and the red sand was tufted here and there with high grass,
while masses of grey bushes climbed over the miniature gherds. Four
hours after sunrise, while yet Tolab was far ahead, Sheikh Suleiman
called a halt. A cold north wind had arisen and was finding the old
tender spot in my shoulder, so I was glad when he chose the largest
sandhill for our picnic breakfast. Bright scarlet rugs were spread on
the lee side for the men and a faded rose-red carpet in the shelter of a
smaller mound for me, as a woman could not eat with the soldiers. I
fancy it would have hurt the Zouia’s susceptibilities if he had been
obliged to encounter feminine fingers in the common bowl.
After that meal we had an idea of what the Beduin means by travelling
comfortably. A complete portable kitchen must have been hidden in the
capacious brightly striped khoorgs that hung on either side of the blue-
eyed camel. The most delicious odours were soon wafted from a pot
stewing on a brushwood fire. A soldier brought me a long-necked brass
ewer and a towel before my breakfast was shyly handed me by an ancient
and dignified servitor of the sheikh, by name Mohammed, who had run
beside his chief the whole way from Jof without protest, though he
carried a heavy rifle. I had been given a brass tray of dates to eat and
I was contemplating writing a monograph on the various uses of the date
in Kufara. It is used for all sweetening purposes in cooking. Mixed with
some other local ingredient it makes a sticky sort of glue. A soft date,
slightly squashed, takes the place of a cork and every tin of oil is
sealed that way. The stones apparently make studs for the nostrils of
Tebu girls. I feel sure there are other uses, but the appearance of food
prevented my thinking of them that morning among the bristling mounds of
hattab.
I lifted a plaited cover of palm leaves embroidered in red and there
were nearly a dozen hard-boiled eggs surrounding a mound of crisp, flat
bread. Another layer of palm leaf disclosed enough cold lamb, cooked in
red pepper and onions, to feed all the party liberally, while the whole
was balanced upon a bowl of delicious thick soup full of vermicelli,
carrots and other unknown vegetables. All was hot with scarlet strips of
fil-fil. Greed and fear struggled in my mind, but the former won and all
the cold north wind could not cool my fevered tongue after I had
partaken of that highly spiced dish.
When a row of little tin tea-pots were heating on separate piles of
ashes, I joined the party under the larger mound and we drank hot sweet
tea, which tasted strongly of the inside of the girba which had been
hidden underneath the saddle-bags. Afterwards there was half an hour’s
amiable silence, punctuated by rare remarks chiefly concerning the flora
and fauna of the wadi, this being the least suspicious subject of
conversation we could think of and Mohammed being visibly eager to
distrust. It could not be lengthened out interminably because there are
no wild animals in Kufara and I never saw a bird, though I was told that
several species, chief among them the wagtail-like “abu fasada,” make
their appearance in March at the harvest time—the grain is a winter
crop. Of insects there is a large variety, chiefly distinguished by
their voracious appetites! Cleopatra’s asp, a small, fawn-coloured
snake, lurks among the sand and in the oasis there are several kinds of
serpents, large and small, most of them poisonous. We were assured that
one large dark snake measures at least 6 feet and is particularly feared
by the natives. Perhaps this is the legendary beast of Hawaish!
After our excellent meal Tolab appeared much nearer and the wind much
less strong. We rode on for another couple of hours and verified our
suspicions that the wadi had no definite end; we had a bitter argument
as to degrees, for we had not dared to bring even a compass, which for
once was later decided in my favour by the setting sun. Then we turned
to the scattered gardens of Tolab, where I saw roses, verbena and tiny
lemon trees, all neatly tied up in fibre matting after the fashion of
English gardeners. There is absolutely nothing to see in this last oasis
of Kufara, whose sand-brick houses are scattered round the cultivated
plots without regular order. We noticed a number of shadouks worked by
small, grey donkeys and were hurried away by our host to get a glimpse
of the far-distant Gebel Neri, as he had become quite interested in our
exploration. These mountains are wonderful landmarks for at least two
days south and north, but when we passed them on the way from Buseima we
had no means of judging their height. We thought they might rise 150 to
200 metres above the surrounding country, which would make them 750 to
800 above sea level, but this was only a guess.
Two and a half days’ journey north-west of Tolab lies Ribiana, behind a
gara twice as big as that of Buseima. We were told that the population
consists of about a hundred Zouias and Tebus. There is an old zawia
founded by the four original ekhwan sent by Sidi Ben Ali. The sheikh is
Abu Bakr. There is a salt marsh between the mountain and the strip of
palms some 18 kilometres long, at the southern end of which is the
zawia, while at the northern end is a village of about ten houses. This
information we gathered from Sheikh Suleiman as we rode round the
western end of Tolab and turned homewards through the waste of low
hattab towards Tolelib. Thereafter the hours seemed interminable.
Nothing ever got any nearer, while the saddle bars felt like knife
blades. The only break was when we dismounted for the Asr prayers.
Eventually we entered the northern edge of Tolelib’s palms and were only
too thankful when, just before sunset, the tireless Zouia called a halt
beside an immense sandbank and the morning meal was repeated.
“We will take a glass of tea to refresh us,” said our host modestly, but
very soon another savoury mess was being stewed in the capacious pot,
while Saleh Effendi produced fresh mint leaves which had been given him
at Tolab. This time everyone ate swiftly, plunging great chunks of bread
into the basin of stewed vegetables and meat, but once again I was
provided with a separate meal tastefully arranged on wicker plates. In
half an hour we were in the saddle again, but the animals were tired and
the sunset blazed behind us before we drew near the dark shadow of
Zuruk. A three-quarter moon mingled her silver light with the red of the
flaming west and the amber sands reflected the most extraordinary
colours, which changed in the unreal light like the transformation scene
in the pantomime. The pace was just too quick to walk in the soft, deep
sand, so I had to cling to my painful saddle for another three hours. In
starlight we had left Jof. In starlight we returned to it, steering by a
blazing fire set to guide us to the gardens of Sayed Rida, from where
Mahmud el-Jeddawi had asked us to bring some sacks of dates, probably
for our own journey. The scene of the early morning was repeated, for
the Sayed’s black slaves, fantastic figures in tattered sacking or
shreds of cotton, brought bundles of palm leaves for a fire and poured a
great pile of hard golden dates on to a huge woven platter. We crunched
these as we rested our aching bones on hastily spread carpets, while
more and more ebony figures joined the group and just the heads of the
camels solemnly chewing the cud came into the circle of wavering
firelight under the stars.
The last hour’s ride was very slow, for the hejin were unaccustomed to
carrying loads, but it was done to the accompaniment of marriage music
from the town and wild “ulla-la-een” of women, mixed with firing of guns
and beating of drums. “He is taking a very little girl. She is only
thirteen,” said Saleh Effendi of the bridegroom. I thought of the woman-
child in her stiff, heavy draperies, clinging shyly and desperately to
the veil which she would so soon have to raise for an unknown man, the
stranger to whom her parents had given her!
Yusuf and Mohammed were waiting for us at the top of the cliff—two
unrecognisable figures entirely muffled in immense woollen jerds. With
the usual Arab cheerfulness they had come to the conclusion that we had
already been murdered by the Zouias!
The attitude of the two men had been very characteristic during our stay
at Taj. Both knew by this time that the object of the expedition was to
write a book about the country. Both believed it must be for the good of
the Senussi since we travelled under the Sayeds’ protection, but after
this they differed. Yusuf felt that he had accomplished his duty when we
arrived safely in Kufara. He was delighted that we were well received
and hospitably entertained by the Government, for he thought that we
should be impressed by the generosity of the Sayeds. Mohammed felt
instinctively that we did not need impressing and all he wanted was that
the work of Sidi Idris should be successfully achieved. Both were
conscious of the undercurrent of unrest. Yusuf, treating us as strangers
and himself as one of the people of Kufara, explained to us with perfect
justice that the position was largely due to our own mistakes. Often we
had trusted the wrong people. Often I, alas, had forgotten the nice
shades of Moslem feminine behaviour in my thirst for knowledge. Mohammed
swept aside all these points. He counted that Sidi Idris and he and we
were all pitted for the moment against those who hampered, consciously
or unconsciously, the work of the Sayed. Therefore he used to encourage
us in friendly fashion, gather news for us, explain exactly how we
should treat such and such a rumour and urge us to persevere. Yusuf
always laboured to vindicate the honour of the Sayeds. Mohammed, knowing
that no vindication was necessary, laboured to accomplish through us the
task he had been given so many weeks before in Jedabia. The one thought
in terms of couss-couss and padded camel-saddles, the other in something
he vaguely termed work, but which, of course, should logically have been
the pencils and note-books he distrusted!
The day after our long expedition to Tolab was El Gumma, so, luckily,
breakfast—a mighty bowl of pigeons, eggs and carrots—was sent to our
house and we stayed indoors till it was time for the noon prayers,
announced by the muezzin and by a runner who knocked at the outer door
of each house with his cry of invitation ever repeated. Hassanein
clothed himself in the cleanest jerd and departed to the zawia with the
devout Mohammed. I slipped into an outer room beyond the mosque, for
there was no place in the latter for women, and watched the impressive
scene, discreetly hidden behind a pillar. All the ekhwan were present in
their most resplendent silk jubbas, with snowy veils above their many-
coloured kufiyas. They made splashes of vivid red, orange and green
among the coarse white jerds of the Beduins. After the last “Azzan,”
with sound of fife and drum, escorted by a guard of soldier slaves in
their gala attire, khaki with sundry embroideries, the kaimakaan arrived
in state with Sidi Mohi ed Din and Sidi Ibrahim the sons of Sayed Ahmed
Sherif and Sidi Senussi, son of Sidi el Abed. His usual grave dignity
was accentuated as he mounted the “mimbar,” a massive figure in striped
rose and purple silk, with embroidered blue jacket underneath a
gorgeous, many-tasselled kufiya, stiff with gold thread, over his
spotless white turban, from which depended the finest silk and wool
veil. In delivering the usual Friday speech he asked the prayers and
benediction of Allah for the four earliest Caliphs, Abu Bekr, Omar,
Othman and Ali, and for twelve other sainted followers and friends of
the Prophet. After the prayer a solemn procession, headed by the sons of
the Senussi Sayeds, passed in ponderous silence save for the rustling of
bare feet on palm mats to the dim inner chamber to salute the qubba of
the Mahdi.
If it be possible for Taj to be more dignified and impressive than
usual, it achieves that effect on El Gumma, for all day one catches
glimpses between the dark walls of the richly garbed ekhwan moving
slowly, silk jerds carefully raised above the sand. After the Asr
prayers the deputation of four who had received us, the Judge, Sidi
Saleh, Sidi Ahmed es Senussi and Sidi Omar, came to bid us the city’s
formal farewell, though we were not expected really to leave for several
days. The visit was meant tactfully to imply that we were now free of
official receptions and banquets, though Arab hospitality could only be
satisfied by privately sending large meals to our house while we
remained in Taj. We lured the judge and the portly dignitaries into our
sunlit court, but they were terrified at being photographed. We had to
treat them like children at the dentist’s and keep up a flow of laughing
conversation about the painlessness of the operation, while they huddled
pathetically together for comfort and support!
[Illustration: CAMP AT MEHEMSA: YUSUF, MOHAMMED AND AMAR]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR ASLEEP ON A CAMEL]
Later in the day we were visited by Hasan and Husein Bazama from
Ribiana. Relations of the men who had spread so many false reports about
us, they doubtless came to Taj in the first place to discover how much
of their kinsmen’s tale was true. Finding us the guests of Sidi Idris,
they decided the larger part must be incorrect. Hasan was dark and lean
and altogether too reminiscent of Abdullah to please me, but his brother
was a nice little plump person, kindly disposed towards the world in
general and most unusually truthful for a Beduin, for when his elder
brother tried to sell us a camel he remarked, in a small, plaintive
voice, “He is a _very_ old camel.”
[Illustration: JAGHABUB]
[Illustration: WELL IN ZAWIA AT JAGHABUB]
By this time we had learned how to make Arab tea. It must have been a
good brew that day, for the brothers verified all Sheikh Suleiman’s
information about Ribiana and urgently invited us to visit it. We
politely refused, having seen quite enough of these lonely strips of
palms with a few deserted, dark red houses. They seemed slightly hurt,
so we explained that our camels really could not be expected to do an
extra week’s travelling before the long Jaghabub trip. As a matter of
fact, we were very much troubled about our caravan. Five of the nagas
had foaled and could not be taken away from their offspring. We had
given the soldiers six camels for their homeward journey via Zieghen and
Jalo and they complained bitterly about the inadequacy of the number.
Moraja had married the pale, dark-eyed woman who had travelled with us
from Buseima and he wanted to take his wife back to Jedabia with him.
Abdul Rahim very naturally refused, as already they had insufficient
transport. The sergeant was furious and threatened to stay behind, but
we were no longer interested in their troubles, having quite enough of
our own.
The girbas we bought in the suq were too new to be safe and we were
desperately afraid of losing our water. Suleiman, the guide, suddenly
announced that only the Asayed ever went to Jaghabub and that, as nobody
had travelled that way for more than three years, the one well at Zakar
would not only be filled up, but probably covered by a dune! As the
water was very far away it might take three days to dig down to it.
Worst of all, we had only seven camels. Four of these must carry water
and two fodder. This left only one for food for six persons, their
luggage and tents!
We tried to hire Tebu camels at an exorbitant price, but found that
nobody would let their beasts go north in mid-winter, for the camels
have very thin coats in Kufara and generally die when they reach a
colder climate. I explained that there had been no difference in the
temperature of Aujela and Taj, but was told that the Jaghabub route
would be bitterly cold and the winds almost intolerable. With this
pleasant thought in mind we suggested buying a couple of camels, but
there was none to be sold except the ancient Bazama beast, already
shivering. “He will die on the way,” said Yusuf, hating to make a bad
bargain. “I don’t mind if he does, providing he will last four or five
days beyond the Zakar well. We shall have drunk his load by then and
shall not need him any more,” I said. “Do you think he will break down
before then?” Yusuf would not commit himself. “One could see it in his
eye if he meant to die in two days,” was all he vouchsafed.
Our friend Mahmud el-Jeddawi bestirred himself energetically on our
account and, after searching most of Jof, he triumphantly produced the
most amazing camel I have even seen. It looked as if a portion of it had
been left out in the making. We all walked round it in mystified silence
to discover what was missing. It had the self-satisfied expression of a
short, plump, curry-loving Indian colonel and most certainly there was
something odd about its shape. I looked at Yusuf appealingly. “It is
very woolly.” “Yes, it has much wool,” he said with polite despair. We
decided not to purchase it and were rewarded at the last moment by the
production by a Tebu of a really magnificent camel, half hejin and half
beast of burden. Its price was very high, two hundred mejidies, but we
did not even wait to bargain. It was too necessary to us. We hated
letting it go out of our sight for a moment, but its master insisted
that we could not have it till the following day and we were obliged to
let the caravan start without it.
This time the flight was well arranged, though it was precipitated by
another of Abdullah’s darts. We learned that he had been spreading far
and wide a story that the venerated Sidi Ahmed el Rifi, teacher and
adviser of the Mahdi, had prophesied disaster to any stranger who
travelled on the Jaghabub route. “It is a sacred road between our two
holy places,” he had said. “It is for the Sayeds and their followers
only. Nobody else may go safely by it!” Whether the saying had other
origin than the twisted brain of Abdullah we did not know, but it might
have a distressing effect on the easily roused fanaticism of the
retinue. We therefore hurried the small caravan off early one morning
with the nominal destination of Hawari, because there was a certain
amount of grazing in the neighbourhood and it would be natural for the
camels to rest there for a week or ten days before starting for
Jaghabub. As a matter of fact they skirted the village and main oasis
and camped in an isolated palm grove some miles farther on where their
presence was little likely to be suspected.
Next day we made obvious preparations for a tour in the wadi and then,
just after sunset, while all the devout inhabitants of Taj were occupied
with their prayers, we slipped out of our discreet little door, wandered
carelessly round a projecting wall and found two camels ready saddled in
charge of a plaintive Yusuf, who hated the idea of travelling in a
strong north wind, bitterly cold. Muffled in coarse jerds, only our new
primrose leather boots with crimson uppers laced with scarlet thongs
apparent to the public gaze, we plodded out of the little town followed
by Yusuf, Suleiman and a fortnight-old foal! The wind was so strong that
we hardly cast a backward glance at the oasis which had shown us so much
in so short a time.
It was a complete chapter of life we left behind. We felt that we had
studied its pages thoroughly, but we knew that we had not read all that
lay between the lines! Through a glass darkly we had been allowed a
glimpse of an unsuspected civilisation aloof from our own and utterly
different. For a few days we had moved amidst the friendship and enmity
of a rigidly isolated religious fraternity, feeling something of their
remote fanaticism, much of their warm generosity, a little of the almost
pathetic simplicity which underlay their plots and counterplots. Yet we
were ever strangers in a strange land, welcome to their dignified
hospitality, but never admitted for a minute to the inner workings of
their minds. Some glimpses we caught behind the scenes. Some threads to
unravel the unspoken mysteries were put into our hands later by a
suddenly talkative Yusuf, but the secrets of Taj are still safe with us!
Each one must unravel them for himself, for no traveller may tell when
he has once crossed the threshold, not only of the great house on the
cliff, but of the life of these people where each man’s brain is an
island in itself whose secrets are as jealously guarded as the oasis is
by nature. The desert had paid us her debt. We had conquered her
waterless desolation and her perilous dunes. We had won the right to her
secret and generously she showed it, yet we knew she grudged us our
triumph. As the dark stone houses disappeared swiftly into the red sand
and black rocks, so that, looking back after a few minutes one might
believe one had dreamed of the wadi and its people, I wondered what
price we should pay for our knowledge.
Behind the first ledge of rocks a gnome-like figure, green-hooded and
cloaked, rose suddenly beside a microscopic grey donkey, while another,
unrecognisably disguised by a scarlet handkerchief which left but an eye
visible, appeared with a most unwilling sheep. They were the commandant,
Saleh Effendi, sent to accompany us to our first camp, and a soldier to
slaughter the sheep in our honour. Subdued greetings were hardly
finished when a portly, panting figure, white jerd blowing wildly over a
dark blue jubba, turban and spectacles slightly awry, hurried over the
rocks. It was Sayed Ahmed es Senussi come to give us a last blessing
with many injunctions to the guide to look after us well. After the
“Fatha” had been gravely repeated, he clutched Yusuf’s sleeve and
murmured mysteriously, “Will you not halt your caravan round the next
gherd, as I wish to send out to you food for your journey—meat, bread
and rice!” In a still lower voice he explained that many of the friendly
ekhwan had wished to feast us, but had been afraid of hurting the
feelings of the kaimakaan, who looked upon us as his guests. Arab custom
ordains that when a stranger comes to a town, any man who visits him
afterwards sends food to him or feasts him in his house. Therefore, the
ekhwan had been in some difficulty. Either they broke their laws of
hospitality or they ran counter to the generous wishes of the kaimakaan,
or they failed in respect to the Sayed by not visiting the guests in his
house! We remembered that the sons of Sayed Ahmed Sherif and Sayed el
Abed, boys between fourteen and seventeen, had often waited to greet us
as we left the house of Sidi Saleh. “We wanted to see if the Sitt
Khadija wears the same clothes as our ladies,” one had said shyly, but
they were frightened of being photographed, the idea being that if one
possesses a picture of a person one possesses also his soul, or at least
a certain hypnotic power over him.
We were obliged regretfully to decline the delightful offer of Sidi
Ahmed, as speed was necessary. Therefore, we hurried north as fast as
our odd little procession—camels, donkey, sheep and foal—would go. The
wind dropped after the first three hours and a feeble moon rose in a
clear, translucent sky. It was a night of colour so marvellous that it
was unreal. I knew the strange tricks moonlight could play in the
desert, but only once before had I seen such startling effects and that
was in _Chu Chin Chow_! White moonlight on white sand makes an
iridescent silvery sea, cold, almost cruel in its pale intangibility.
But this was a golden light on an amber-red world and, except that one
could not see so far, it was as clear as the day. The palm trees were
shades of sapphire, silvered at the edge, and their shadows hot, clear-
cut purple. We rode through a world so wonderful that when we had
skirted the dreaming village of Hawari and completely lost our way in
the oasis beyond—the infallibility of guides is a very brittle myth in
Libya—we hardly minded, but with jerds flung back we revelled in
unutterable stillness and colour inconceivable. Even after we had turned
two complete circles and, with a waning moon, unexpectedly discovered
our camp discreetly hidden in a hollow between great clumps of palms and
what looked like mimosa trees, we could not go into the tent, though it
was one of the coldest nights we had had. We sat outside amidst the
violet and amber and, in spite of dates and cinnamon bread, wondered how
soon we should wake up!
Our desire for a swift and secret departure from the palm grove near
Hawari was frustrated by the non-arrival of our new camel till the
afternoon of the following day. By this time, of course, most of the
population of the neighbouring village of Awardel was in our camp. The
Zouias were most friendly and terribly curious. Their shrewd, suspicious
eyes and pale, mean faces encircled my tent all day, hoping to catch a
glimpse to satisfy their curiosity, but, out of sheer perversity, I
smothered my face in the barracan and then snapshotted them when they
were not looking!
Unfortunately, I had left behind something of a reputation as a doctor,
nature presumably having taken my patients in hand after my departure,
so all day long my tent was thronged, by women with the most mysterious
maladies. The poorer ones crouched outside, their scarlet woollen
barracans an effective contrast to their black tobhs, the most
picturesque combination I had yet seen. The wives of important sheikhs
were ushered into my tent and the flaps closed after them by jealous
male relatives. If they were young they would not uncover their faces
even to me, but, mute, huddled bundles of voluminous draperies, with at
least three barracans of rich dark weaving one over the other, they sat
on my camp bed while an ancient crony translated their needs. They
wanted me to _feel_ skin diseases through layers of garments, prescribe
for invisible eyes and generally guess at their ailments from the
descriptions of their elderly relatives, who urged them at intervals,
entirely without effect, not to be afraid. Their jewellery interested
me, for they wore bracelets like gauntlets of thin beaten silver,
reaching half-way from wrist to elbow, and odd flat rings, big and thin
as a five-shilling piece.
The day ended with a violent quarrel between Mohammed and Abdullah, who
was to return with the soldiers to Jedabia, because the kaimakaan
thought Sidi Idris would punish him more severely than he had power to
do. The guide had told Mohammed he would beat his nose flat, apparently
an appalling insult, for the uproar was prodigious and, in the middle of
it, while everyone was shouting at the top of their voices, our trusted
retainer wept like an infant! He was only comforted by permission to buy
a slave-girl he coveted. “She has walked all the way from Darfur,” he
said, “so she can walk to Jaghabub with us.” But we persuaded him to
send her to Jalo later on. The caravan was already overloaded without
the ebony maiden’s food and water, though we were horribly tempted to
take her when we heard she was a good cook. As camel-men were scarce at
the moment in Kufara and fetched very high prices, we had taken
Mohammed’s follower, Amar, instead. He was a plucky and willing boy, a
pupil from the Jaghabub zawia, but, alas, no cook! The way he ruined our
treasured rice was little short of a tragedy.
The evening of January 24 was spent in a pursuit that was becoming
habitual, that of sorting our rapidly diminishing baggage to see what
could be left behind. This time the tent and camp beds had to go. There
would be no time to put up a tent on the Jaghabub route. With our small
and somewhat feeble retinue, after walking twelve hours a day, probably
against a strong wind, by the time the camels were attended to and the
rice or flour cooked, one would have no energy left to struggle with
tent pegs. The most one could hope for would be a flea-bag on the ground
sheet in the inadequate shelter of a zariba made of our food and fodder
sacks. We now had one suit-case, a sack of provisions and two rolls of
bedding. “We might put the ground sheets in the bedding,” I said
casually, looking round the pathetically small pile of our belongings to
see if we could possibly do without anything else. “Your flea-bag is the
thinnest. We had better put it in between the flaps.” I thought there
was a certain nervousness in Hassanein’s eyes as we undid the bulky
roll, but I did not quite understand it, even when a bottle of amber
eau-de-Cologne and an immense attaché case fell out, scattering a
complete manicure set in the sand. I was quite used to this sort of
thing by now, but I was mildly surprised when a violent protest followed
my efforts to insert the waterproof sheet. “Take care! Take care! You
will hurt yourself!” “What on earth do you mean? Woollen flea-bags don’t
bite!” The thought struck us both instantaneously that this was hardly
correct at the moment and we were both laughing when suddenly a pain
that could hardly have been inflicted by even the largest Libyan bug
shot through my hand. “What is that?” I gasped, and pulled out a very
large, sharp saw! For one horrible moment I thought my companion had
developed tendencies to homicidal mania as I stood open-mouthed with the
tool in my hand. “I’ve hidden that damned thing in my bedding for three
months and whenever I turned over it ran into my shoulder and I’ve cut
myself on it three times!” he said viciously. “But why, why, why?” I
could only stutter. “I thought it would be so useful,” was the reply.
Visions of the treeless desert, with no tuft of moss or blade of grass,
must have crossed both our minds simultaneously, for almost before I
could ask feebly, “What did you mean to cut?” he said, “I don’t know. I
just felt it would come in useful—to make things with,” he added hastily
under my baleful eye. “But I didn’t want you to see it. I knew you would
laugh.” “Laugh!” I exclaimed scornfully, sucking my fingertips. “After
all, you needn’t make such a fuss! It’s no worse than your bread!” and I
remembered the days on the way to Taiserbo when I had insisted on
treasuring a piece of ten-day-old bread in my knapsack with much the
same sort of feeling that “it might come in useful.” My companion,
unlawfully in search of matches—the only things we refused to share were
matches and soap, though we never used the latter—cut his hand badly on
the rough, sharp edge of my precious loaf and thereafter spoke of food
as the most dangerous element in the desert!
CHAPTER XIII
THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS
Loading the camels on January 25 was something of a difficulty. The
whole male population of Hawari came out to help or to hinder, while
various shrouded female forms lurked in the shadows of palm clumps
hoping to exchange a few eggs for green tea, but we had left our last
stores at Kufara, so could do no bartering. A young merchant from Wadai
offered us crimson-dyed leather at three and a half mejidies for a whole
goatskin. He would easily make his fortune among London boot shops! That
morning was another revelation of Zouia character, for if we left
anything out of sight for a minute it disappeared. I lost my pet woolly
scarf which I used to roll round underneath my thin cotton garments, my
only protection against the north winds. Mohammed politely spread his
rug for two venerable ekhwan to sit upon. A few moments later they and
it vanished altogether. Yusuf’s bright-coloured blanket followed suit,
with Hassanein’s sleeping-helmet. It is not to be wondered at,
therefore, that our farewells were somewhat chilly. Amar was venomous
because some thrifty housewife had appropriated the grid on which he
made his almost uneatable bread. We shuddered to think what it would be
like without it!
By 8 A.M. we had received the last mixed blessings and warnings, the
chorus of “Marhabas” and “Ma Salamas!” had died among the palms and an
amazing sense of peace had descended on us. For the first time in three
months we were a completely friendly party, united to achieve a common
object by dint of hard work and endurance. It was a wonderful feeling!
Everybody was happy and nobody shirked. Even the plump Yusuf forgot his
plaintive whine, and with a fat smile gathered hattab and urged on the
camels. Unfortunately, our great grey Tebu beast was suffering badly
from his first heavy date meal, just as the rest of the caravan had done
at Buttafal a month previously. At the last moment, however, Sidi
Mohammed el-Jeddawi, seeing that the necessary dates for fodder took up
three complete loads, lent us one of Sayed Rida’s foaling nagas. We had
no baggage saddle (“hawia”) for her, so we doubled across her back our
thin, single fly-tent which we had meant to leave behind. At the last
moment Yusuf, ever economical, stuck the three light poles in somewhere.
We therefore started with a caravan of nine, but they were distinctly
overloaded, for we had to carry water for six or seven days, since
Suleiman, the guide, was uncertain as to how long it would take to dig
out the Zakar well. That day we marched ten hours, with a hot sun and a
cold north-north-west wind. We left the Hawari Gara a dark block to the
west, with the great indigo cliffs of the Gebel Neri far beyond it.
Gradually we drew away from the hot, red sands of Kufara with their
patches of strange black stones. In the afternoon we emerged on to the
pale, flattish country sweeping up to the foot of the Hawaish mountains.
These, however, were still invisible when we camped at sunset, because
the two smallest camels refused to go any farther. We missed the blacks
while struggling to unload our unruly beasts, two of whom were three-
year-olds and never could be barraked without a prolonged fight. We
built our zaribas with their backs to the persistent north wind, but
nature played us a trick, for the temperature descended unpleasantly. We
sat comfortably inside our flea-bags, however, cooking rice and coffee
and watched a fading moon slowly dim our solitary candle.
Next morning Mohammed roused us long before the dawn and we were away by
7 A.M., but we were very under-staffed, for Amar and old Suleiman were
both too feeble to lift the immense fodder loads and Hassanein and I
were exceedingly inefficient! Nevertheless, complete cheerfulness still
reigned. The Beduins invented and sang lustily doggerel rhymes of
personal tendencies, such as,
“If Sidi Yusuf won’t walk to-day,
A new little wife won’t come his way.”
We saw the Hawaish mountains, a long line of round peaks on the horizon,
about 8 A.M., and at the same moment discovered that our new guide had
deficient sight. He was a little, old, wizened Beduin, very poor but
very shrewd for all his apparent simplicity. He was clad only in worn
sandals, an ancient leather skull cap and a pathetically tattered grey
jerd. He was quite illiterate and his rare speech was in a dialect which
even Mohammed found some difficulty in following. He shuffled along all
day, bent over his palm stick, untiring and unresponsive, though
occasionally his cracked, hoarse voice joined in the lilting refrains of
the retinue. Only when he failed to pick out a certain hill with a cleft
top did he tell us that he had once rashly interfered in a private
battle between two black soldiers and received a blow on the head which
had permanently damaged his eyesight. After this admission I think we
all expected to lose the way, but one becomes terribly fatalistic in the
desert. “Allah alone knows” is repeated with complete simplicity by
every traveller in the great wilderness.
By this time I could well understand the carelessness of the Beduins,
their lack of forethought and their childlike trust in Providence. After
all, what does it really matter on a twelve days’ waterless route
whether one overloads one’s camel with a couple of extra girbas and a
spare jarfa of fodder in order to ensure a day or two more of life? A
few strong giblis may dry up all the water. It may go bad, or the skins
may leak, or a load may be thrown on to sharp stones so that the girbas
burst. On the other hand, the guide may lose his memory or his
“instinct.” Day after day without a landmark, with the ever-present
knowledge that one slight mistake means destruction, is surely enough to
trouble the most experienced. One day’s bad march, owing to a mere
trifle such as irregularly balanced loads, sore backs or unaccustomed
date feeding, will endanger the whole issue, for the Zakar–Jaghabub or
the Zakar–Siwa routes are the longest known stretches without water. The
Boema-Farafra route is twelve days without water. The camels arrive
completely exhausted and if an extra day be added to the march they
probably do not arrive at all. The men may get sore feet or fever, but
they cannot ride the heavily burdened beasts. The terrible north wind
may blow day and night, making every step laborious, yet the daily
average has got to be kept up. Therefore, the Beduins smile when one
makes pitiful little attempts to arm oneself against nature, to
forestall or prevent her rigours. “If Allah wills, we shall arrive,”
they say gravely and turn the conversation to lighter matter.
Fired by the example of Mohammed and Moraja, Yusuf began to wonder
whether a wife or two would not satisfy his affectionate heart more than
a camel. “A woman is so much cheaper,” he sighed, and told us that among
the ekhwan no dowry is paid to the bride’s father. A small gift of silk
or gold is given to the mother and sisters, perhaps a necklace or
bracelet to the girl herself and there the expense ends. “Twenty-five
mejidies are enough,” said Yusuf; “but if one wants to take the daughter
of a Beduin sheikh one must pay many camels.” “How many?” I asked. “Oh,
ten, twenty, fifty and one must give the girl silk and cloth for her
clothes besides!” He dropped into meditative silence.
One by one we saw the landmarks of the Zieghen track to the west and
learned that the north-westerly course we were following had been the
original Zieghen route till one Mohammed Sherif established the present
more direct way. First we saw the Gardia, a square block of dark cliff,
then the Garet es Sherif, called after a traveller who shortened by a
day the Kufara-Jalo journey, and late in the afternoon a conical hill
called The Kheima (tent) by Mojabras and The Mohgen (funnel) by Zouias.
One great advantage we had over our previous journey. This time the sun
was behind us all the time. The difference was enormous. Riding or
walking for twelve hours day after day straight into a blazing sun,
without hat brim or umbrella, had been very trying to one’s eyes and
head. Altogether the absence of glare, the feeling that the larger part
of our work was done, with no necessity to placate a constantly
irritated retinue or to weld together the most inharmonious human
elements, caused us to regard the dreary kilometres that lay before us
as the most peaceful part of our journey.
“I want to see the white sands again,” I said and urged my little
expedition on into the rose-purple hills. The Hawaish are not really
mountains. They are an irregular mass of round, rocky hills, cliffs and
cones and their direction would baffle even an experienced geographer.
We spent any spare moments at dawn and at sunset sitting on the top of
some abrupt hillock with binoculars, compass and a note-book, studying
the complicated positions of the local mountains, but hair grew grey and
tempers short in the task. Always there was a new wall of hills in the
distance generally running at an unexpected angle and when we asked the
retinue for explanations, all they could say was, “Allah alone knows!”
I wanted to camp within the first line of the Hawaish, for by now I was
just as anxious to leave the mysterious, enchanted land as I had been to
enter it. The circling horizon of strange hills seemed to shut us in
with the hot coloured sands, but the cool white dunes beyond called us
back to the open deserts of the north.
[Illustration: OUR HOST AT JAGHABUB]
Just as Suleiman wavered as to whether we should turn right or left of a
large cliff, sudden news brought by Yusuf and Amar, who had climbed a
gherd we had just left, abruptly shattered our peace. Our fat retainer
was actually running, a swift uneven little trot, which made him pant as
he shouted, “There is a caravan behind us!” The idea was startling to
say the least, for no one had travelled by this route for nearly four
years and we knew that nobody was prepared to start when we left Kufara.
At first we told Yusuf that he had dreamed his caravan. We were two
days’ march from Hawari, from where all travellers start, and when we
left the oasis there had been no question of anybody else going north by
any route. Amar, however, was equally positive. “We looked through the
glasses,” he said. “There are four or six camels and nearly a dozen men
with them. They are travelling fast, about three hours behind us!” This
was so definite that we had to believe it and Mohammed dotted the i’s.
“We shall be attacked to-night. It is a habit of the Zouias. They wait
till a caravan is outside their country so that they cannot be blamed
and then they eat it up!” “It is not the Zouias!” indignantly refuted
the guide. “They have great respect for the Sayeds. It is the Tebus.
They have swift camels. They attack in the mountains, where no
travellers ever go and then they fly south to the French country before
anything is discovered.”
[Illustration: SIDI IDRIS’S HOUSE AT JAGHABUB]
[Illustration: MOSQUE AND QUBRA OF SIDI BEN ALI AT JAGHABUB]
Intense gloom descended on the little party. Sunset light was fading and
the one break in the purple stones ahead was a patch of vivid sand
dotted with five camel skeletons. We had only three rifles and our
revolvers!
Discretion in this case was certainly the better part of valour, so we
decided on ignominious flight. We left the neighbourhood of the wide
pass leading to Zakar and, in darkness, felt our way west, through
curling defiles and over steep ridges, always driving the camels across
the stony patches to avoid leaving footprints in the sand. When Suleiman
thought we had gone far enough from our course to baffle any pursuers,
we barracked in a convenient hollow out of sight of anyone who was not
standing on the hills immediately surrounding us. “No fires,” said
Mohammed sternly. “No light at all! And we will put the camels a little
way in front of us. They will move if anyone comes.” “What shall we
eat?” moaned Yusuf plaintively. “We must have a fire to cook,” I agreed,
thinking I should be much braver after some hot coffee, for it was very
cold that night, but Mohammed was adamantine. He hung his revolver round
Suleiman’s neck, with strict injunctions to the guide to “Shoot straight
and may Allah direct the bullet!” He then suggested making a fortified
zariba on the hill-side. Yusuf and I, after furtive glances at the
enormous loads, with the very long march fresh in our minds, thought it
would be much better to perish comfortably in the hollow. “It will only
prolong the fight if we defend the hill,” said I plaintively. “I want to
go to sleep on that nice soft patch of sand.” But, unfortunately,
Hassanein and Amar were also against me. Therefore, we were forced to
drag the large fodder sacks laboriously up the first ridge of the hill
and push them into a serried wall on a ledge. I have never been crosser
in my whole life, but it was a beautiful little fort when it was
finished. I felt that only a very energetic bullet would get through
those immense date sacks and the position would certainly be impregnable
so long as any of the defenders were alive. The girbas were arranged in
front of us protected by stones, so, sure of food and water, we could
even stand a siege. The camels were below us in the hollow. Yusuf and I
again suggested a very tiny fire, but Mohammed refused and we contented
ourselves with four-day-old bread and tinned corned beef. After that I
silently unrolled my flea-bag preparatory to placing my revolvers, the
aneroid and the thermometer beside my pillow. “I shall not go to bed,”
said Hassanein sternly. “We must take turns to watch.” “The right is
with you,” replied Mohammed with alacrity. “Is your rifle loaded, Amar,
my son? We will all watch.” This, however, was too much. Yusuf and I
merely ignored the remark, but, as I gave a last comforting wriggle to
feel the thick, woolly end of my flea-bag with my toes, I heard
Hassanein’s voice somewhere above me, alert and strained, “If anyone
comes into sight shall I speak to them first or fire at once? What is
your custom here?” Two simultaneous answers blended with my sleep.
“Speak first!” came drowsily from Yusuf. “Shoot quickly and shoot
straight!” from Mohammed, “or you will never speak again!”
The only thing that disturbed my slumbers that night was a little yellow
sand mouse. I woke up feeling something fluffy on my cheek and the
absurd little beast was sitting on my nose. He scuttled to the other
side of the zariba when I moved and Amar, bloodthirsty after a long,
useless vigil, promptly killed and ate him! No Tebu warriors broke our
peace, but unfortunately the fear of them made Mohammed wake me while
the golden moon was still high and brilliant. I would not move without
breakfast, so we hurriedly cooked rice and sweet tea in the unreal light
almost as clear as noon and laboriously pulled to pieces our beautiful
zariba of the night before. We rolled the heavy date sacks down the hill
because the men were too tired after their hard twenty-four hours to
carry them. One burst and scattered dates right and left. Thrift and
fear mingled in the minds of the retinue, but caution for the long road
before us was uppermost in my mind! We picked them up in silence and
dumped the load on to the protesting camels with almost personal
dislike. Then we took to the trail again and, still in moonlight, began
picking our devious way round the irregular hills. When Suleiman finally
led us back to the main pass we thought any pursuing caravan must be far
ahead, for it was two hours after sunrise.
By this time we were all inclined to think that the four or six camels
and the dozen men existed only in the imagination of Yusuf and Amar, but
we had hardly turned into the wide sweep of sand that led north to the
open spaces beyond the first range of Hawaish when we came upon fresh
camels’ tracks ahead of us. The plump one was delighted. “I was right! I
was right!” he exclaimed, “and now we are safe, for, when they do not
catch us, they will think we have been warned and gone to Zieghen to
avoid them.” Perhaps his surmise was correct. We never knew. We found no
more traces of the mysterious caravan. Its origin and destination
remained a secret. It had travelled two days and a half on the route to
Zakar far beyond the point where, long ago, travellers turned west to
Zieghen. Then it vanished as completely as a mirage, but a mirage does not
leave footprints and camel dung!
In spite of the sleepless night the Beduins marched well that day. “If
we reach those mountains to-night,” had said Suleiman at 11 A.M., when
we saw the second range of Hawaish, blue and mauve, beyond a wide
expanse of pale sand waves and low dunes, “we shall say our Asr prayers
to-morrow at Zakar.” So we plodded on cheerfully. It was cool and
cloudy, with the usual north wind and an incessant mirage that made
pools and lakes in every hollow. The old camel I had ridden when we left
Jedabia seemed to know the way. He made a bee-line for a certain cleft
in the hills. Yusuf noticed this also and asked if I knew the story of
the sand grouse and the camel. “They were arguing one day as to which
was the cleverer,” said the plump one, smiling. “I lay my eggs at random
in the trackless desert,” urged the sand grouse, “and then I fly far and
wide in search of food, but I can always come straight back to hatch
them.” The camel sniffed scornfully. “If I drink at a well as a tiny
foal trotting beside my mother, though I never see it again, I can find
my way back to it even when I am very old and blind!” “No, no, he is
cleverer than that!” interrupted Mohammed. “If a naga has tasted the
water of a well when she is in foal, the camel she gives birth to can
return to it surely.” “Let us hope this particular camel has drunk of
the well at Jaghabub,” I suggested. “Insha-allah!” replied Yusuf
devoutly.
We found a delightfully sheltered spot between two hills that night, so
did not trouble to build a zariba. The thermometer registered a frost,
but I think it had been affected by the mental atmosphere of the
previous night because we did not feel very cold. I remember I drank so
much coffee that I could not sleep, so I did not mind when the Beduins
insisted on making a fire three hours before dawn and cooking their
“asida,” a sticky mass of damp flour flavoured with onions and zeit
(oil). We must have been particularly inexpert with the loading for, in
spite of this early breakfast, we started only just before sunrise. The
new grey camel lay down almost at once, for he had not recovered from
his greed. We had to divide his girbas among the others, for water is
needed to harden the sand when digging the Zakar well. We watched the
caravan anxiously as, leaving the second mass of the Hawaish hills, it
crossed a rolling expanse of great flat slabs of stone, broken and
slippery. However, it toiled slowly but safely across them and about 10
A.M. we were moving in sparkling white sand, blinding, dazzlingly clean
in the hot sun. There was practically no wind for once, and Yusuf
actually discarded his overcoat after he had climbed a mound to point
out a square, solid, black gara among surrounding stony gherds. “Near
that is the well,” he announced. “We shall be there in one hour or
perhaps four.” As a matter of fact we saw the two tufts of palm scrub
that mark the Zakar well at noon and they looked scarcely a stone’s
throw away among sands white as snow, but we only reached them two hours
later.
The last caravan that passed must have suffered severely _en route_, for
there were bits of broken baggage among scattered camel skeletons. Yusuf
wished to ignore several legs complete with pads in building a zariba,
but I hankered after ground less gruesomely reminiscent, so we
compromised by turning our backs on the well and its immediate
surroundings. “The animals always die at the end of this journey,” said
Suleiman calmly, “unless they are very strong. Then they drink so much
water that one must travel very slowly, taking five days or even more to
go from here to Hawari.” The well, when we arrived, was a big mound of
sand, but the guide told us it was properly made with stone walls, so it
was only a case of digging. It is necessary to arrive at this well with
a reserve of water as, before beginning to dig, one must carefully soak
the surrounding sand to make it hold the stones like mortar. Otherwise
they all fall in on top of anyone digging and it is most dangerous work.
Apparently the Zakar well was used in ancient days by Tebus, long before
the Jaghabub-Kufara route was opened by the Mahdi. The latter never
travelled over it himself, but he sent an exploring party to discover
its possibilities and, later, his brother, Sayed Ahmed es Sherif, took a
caravan across it. Since then it has been practically reserved for the
use of the Senussi family, who make the journey with immense caravans
with anything over fifty camels. They carry very large stores of fodder,
casting several loads on the way if necessary. Sidi Idris and Sayed Rida
have so far avoided the route, but Sayed Ahmed es Sherif used it several
times. On one occasion some of his water went bad going south and his
horse died of thirst four days out. He had to leave most of his stores
and luggage behind and return hastily to Jaghabub with as many camels as
possible. Three years later his luggage was recovered just as he had
left it, which shows how little frequented is the route.
All afternoon the Beduins laboured at the well. It was very narrow,
about two and a half feet across, so only old Suleiman, thin and
wizened, could get down to dig. It must have been a most uncomfortable
task, for the water lay at a depth of 15 feet, but before he slept that
night he had felt damp sand beneath his fingers. Next morning, January
29, the work was completed and our 14 girbas filled and ranged in two
nice, fat rows ready for loading, but we could not start that day for a
very bad sandstorm raged till 4 P.M. We could not light a fire or even
go out to collect hattab for our journey. The camels moaned as they
huddled in a miserable circle and we crouched under blankets and ate
sand mixed with dates and stale bread. Hassanein devoted much labour to
mending his primrose and scarlet boots with brass wire and was bitterly
disappointed because he could not cut the latter with his saw!
In the evening the wind abated a little, but it was a gloomy sunset. The
sun was a livid disk in a pale green sky seen through a drab blur of
sand above grey desert. We sealed up our three precious fanatis with
seccotine round the stoppers so that no one should be tempted to use
them till the last possible moment. Then we recovered the well with the
old matting and skins we had found under the miniature dome which
covered it. In four years the sand had filtered through them as if they
were not there, but should any traveller be rash enough to follow
shortly in our footsteps, our precaution might save him a repetition of
old Suleiman’s task.
On January 30 we began the long trek, leaving the well at 7 A.M. after a
most careful adjustment of the loads. It was cold with a faint north
wind which strengthened as we mounted the stony gherd north-east of the
well. As we turned for a last look at the lonely clump of palms, a
minute spot of green in a boundless stretch of undulating sand, a
muffled voice came viciously from the many-coloured kufiya which
Hassanein had wound over his nose and mouth. “The one comfort is that we
shall either be in Jaghabub in twelve days or we shall be dead!” it
said. “Are your boots very painful with all that brass stuck in them?” I
asked sweetly!
For an hour we drove the camels slowly over rough, stony ground with
large loose slabs lying about. Then the hills gave place to the white
sands and we looked down on to dunes like the turbulent breakers of a
stormy sea. Yusuf glanced solemnly at the last dark stones behind us.
“We are lucky to leave the red country without exchanging gunpowder,” he
announced, “but the friends of the Sayeds are always blessed. You have
been especially protected by Allah, for the Zouias are a bad people.” It
was rare that the plump one was really serious except when his food or
sleep were threatened, so we guessed that he knew more than he would
even tell us. The rising north wind, however, prevented much
conversation and before we had reached the first line of dunes it had
developed into something resembling the sandstorm of the previous day.
It was bitterly cold. If one rode, the wind pierced through every
blanket that could be wound round one and one was nearly blown off the
camel. If we walked with a jerd muffled over our heads, the sand poured
through the woollen stuff into eyes, mouth and nose and we literally
staggered as we mounted each succeeding ridge and met the full force of
the gale at the top. I used to struggle on for a mile or two and then
half bury myself under the lee of a gherd till the stumbling, half-
blinded caravan caught up.
A weary day was passed in repeating this process, until everyone looked
upon the unfaltering guide as his personal enemy who would never stop
his slow, interminable crawl over dune and hollow, which always kept him
just out of reach of our protests. Every time he paused to look for the
best place to cross a ridge we hoped to hear the barraking cry, but
always he shuffled on in broken sandals, monotonously, untiringly. The
wind dropped at sunset, but we marched through the sickly, grey light,
with a faint lemon glow in the west and only when the full twelve hours
were completed did Suleiman allow us to crawl into our flea-bags, half-
frozen, half-starved; for everyone was too tired to cook.
I believe I took off my boots, but certainly nothing else, for I
remember how bulky my red hezaam felt in the narrow space; but I slept
for nine blissful hours and ate far more than my share of sardines and
dates in the morning. The rice was a strange, blackish grey colour, due
to the girba water. The colour and smell of this water after a few days
are a great preventive of thirst. We had gone back to the old ration of
three cups of water per day, with a fourth for cooking. We soon found
that hot coffee made us too thirsty, but that cold, strong, sugarless
tea produced rather the opposite effect. A much worse discovery greeted
us that exceedingly cold morning of January 31. Three of the girbas had
either dried in the sand-filled wind or leaked away. There was scarcely
the morning ration left in them. We spoke to the retinue seriously when
we found them drinking copiously, but were baffled by their fatalism. We
still had a girba a day and two fanatis to spare, so they refused to
consider the infinite possibilities of delay, illness, loss, leakage, or
a camel needing water by the way. “What is written is written,” said
Yusuf. “You cannot run away from fate. That is what the eagle said to
Suleiman.” “What eagle?” I demanded suspiciously.
“The prophet Suleiman was sitting on a hill, from which he could see
many cities, when an eagle came to him and said, ‘You think you are wise
because you know the wisdom of all these people, but I will take you all
over the world and show you the wisdom of countries you have never heard
of.’ With that he took the prophet’s girdle in his beak and flew north,
south, east and west with him, showing him many marvels. When they had
travelled far and wide the bird flew back to the prophet’s own country
and dropped his pupil in a field where a ploughman was setting snares.
Before Suleiman could express his thanks he saw that the great bird was
caught in one of the traps and was battering helplessly against the
bars. ‘Oh, thou who would’st teach me wisdom, where is thine own that
thou who knowest all the world could not avoid one small trap?’ ‘What is
written is written,’ said the eagle resignedly. ‘One cannot run away
from one’s fate.’” Yusuf looked at me expectantly. “The eagle might have
looked where he was going,” I said firmly, “and you will most certainly
look at what you are drinking, my son.”
Our start that morning was delayed because Suleiman’s ear had to be
doctored. A half-deaf, as well as a half-blind, guide was certainly a
thing to be avoided, so we gave him all our spare under-garments, his
ailment being entirely due to the fact that, with a temperature of zero,
he slept on the cold sand in a ragged cotton shirt and a jerd
transparently thin and tattered. He had started to walk more than a
thousand miles (including his return journey after he had taken the
camels back to Jedabia) with no other possessions than these and not one
nickel of money! “Allah is great. He will provide,” he said simply as he
wound my knitted spencer on his head and tied a pair of Hassanein’s
breeches round his chest under his grimy shirt. The Arabs’ one desire is
to muffle every possible garment—no matter for what portion of the
anatomy it is designed—round their heads and shoulders—the rest they
leave to chance and the winds of heaven!
Nature was evidently determined to show us everything she was capable of
in the way of climate, for that day not a breath of wind stirred and a
torrid, aching sun beat down on us till our necks felt bruised and our
heads heavy and unwieldy. We prayed for the night, almost as fervently
as the day before, especially as a completely new range of the
exasperating Hawaish mountains appeared to the east. “After a day you
will see them no more,” said Mohammed consolingly. “But they say the
dunes go west all the way to Misurata—Allah alone knows!” After a three
hours’ march, about 60 kilometres from Zakar, the dunes stopped
altogether and we crossed uneven, stony ground till, an hour before
sunset, we came to a single long line of huge, heavy dunes running west
to east. They rose suddenly, like clear golden flour, out of the dark
stones which went right up to their base and though we followed them
east for 14 kilometres that night and 24 the next morning, we never saw
them merge into the rocky waste. Always they stood apart, immense,
curly, ridged, like waves of a sunlit sea, a beautiful landmark which
can be seen half a day’s journey ahead.
It was warmer that night and we “fadhled” round a fire and ate Yusuf’s
“asida,” the only thing he liked better than camels, he told us, and
listened to Suleiman’s tales of past journeys. As they contained every
form of disaster that can assail humanity in the clutches of remorseless
nature, we turned the conversation till he spoke of people living on
this desolate stony ground “long, very long, ago!” “There used to be
wood here and forage and there are stones stuck together with mortar and
sometimes one picks up prepared milling stones, which have been used for
crushing grain.” I doubted his facts because in the afternoon he had
pointed out traces of what he thought were walls constructed with
mortar, but I thought they were merely a natural formation of the
sandstone which takes so many odd shapes. I think his milling stones
were due to the hand of nature in fantastic mood, for there could never
have been water in the stony ground.
February 1 we started at 7.15 A.M. and barraked at 2.30 P.M. at the
Mehemsa, a feeding ground, where it is customary to allow the camels a
few hours’ rest and a good meal before starting to cross the four days’
waste in front without blade of grass or twig of firewood. A few camel
skeletons mark the way below the towering dunes and, here and there, one
comes across large stones set on end, by preceding travellers. These
impromptu landmarks are of great value and we religiously made them
ourselves whenever possible. The Beduins are very good about this
labour. I have seen Mohammed toil to the top of some hillock with a
heavy slab of rock, after a long day’s journey, to make a mark that
might cheer and guide a chance caravan years hence perhaps.
We crossed the dunes where a wide channel of stony ground ran into a
low, curly ridge and, immediately on the other side, found great shrubs
and masses of dry grey brush, excellent fodder and firewood, but burning
hot at midday. The dunes circled round west and north of an open space
of some 4 kilometres. Beyond this again there was another track of
hattab. Among this we camped and turned the camels loose to graze. They
were disappointingly indifferent. “Inshallah, we shall arrive at
Jaghabub, but we shall leave two or three camels on the way,” said
Yusuf. We were very anxious about our animals. The two young nagas were
terribly thin, the big blond camel was obviously ill and two of the
others were feeble and overworked. They should all have been rested and
fed up at Kufara for at least another fortnight. We knew this at Taj,
but the complicated politics of the place necessitated our precipitate
departure. Yusuf told us that generally when a caravan travels the
Kufara-Jaghabub route it spends a month at least in preparation. Forty
or fifty camels are taken and these are all fed up for weeks beforehand,
till they are very fat and strong. During that time they do no work, but
are gradually trained to last thirteen days without drinking by ever-
increasing waterless periods. When our camels arrived at Kufara they had
done a hard 800 miles of journey, including one stretch of ten days
without water and twelve without sufficient food, during the last three
of which they were practically starving. After nine days’ rest they had
to start to cross one of the hardest routes in North Africa, overloaded
and at a bad period of the year, when the climate is at its worst. We
had, therefore, reason for our fears, and when the animals turned away
from the plentiful fodder of the Mehemsa our little party lost something
of its high spirits.
CHAPTER XIV
THE ELUSIVE DUNES
Near the feeding ground are two large cisterns erected by order of Sayed
el Mahdi. When any of the Senussi family wished to travel by this route,
water was sent on ahead and stored in the cisterns, near which there is
a small shanty falling into disrepair. As a matter of fact, there should
undoubtedly be water at the Mehemsa. It is the same sort of ground as at
Buttafal and Zakar and green bushes are plentiful and healthy. There is
no rainfall and no dew to account for their existence otherwise. We also
noticed a number of birds, conspicuous among them a grey and black
variety larger than the “abu fasada.” In the time of Sidi el Mahdi
slaves dug for water to a depth of 20 feet at the Mehemsa without coming
to wet sand, but since then no one has tried.
On February 2 we started north at 6.30 A.M. after a violent argument as
to the best way of saving the camels. I wanted to follow the summer
plan, start an hour before sunset, walk all night and camp two hours
after dawn. One can do much longer marches this way, but the Beduins
were reluctant to face the cold of the night. On the other hand,
Mohammed was desperately afraid of another sandstorm, which would
inevitably delay us. He therefore wanted to walk at least 15 hours a
day. It is an unfortunate fact that a camel does 13 hours, at a pace of
4 kilometres, infinitely easier than 10 hours at 5. He is capable of
plodding along evenly without halting for an indefinite time, but the
slower he goes the longer he will last. Mohammed was a bad camel-man.
Frightened of the desperately long route in front of him, which had to
be traversed in 12 days, he was anxious to push on at first in order to
have something up his sleeve; yet the loads, chiefly fodder and water,
would grow lighter every day. I refused, therefore, to do more than 12
or 13 hours a day, especially as our camels would not feed properly when
it was dark and cold. The best way of travelling is to start at 5 A.M.,
barrak for a few hours at midday, feed the camels as the afternoon grows
cooler and walk late into the night. But it means a double loading and
we had not enough men or energy for that, so our beasts had to accustom
themselves to feeding by starlight night and morning.
That first day we had a cool wind, so we all walked cheerfully across
the unbroken stretches of monotonous fawn sand. The world had become a
level disk again, infinitely flat, its smoothness polished by the
glaring sun till the mirage broke the edges, which seemed but a few
yards away. I asked old Suleiman how he knew the way. “You put Jedi over
your left eye and walk a long way—thus. Then you turn a little toward
the kibla[5] and walk still more and then, if Allah wills, you arrive.”
It was not exactly a reassuring answer after Abdullah’s vagaries, so I
asked him where Jedi was at the moment. “I don’t know,” he replied with
engaging frankness. “Where is she?” I showed him by the compass and he
trudged on perfectly placidly, nibbling a date from the little store he
kept tied up in a corner of his tattered jerd.
Footnote 5:
The _kibla_ is turned towards the _ka-aba_ at Mecca.
When the sunset had painted our narrow world flame-red and one by one,
the stars had come out to show how infinitely remote is “that inverted
bowl we call the sky,” Mohammed pleaded for an extra spurt. “Let us just
put that star out,” he urged, pointing to the brightest point in the
west. Having noticed, however, that all the camels were stumbling and
swinging out of the line, I thought a race with the evening star would
be a mistake, so I insisted on barraking. We made no zariba, leaving the
loads ready coupled for the morning. We had taken very little hattab
from the Mehemsa because of the weight, so our fire was of the smallest
description and we should have been asleep in an hour, but for a
prolonged dispute between Mohammed and Suleiman as to the necessity of
agaling the camels. “They will not move, my son,” said Suleiman. “They
are tired, like me, and I am an old man.” “Old, too, in experience,”
replied our polite retainer, “but make my heart at peace by agaling
them.” And he related a lurid story of how 70 camels had stampeded
midway on the Zieghen route. They all reached Jalo safely, but some of
the men, unexpectedly left to carry their food and water, died on the
march. Suleiman was already rolled like a dormouse between two hawias,
so he appealed to me for support. “Know you the saying of the Prophet,
Uncle Suleiman,” I asked, “how a man came to him and asked whether he
should agal his camel or put his trust in Allah? ‘First place the agal
on the camel and then your trust in Allah,’ was the reply.”
[Illustration: MY LONELY PICNIC IN KUFARA WADI]
[Illustration: A GLASS OF MINT TEA ON THE WAY TO SIWA]
Various grunts and roars, mingled with my sleep, told me that the guide
had been impressed by my theological learning and it seemed only a few
minutes later that I woke to the sound of Yusuf’s voice, “Allah make you
strong! Are you ready for rice?” Protesting that it must still be the
middle of the night, I poked my head out of the flea-bag, dislodging a
shower of sand from its folds, and a few yards away was one of the odd,
vivid little pictures that flash suddenly into one’s life and that one
never forgets. A crackling, scented fire, criminally large in the
circumstances, threw a wavering golden circle in the midst of flat,
shadowed sand, interminable, bourneless. Against the brilliant stars a
tall, white-robed figure was silhouetted, hands raised to heaven, white
hood framing the stern, dark-featured face, intoning the dawn prayers.
“Allahu Akhbar!” rang out with undaunted faith, with undimmed courage,
to the one Guide whom the Beduin trusts to lead his labouring caravans
through desert and dune to the desired oasis. Beside the glowing
brushwood, Suleiman, bent double over a huge cauldron, monotonously
pounded the morning’s “asida,” his long pestle moving to the rhythm of
his quavering chant, while Amar, huddled under his coarse jerd, stirred
red sauce flavoured with fil-fil. Yusuf’s plump face was set in immobile
discontent against the flames, as, muffled in every conceivable garment
and wrap, he methodically fed the fire, twig by snapping twig. White
robes, a fire and the paling stars, with a circle of camels looming
formless and dark in the background. That was my picture and then
Yusuf’s cross voice spoiled it. “The girba water is very bad,” he said.
“The rice will be black!” “Maleish! I shall not see it!” I said,
shivering; but a few minutes later we _tasted_ it, when the plump one,
sleepy-eyed, shuffled across with a grimy frying-pan. He had sand on his
nose and forehead to show that he had said his morning prayers, but,
whereas the rest of the retinue devoutly bowed their heads to the earth
three times a day at least, I always suspected Yusuf of calmly dabbing a
little shingle on his face as he went along.
[Illustration: DOCUMENT OF WELCOME AT BUSEIMA (TAJ)]
[Illustration: DOCUMENT OF WELCOME GIVEN AT KUFARA (TAJ)]
The hard-boiled eggs gave out that day, so we had to drown the taste of
the girba rice with sardines. Our midday meal now consisted of dates and
a handful of “bucksumat,” for we had been given a couple of bags of
these hard, unleavened biscuits, slightly sweetened and flavoured with
carraway seeds, by the kindly ekhwan of Taj. In the evening we shared a
tin of corned beef, but, alas! our great support of the Taiserbo journey
had failed us, for the dates we had brought from Hawari were too fresh
and they stung our mouths, blistering our gums and reducing us to
agonies of thirst. The water allowance was too small to allow of our
drinking except in the morning and the evening, so we had reluctantly to
discard our dates. Yusuf insisted on eating one only each day, because
there is an Arab proverb, “A date by the way or a young girl smiling
makes a fortunate journey.”
We started at 6.30 A.M. on February 3 and walked till 7 P.M., when the
whole party, men and camels alike, sat down and groaned. It had been
absolutely torrid, without a breath of wind. The girbas began to look
distinctly thin and the clank of the water in the fanatis showed that a
good deal had evaporated. Unfortunately, it had been very cold after the
sandstorm the evening before our departure from the Zakar well and the
camels had not drunk properly. Yusuf had made gloomy prognostications
most of the day and when we came to a mound of sand, which had drifted
over a few old hawias thrown away by a former caravan, he poked them
viciously. “How many of our own shall we throw in this way?” he asked of
fate.
There is no logic in desert weather. After midday heat we had a very
cold night. I remember I ate my chilly dinner with my gloves on and was
not surprised to find there was frost, when a sudden storm of shouts and
roars brought me rapidly out of my flea-bag and I fell over the
thermometer in the dark. The camels apparently had gone wildly mad, for
in spite of their agals they were all hobbling and hopping wildly round
making immense noise, which the retinue were exceeding in their anxiety
to drive the beasts away from our neatly arranged girbas, protected, as
usual at night, by a hedge of baggage saddles.
February 4 saw us away by 6.15, a good effort, chiefly due to a loading
race between Amar and Yusuf against the guide and Mohammed. I think the
former couple won, but all the loads were a little wobbly that day. A
black duck flew low across our path, heading north. “It has gone into
the upside-down country,” said Suleiman, pointing ahead; and there, on
the far horizon, we saw pale dunes and ridges, clear-cut, with violet
shadows below peak and cliff. They looked but a few hours’ march away
and we were all immensely happy, though we knew they were more than a
day’s journey away.
Again it was very hot, but Yusuf, who always enjoyed a burning sun, took
it upon himself to cheer up the whole party. When a camel lay down and
groaned, he carefully made a row of toy “asidas” in the sand, modelling
the little hole at the top for a sauce with infinite trouble. “These are
for him to eat, then he will be strong again,” he said smiling. When
Suleiman complained of his eyesight the plump one cried: “I will ride
ahead and see the way.” And, mounting his stick, he gambolled round,
imitating every trick and gesture of horsemanship with perfect art.
Finally, when the rest of us were so oppressed by the heat that we only
wondered what we could take off next, we saw Yusuf solemnly fill the
skirt of his shirt with sand and begin sowing it like grain right and
left. “What on earth are you doing, you man?” exclaimed Mohammed. “The
next traveller will find a patch of green grain and will be happy,” he
said placidly. Nevertheless, that night, when the elusive dunes had
failed to materialise even as shadows on the horizon, anxiety spread.
Hassanein balanced himself perilously upright on the back of the Tebu
beast, but could report nothing in sight, so consoled himself by re-
mending his yellow shoes.
All the afternoon there had been disputes as to whether we should go
east or west of certain invisible dunes, and the retinue disagreed
violently as to how soon we ought to see these landmarks or in what
direction they were. Therefore, I was not surprised when I heard a
bitter argument behind me. Reproaches were being hurled at Suleiman, who
replied that he was old and could not see: “He has lost the——” wailed
Mohammed. “We must stop. We cannot go on.” Yusuf joined in. “Is he sure
he has lost it? Think, you man! Let him think, I tell you!”
Expostulation and suggestion followed in loud chaos. I had coped with
one such dispute on the morning when there should have been a ridge to
the left and there wasn’t! I determined that Hassanein should struggle
with this. Slightly deaf, he was nodding over his shoe-making far ahead
on the grey camel. I rushed up to him crossly. “Get down at once,” I
urged, seizing the beast ruthlessly by the neck and feeling angrier than
ever at the sight of Hassanein’s mildly surprised and protesting face,
as he desperately clutched his boots and the nearest supporting rope in
preparation to being forcibly barraked! “Pull yourself together!
Suleiman has lost the way. They are all fighting desperately. If it’s an
important landmark he’s missed we had better wait till the morning. For
heaven’s sake hurry!”
One anguished glance at the angry group in the rear, who were all
pointing backwards, was sufficient to make Hassanein swing off without
question. I watched him literally propel himself into the argument,
heard “Wallahi!” furiously repeated, saw hands flung skywards and then,
surprised, saw him extricate himself from Mohammed’s detaining hands and
walk slowly back to his camel, methodically picking up the possessions
he had ruthlessly scattered at my peremptory request. “Well, what is it?
What has he lost?” I shouted impatiently. Hassanein waited till he was
quite near and then he gave me a withering look and said very slowly,
each word enunciated separately: “It—is—a—small—leather—bag—which—the—
kaimakaan—gave—him—to—sell—in—Jaghabub. Suleiman—has—left—it—behind!”
On February 5 we broke camp at 6.30, singularly indifferent to coffee
mysteriously mixed with candle-grease and rice, hairy with girba fur, in
our anxiety to see the morning mirage. This time the dunes looked even
nearer. One could see the wavy furrows along the ridges and every
separate golden hillock, yet an hour later everything had vanished and
the flat, fawn disk stretched, drab and monotonous, on every side.
Suleiman was confident, however, that we should sleep in the dunes that
night. Yusuf was cheerfully certain that, as we had not yet seen the
Mazul ridge to the west, we should not “see land” for another day. When
Beduins are travelling across a big, trackless desert, they always speak
of any known country as “the land.” It is rather like a long sea voyage
with the guide as pilot. He keeps the caravan’s head turned in the right
direction by the stars and waits to pick up a familiar landmark before
making directly for his oasis. At 10 A.M. the old guide uttered
something nearly resembling a shriek and threw himself on Yusuf’s neck.
“I see the Mazul!” he exclaimed, “and it is near, very near.” Leaving
the pale line of distant hillocks to our left, we headed directly north
towards other dunes which began to appear, a faint blur on the horizon.
The two little nagas edged away to the west all day in the most
determined way. Yusuf said they knew that their mothers, from whom we
had separated them at Taj, were now travelling on the Zieghen-Jalo route
and instinct was driving them towards the soldier-slaves’ caravan.
The plump one’s character always appeared to greater advantage in really
hard times. When things were going easily his scowl was a marvel of
discontented endurance. His eyes shut into little slits and his voice
became a plaintive whine. When big difficulties arose, when camels were
failing and everybody was over-tired, Yusuf cheered up the whole
caravan. His absurd little songs trickled out hour after hour, he told
long fairy stories about giants and princesses, he made elaborate jokes
which we daily received with new interest. Thus, if anyone lagged behind
they were always greeted when they rejoined the caravan as if after a
long absence, upon which they replied that they had come from Jedabia or
Jalo in two or three days, were congratulated on their walk, and asked
minutely for news concerning every person in the place. This particular
game never wearied and we all grew most inventive at the expense of the
good folk at Jedabia.
One would think that in a thirteen hours’ walk each day one would find
time for much conversation, but the desert breeds reserve. It is so big
that one’s own plans and projects seem too little to be talked about.
Also, there is so much time to say anything that one continually puts it
off and ends by never saying it at all. We used to walk for hours
without a word, till Yusuf broke the silence by some reflection on his
approaching marriage or the sickness that he saw in some camel’s eye. By
this time I had learned how to make myself understood in Libya. The
nouns are nearly all different, but after one had learnt a list of those
one gets on very nicely with but two verbs. To express any more or less
peaceful occupation like travelling, stopping, loading, unloading,
letting fall, starting, etc., _ad infinitum_, one employs the word
“shil.” If one wishes to imply any more vigorous or offensive action,
like fighting, attacking, climbing hurriedly, eating, burning, becoming
angry, “akal” seems to be elastic enough to express it.
We finally arrived at the dunes nearly two hours before sunset, luckily
hitting two very big dunes that were well-known landmarks. Yusuf wanted
to turn in behind them. Suleiman insisted on going to the right, which
brought us into a wide, flat stretch some 12 kilometres long. We
barraked at the end of it in a rising wind, which soon put out our
little folding lantern, so that we lost everything, including the tin
opener, in the dark. It was rather a miserable night, for the hattab we
had brought from the Mehemsa was exhausted and our efforts to make tea
over a little fire of “leaf” torn from one of the hawias were not very
successful.
The water from the girba we opened that night was really bad. Its colour
and taste alike were extraordinary, so we regretfully decided to use it
only for cooking. Suleiman looked at it with interest. “We have enough
water, Hamdulillah!” he said. “In any case I can live for a week without
drinking.” When we questioned him as to this amazing statement he told
us that Sidi el Mahdi habitually sent out caravans to explore the
country round Kufara. Suleiman, an old man and a boy, had formed one of
these parties, and they had wandered as far afield as Merg, thirteen
days south-east of their starting-point, when one dark night their
camels were stolen by a band of brigands. Presumably something happened
to the girbas and provisions, for in the morning the exploring party
found themselves with enough water and dates for a day and a half and
they were six days’ journey from the nearest well, the Oweinat. However,
the three started off to walk to it, actually carrying their rifles. The
old man got ill after one day and insisted on being left behind. After
two days his erstwhile companions discarded their rifles. After three,
Suleiman got fever and lay down to die, but the boy went on and arrived
safely at the well. Our guide unexpectedly recovered from his fever
after twenty-four hours and started off again, walking only at night and
lying down all day. He arrived at Oweinat on the seventh day so
exhausted and so parched with thirst that he could not get the liquid
down his throat, so he lay in the water in the well for a whole day and
was then able to drink. Luckily a caravan had thrown away some dates,
and with a small store of these and the little water he could carry,
Suleiman calmly walked on to Kufara, another week’s journey! The old man
who had been left to die on the road arrived a day later _with his
rifle_. The feat seems inconceivable, but Yusuf vouched for the truth of
the story and Amar told how he had drunk only once in 72 hours when the
water in the girba went bad. Then Mohammed, not to be outdone in
endurance, related how he had travelled from Jalo to Jaghabub in four
days and four nights, without sleeping, eating as the camels went along,
because the girbas were all leaking and he was afraid of running short
of water.
By this time we felt that our own little effort to draw a new red line
across a survey map was very small and insignificant and that we should
certainly be able to walk to Jaghabub carrying a fanatis and a tin of
corned beef if necessary! We were much less confident of it next
morning, however, when all the camels turned up their noses at the date
food offered them and deliberately ran away. There was nowhere for them
to run to among the dunes, so we got them back after a laborious half-
hour, but I felt that the word “agal” and not Kufara would be written
across my heart in future! There was no fire that morning, and uncooked
soaked rice is not appetising. I remember I was tying the remains of my
stockings round my feet when I heard a gloomy voice say: “We ate the
last box of sardines last night because you lost the beef-tin-opener in
the sand and the rice is coal black. I wish you would not be so miserly
with the fanatis water!” I didn’t pay much attention as I hadn’t any
more stockings. Evidently the primrose and scarlet boots which I had
bought for four mejidies (sixteen shillings) at Jof were not suited for
walking, for I had been wearing two pairs of woollen stockings one over
the other and now they all hung in shreds round my feet. However, I did
look up when the plaintive tones continued. “I’ve found one sardine. He
must have fallen out when you upset the canteen in the sand.” With
horror I saw a soddened, dark mass and on the top of it a minute yellow
block shaped like a fish, but I did not like to be discouraging. “Are
you sure that there is a sardine inside that sand?” I asked diffidently.
Hassanein was offended. “Will you carve him or shall I?” he asked
majestically.
On February 6 we plunged right into the dunes. On the whole they ran
north to south in great wavy ridges, which would be impossible for
camels to cross. In between were wide stretches of rolling ground,
rising gradually to lower dunes through which Suleiman confidently
picked his way. The little old man was very calm. “I have never been
this route before, but if I keep Jedi in my left eye we shall arrive,
Insha-allah!” he said, and when Yusuf complained violently that there
was no hattab—the retinue had eaten raw flour and water that morning—he
answered simply, “Allah will bring provisions.” A few minutes later we
came upon a camel skeleton, a most welcome sight, for it proved we were
on the right track; inside the ribs were some large slabs of dried dung.
Mohammed pulled this out triumphantly. “A fire! A fire! Hamdulillah!”
And therefore everyone was cheerful till Amar brought the news that
Yusuf was ill. We had seen the plump one lie down some way in the rear,
but thought he was only resting for half an hour, a thing we all did in
turns, only the difference between the nature of East and West showed at
these moments, for whereas the Beduins slept peacefully in the rear and
then ran after the camels, I used to toil on ahead and lay myself across
the path of the caravan, so that I must wake at its approach. It
appeared that Yusuf had fallen down and then lost consciousness for
about an hour; it was very lucky that he managed to catch up the caravan
at all. We mounted him on the Tebu camel, which was the strongest of the
caravan but was already showing signs of thirst, and toiled on.
It was much harder walking in the dunes, for the sand was soft and deep
in patches, but the great curly ridges, golden as Irish butter, which
Yusuf always looked at affectionately, because they reminded him of his
beloved “asida,” were friendly spirits after the dreary disk of the
preceding four days. It was always a thrilling moment when one mounted a
high gherd, for there was the possibility of a view. Logically one could
expect to see only waving yellow crests, a sunlit expanse of sand valley
and mountain in every direction, but the impossible might always happen.
One might espy a caravan or an oasis—or at least some hattab!
For this reason we always hastened ahead up the big rises to look down
on wind-tossed ranges, and towards the evening we were rewarded for our
energy by the appearance of little black specks in one of the hollows.
“Hattab,” said Suleiman laconically and Yusuf recovered at the word—or
perhaps it was the quinine which we had given him earlier in the day! We
raced down to the brittle stalks of twisted coarse-grained wood that
meant fires and hot food that night, and everyone began to talk of what
they would eat!
Just after sunset we came to an almost perpendicular dune which the
camels refused to descend. We had to dig a sloping trough down it and
push the beasts into it one by one. Everybody was tired and the camels
were incredibly stupid. The young nagas simply rolled down, flinging
their loads in front of them, at which Mohammed lost his temper and made
matters worse by violently beating the animals, still hesitating at the
top. They stumbled forward in a huddled mass, and I saw the girbas
threatened. Luckily the Tebu beast was carrying most of them. He plunged
solidly down on his great splay feet and I had just enough energy left
to seize his head-rope and drag him out of the chaos. We barraked before
our short-sighted guide could lead us over another such precipice and,
because it was a joy to be wasteful of anything on that journey, we made
no fewer than three fires and recklessly poured everything we could find
into the frying-pan together—rice and corned beef and tinned turnips—so
that we ate a hot, very hot, meal. We even drank our one cup of tea hot,
debating the while whether coffee were not preferable, for, though it
made one thirsty, it somewhat hid the taste of the girba water.
Everything by now tasted slightly of wax, for, in the hot days, all the
candles had melted in the canteen. It is certainly possible to clean
pots and pans beautifully with sand, but it needs a great deal of energy
to do it and I defy anyone to have any superfluous energy after loading
and feeding camels before a twelve to thirteen hours’ march, unloading
and feeding the tired and smelly beasts at the end of it, agaling them
while they persistently tried to escape, preparing some sort of a meal
and then, worst of all, oh! intolerably worst, the sand-rash that
tortured our nights! Let no one who dreams of a poetic, Swinburnian
desert come to Libya! We had not washed anything but our hands since
leaving Hawari thirteen days before and not even these since the Zakar
well; since then we had had a sandstorm which had filled every pore with
minute grit, so that by day the irritation was just bearable, but at
night, in the warmth and the restricted space of the flea-bag, it was a
torture beyond belief. I used to feel that never, so long as I lived,
would I be able to bear seeing water spilled or wasted.
Fate had been cruel to us in one respect, for the day at the Zakar well,
when we had dreamed of sandy baths in the canteen lid behind a friendly
palm tree, she had sent us the first of our two sandstorms, so washing
had been confined to a teacup for our fingers. One lay at night,
sleepless and burning, and looked up at the aloof peace of the stars and
wondered vindictively how one could get even with the desert for this
last trick of hers. Yet, in the cold, still dawn, the desperate
tiredness vanished and one made a huge, unnecessary fire to breakfast by
and ate black rice with immense relish. Yusuf was very proud of his
skill as a cook, so we did not like to tell him of all the foreign
bodies we found in our food—bits of leaf and straw from the baggage
saddles, grit, hair, pebbles and sand—it was the Libyan sauce and I
think Hassanein suffered much in silence, for it was his first desert
journey and he still hankered after cleanliness. I used to find him
desperately and secretly rubbing a plate with a corner of his muffler or
his best silk handkerchief and, whenever he was late for breakfast, I
knew it was because he had been unwise enough to look at his cup or fork
before using them!
On our second day in the dunes the flat spaces grew rarer, so that we
climbed up and down ridges most of the time. The camels began to show
signs of wear. One of the nagas trailed her head most of the time. The
big blond beast had to be relieved of his load. They were all very
smelly, which is the first sign of thirst. Luckily, we found patches of
green hattab, the prickly, juiceless bush of the Mehemsa, scattered
under the dunes and the animals raced to it, fighting for the freshest
tufts. Amar got fever and had to be allowed to ride, while I was so
tired that I found a way of festooning myself over the pegs of the
baggage saddles, my knees wound round one and my neck round another. In
this extraordinarily uncomfortable position I actually dozed, while
Yusuf wandered beside me doubtfully. “You are very long,” he said
politely. “I think you will fall.” And he tried to double up a dangling
foot much as if it was a piece of baggage slipping.
I could not understand the presence of green bushes till I found my
pillow that night wet with a heavy dew. Then I realised that we had left
the southern lands behind us and next day, February 8, there were a few
little clouds in the sky, just specks of fluffy white, but we had become
used to the molten blue that roofs the red country of Kufara and her
encircling wastes. That was for me the worst day. The little camels
persistently threw their loads, ill-balanced because the fodder had
become so much lighter. There was a cold east wind, which blistered
one’s skin on one side, while the sun scorched it on the other. The
camels would not keep together, but strayed off to each patch of green.
The dunes seemed steeper than ever and the sand softer and heavier. No
one was sure of the way. Even Suleiman was a little depressed at not
picking up any of the landmarks he had known on previous journeys. He
insisted on keeping his course due north, though we knew Jaghabub lay
north-east, and his only explanation was that it was easier to approach
the place from the west. Logically, I thought it would be easier to
strike east, so that if one went past Jaghabub one would at least reach
Siwa. To the west lay only the seven days’ waterless stretch to Jalo.
However, Suleiman was immovable and we plodded wearily on, placing one
foot in front of the other with desperate firmness and flinging
ourselves flat on our faces for a few minutes’ blessed sleep whenever
the camels lingered to feed. I remember wondering, as I dragged myself
up after one of these short respites, how many separate and distinct
aches one’s body could feel at the same moment. I was getting quite
interested in the problem when Hassanein’s bronzed face—it seemed to
have grown hollow these last few days—appeared beside me. He was
painfully shuffling on blistered feet after a twelve hours’ walk the
previous day. “When we get to Cairo everyone will say, ‘What fun you
must have had!’” he said drearily. Even this idea could not make me
speak. I had discovered it was easier to walk with my eyes shut and so,
mutely, I shuffled after the guide, dragging my stick till I dropped it
and was too tired to pick it up again.
Yes, it was a bad day, but it ended at last with a few patches of black
pebbles, sure sign that we were nearing the northern edge of the dunes.
Even the sand rash, combined with a most remarkable tasting dish
produced by Hassanein’s efforts to clean the frying-pan, could not keep
me awake that night and I slept soundly till Yusuf’s plaintive voice,
saying all in one breath, “Allah-make-you-strong-the-fire-is-ready-for-
the-rice!” roused me to a starry world and an exceedingly damp one, but
I imagine these very heavy dews helped the thirsty camels considerably,
so I didn’t regret a wet barracan which twisted itself reluctantly round
everything but me!
February 9 was memorable, for on climbing the high dune under which we
had camped we saw a long, faint ridge, blue on the north-east horizon.
“Land at last!” exclaimed Mohammed. “It must be the mountain between
Jaghabub and Siwa!” Even this reassuring suggestion would not turn our
guide from his northerly course, but signs that we were leaving the
great desert abounded. So far the only living things had been large,
unpleasant beetles, mottled black and fawn creatures, some nearly four
inches long, which looked like scattered stones till they suddenly
raised themselves on long legs and scuttled away. That morning, however,
we saw many black and grey birds and at last, when the green patches of
hattab had developed into large brown-like shrubs and neat little dwarf
trees, leafless and but two or three feet high, we came across gazelle
traces. We also found two complete skulls with the tapering horns in
perfect condition. The country was changing noticeably. The previous day
there had been a few patches of the Jaghabub grey stone among the sand,
the sight of which filled the retinue with delight. On February 9 great
blocks of it appeared in fantastic masses rising suddenly from dune and
hollow. We noticed scattered pieces of fossilised wood, some of which
appeared to have been part of the trunks of big trees. Stretches of what
looked like black pebbles shimmered dark beyond the farthest ridge.
Finally, Mohammed, mounting an immense curly backed sand peak at noon,
tore off his turban, tied it round his staff and, waving it bannerwise
above his head, shouted wildly, “I see my country! The land is near!”
The camels were the only indifferent beings in the caravan. They were
too tired to quicken the pace, which had dropped to two miles an hour
during the last day or two. They had got very thin, with dull eyes, but
luckily there was a slight breeze to relieve the intense heat which
scorched us whenever we stopped for grazing in a hollow. There were
streaks of white cloud in the pale sky and I imagined a breath of salt
flavoured the northern breeze, so that suddenly I was desperately home-
sick for the great free desert, lawless and boundless, that we were
leaving. Ahead were the comfortable lands where the nomads camp in their
tattered “nuggas” and the Beduins pasture their herds, the Gebel Akhbar
and Cyrenaica, the welcome of the tent-dwellers for all caravans who
have travelled the “big routes.”
Somewhere, “east of us,” said the compass, “north of us,” said Suleiman,
lay the last outpost of the wilderness, if not the birthplace, at least
the training ground of Senussi-ism, but the lure of space dragged one’s
mind back. The claw of the desert was tearing away the peace that should
lie at a journey’s end. I do not think I ever felt mentally flatter than
when, just before 2 A.M., we passed through the last little hollow where
green and gold were mixed and the mighty belt of dunes lay behind us. In
front was a most desolate country of grey slate and streaks of white
chalky sand and pebbles, with here and there a dull madder gherd or
stony cliff. A faint thrill of interest was given to the moment by the
fact that none of the retinue knew where we were, but as I was
determined that east we should now go, whatever they said, it did not
much matter.
Suleiman climbed one dune and said we were between the hatias of Bu Alia
and Bu Salama on the Jalo road. Mohammed climbed another and said that
both these places were to the east of us. Yusuf lay down firmly on a
soft spot and said that all known country was still to the north and he
was going to sleep till the guide found his head again.
The happy-go-lucky Beduin spirit had completely got possession of us, so
no one was particularly surprised when, after an hour on the course
insisted on by the compass and myself, we picked up a definite trail
with some slabs of stones stuck upright as landmarks. As a matter of
fact we had struck the Jalo-Jaghabub route, rather more than a day’s
journey west of the latter place, but at the time nobody was certain as
to our exact position. Amar, however, announced that undoubtedly Bu Alia
lay behind us, and no sooner had the whole retinue agreed on that one
point than the beginning of the hatia of that name became visible a few
hundred yards ahead! “Hamdulillah! We shall camp to-night in our own
country!” exclaimed Mohammed, and hurried on the caravan in spite of
Yusuf’s expostulations. Gazelle tracks were now plentiful and we tried
to track down four in the hope of getting a shot, but Suleiman was
nearly dead-beat. “The last word is in your hands,” he said, “but I am
an old man and very tired. Let us barrak here.”
The hatia was really a wadi stretching about 5 kilometres north to
south, with a breadth of 4 kilometres. The whole space between the white
shale and sand banks was filled with mounds and shrubs of hattab, mostly
green, while here and there massive blocks of greyish sandstone stuck up
in strange shapes. As one wandered slowly through the low bushes far
away to the north a long purplish ridge with a mound at the end shaped
exactly like the dome of a mosque caught the first red of the sunset.
“That is the gherd of the qubba,” exclaimed Yusuf, his round tired face
lighting up, “and look, in front of us is the Gara of Sidi el Mahdi!” At
the farthest end of the hatia was an immense block of red sandstone
flung up by the hands of some forgotten giant upon a mighty base of
polished white, so that it looked like a primeval altar to the gods of
earth and sky. Here the Mahdi used to halt his immense caravans on the
Jalo journey and under the shadow of the rough natural sanctuary pray
for a prosperous venture or give thanks for a safe return.
Even Suleiman spoke no more of barraking. Without a word spoken,
everyone felt that the Maghrib prayers must be said where the spirit of
the Mahdi would surely welcome travellers from the far-off oasis, whose
red and amber he had changed to wealth of grain and fruit and flowers.
The weary camels were hurried from their indifferent nibbling among the
dry shrubs. When the full glory of the golden west lit up the strange
altar, balanced between heaven and earth, and the faint silver crescent
of a new moon glowed pale amidst the flame, we came round the corner of
the rock and saw the simplest kibla that ever the faithful turned
towards the Ka-aba. It was but three grey, rough boulders, with a circle
of stones to mark the shape of an imaginary mosque, yet it was holy
ground and we left our worn shoes outside, before we bowed our faces to
the desert sands. What prayers the stern Mohammed mixed with his, “In
the name of Allah compassionate and merciful,” I know not. What simple
thanksgivings were murmured by our weather-beaten guide, if the young
zawia student, Amar, grasped the perils from which he had been
protected, if Yusuf’s mind realised for one fleeting moment that there
was something beyond his comfortable practicality, I cannot guess, but I
know that never in my life have I offered more whole-hearted gratitude
to the Power that, called by many different names in many different
cities, is omnipotent in the deserts!
CHAPTER XV
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
We camped that night at Bu Salama, the next hatia on the way to
Jaghabub. The wood was too green to make really good fires, though
Mohammed and Hassanein laboured manfully in the sand. The rest of us
were too tired to care what happened, provided we could lie down and not
move for hours and hours. The grey camel evidently shared our feelings,
for he had fallen in barraking. Amar, hopping round him distressfully
without making the slightest attempt to help the rider, called
repeatedly on the name of Sidi el Mahdi. It is amazing the complete
faith every Senussi has in the spiritual and mental power of the Sayeds.
Whenever the young nagas ran away old Suleiman used to stand perfectly
still and repeat urgently, “Influence of Sidi Idris! Influence of Sidi
Idris!” While once, while sleeping perilously in a more than usually odd
position, I nearly fell as my camel stumbled down a dune, Yusuf muttered
the name of every Sayed living and dead to ensure my safety.
I have never travelled in any country so united in devotion to its ruler
as Libya. Presumably Sidi Idris is somewhat less powerful than Allah in
the eyes of the Senussi, but he is nearer at hand! Their confidence in
his capabilities is so unbounded that it must occasionally embarrass the
Sayed himself. From curing a camel a thousand miles away to stopping a
sandstorm, from conquering the world to producing a well where there is
no water, all are within the power of the son of Sidi el Mahdi. Our own
prestige as friends of so important and puissant a personage was,
therefore, considerably lowered when we humbly suggested that the
retinue had better leave their varied armoury in Jaghabub as we could
not guarantee that the Egyptian frontier authorities would allow them to
enter Siwa. Yusuf looked blank. “But you will write a letter——” he
suggested. He knew the all-powerful, almost magical effect of a missive
from Sidi Idris in Libya, and reasoned that his guests could surely
arrange the simple affair of the rifles in their own country by putting
pen to paper. When we confessed our impotence he entertained the gravest
doubts as to our position and respectability!
We had decided to send Mohammed on to Jaghabub before sunrise so that we
might sleep next night in a house. Therefore, long after I had retired
into my flea-bag, I saw Hassanein and Yusuf struggling to shave our
delightful retainer by the light of the camp fire with a safety razor
blade held in a pair of pliers. Suleiman and Amar offered interested
suggestions interspersed with remarks on the number of grey hairs which
had resulted from the journey.
In spite of the eight hours’ journey ahead, Mohammed donned his best
clothes to present himself at the zawia where he had been educated.
Therefore I was surprised when Yusuf started next morning in his ragged
white shirt and patched waterproof. “I always ride the last day of a
journey,” he announced firmly, depositing himself on the least weary
camel.
We broke camp at 7 A.M. and straggled slowly by dreary grey gherds and
uneven stretches of colourless sands and stones to a small hatia, Bahet
Hafan, where a few palms grew among more fantastic boulders. The heat
was intense as we entered a country of low white hillocks, with slabs of
shale that made the camels stumble more than ever; but the end came with
unexpected rapidity, for, after the guide had told us under a noon sun
that it was a long day’s march to Jaghabub, Yusuf spied the white qubba
of the zawia from a friendly gherd. In a few minutes the whole round
wadi spread before us, with its strips of scattered palms and brushwood,
and beyond a line of square sandstone cliffs the white walls of Jaghabub
that looked so near and that took us more than two hours to reach.
The home of Sidi Ben Ali is by far the most picturesque of the Senussi
oases, for it is blinding white in the sunshine—a smooth, polished
cupola and tall madna, with the open-arched gallery of Sidi Idris’s
house rising above the massive, fortress-like walls of the zawia, all
white—white as the windmills that look like marble pillars in the
distance or the pale sand brick of the few big houses that surround the
zawia. Jaghabub is not a town in the proper sense of the word. It is one
immense building with thick, windowless walls, surrounding a maze of
courts, passages, schools, lodgings for students, the big houses of the
Senussi family and the large mosque and qubba of Sidi Ben Ali. It stands
on a cliff from which flights of steps lead down to palm gardens and the
one big well that supplies water to the whole settlement. Outside the
massed, many-storied buildings of the zawia are a few scattered houses,
but Jaghabub is a university pure and simple. When Sidi el Mahdi removed
his headquarters to Kufara he freed half a hundred slaves, giving them
the gardens that they cultivated and ordering that their rights should
be respected by his successors; so now there is a colony of these
liberated blacks who live among the palms in the wadi. They work hard in
their vegetable gardens, which are irrigated by an excellent system of
channels and reservoirs dependent on the spring below the zawia, and
they sell their dates and produce to the college.
Two of the students met us half-way across the wadi with a note from
Mohammed saying that rooms were being prepared for us in the zawia and
Yusuf promptly proceeded to change his clothes. He tore off his tattered
shirt, baring a muscular brown torso to the public gaze, produced a
mysterious bundle from a sack on my camel and shook from it embroidered
waistcoat, silk jerd, yellow shoes and immaculate white linen, all of
which he donned as we walked along. When the white walls were very near
we fired our revolvers into the air to announce our arrival and Mohammed
came out to meet us, smiling broadly. We passed through a big, white
arch into a wide, open space with a well in the middle, round which were
clustered groups of students who gave us warm greeting. To the right
rose the solid, castle-like wall of Sidi Idris’s house, whose gallery on
the other side looked down on to a beautiful square court of the qubba
with its wide-arched and columned arcades. The façade near the square is
pierced by a few shuttered windows and the carved main door through
which one goes to the qubba court. To the left the square was bordered
by a row of neat little round-lintelled doors, each with a slit of
window above it, the lodging-houses for the students. A big, two-storied
house rose beyond and, at the door of this, we were met by a delightful
old man with pale, thin face, a long beard as white as his woollen jerd
or the colourless walls behind him.
“Greeting to you and the peace of Allah!” he said, and led us into a
dwelling more complicated even than the kaimakaan’s house of many courts
at Taj. We went up and down little flights of steps which seemed to
exist without reason, under low arches, by odd little passages and mud-
floored yards, till a longer staircase led us to a flat roof, across
which we followed our host to a large high room, matted and carpeted,
but devoid of furniture. For the first time I lived in an Arab house
which had a view from the windows, for here there was no yard to shut
one into a mysterious little world of secluded privacy. From the cross-
barred windows with swinging shutters one looked down on the big square
and the white figures gossiping round the well or across to the group of
our weary camels, literally bulging after their enormous drink, to
students seated at the doors of their rooms with Koran and rosary.
Our host, Sidi Yadem Bu Gemira, one of the important ekhwan, was so
anxious to hear the complete story of our journey that he would not
leave us before we had drunk sweet coffee, seated on his best carpet,
and answered all his questions as to why we had come from Kufara by such
a hard route. Before we had satisfied his kindly curiosity, Sidi el
Fagil, plump and ebony-faced, with greying moustache, the Imam of the
mosque, and other ekhwan, had hurried to visit us. I was so tired I
could hardly hold up my head. My nose was blistered and peeling, my face
burning, my eyes watering. I was intensely hungry. Every nerve seemed to
be throbbing and aching and, above all, I was conscious of dirt. I felt
completely vague as I leaned against the wall and, when a murmur of
voices below suggested the possibility of other visits, I basely left
Hassanein to entertain the venerable ekhwan and crept down a discreet
little stairway to a quaint-shaped room that lurked under one of the
innumerable archways, forgotten, I think, by the architect, who must
have had a most tortuous mind. It was full of dust and clay, but I felt
a little more dirt did not matter, and here I was found by the kindly
Yusuf, when the last visitor had gone, fast asleep on Hassanein’s grimy
jerd.
“The Sitt Khadija must eat,” he said. “The wakil of Sidi Idris has sent
you dinner.” The magic word roused me and the sight of a gleaming brass
tray set on a little table 6 inches high in the middle of our unbroken
sea of carpet finished the cure. When we lifted the palm-leaf covers
from the bowls we found eggs, pigeons and vegetables cooked in wonderful
savoury sauces, with piles of most delicious bread, brown and flaky,
but, alas! every cunning sauce was so impregnated with red pepper that
we had most gingerly to remove the pigeons and dust them carefully
before eating, after which we regretfully deposited a just proportion of
the rest of the meal in a carefully prepared hole in a backyard lest the
feelings of our host be hurt. We had just removed all traces of our
villainy when he appeared to drink tea with us.
Sidi Hussein, the wakil, was, of all the hosts who generously
entertained us on behalf of the Sayeds, the most delightful because he
was the most simple. Jaghabub is not a political or mercantile centre,
like Kufara or Jalo. It has all the dreaming peace of a little
university town, only its dons are reverend, grey-bearded sheikhs in
flowing white jerds over grass-green or indigo-blue robes. Its
undergraduates are graver figures, with books and beads, than those of
Trinity or The House, while the scouts, I suppose, are the black slaves
of hideous aspect who live in a special court of the zawia, but I feel
sure they are more industrious and certainly more frugal than their
English counterparts on the banks of the Isis and Cam.
Sidi Hussein made tea with a formality as deliberate as that of the
kaimakaan at Taj, but his conversation was much less ceremonious. There
was no rigid etiquette observed in series of questions and answers. For
once the undercurrent of suspicion and unrest was absent and we curled
up our mental antennæ with a feeling of complete peace. The little town,
so aloof from the world in its secluded wadi, yet the nursery of a great
confraternity where still is nourished a force whose influence is felt
all along North Africa, wished us well. A very intimate friendliness
pervaded the gathering in the semi-gloom of the candle-lit room. The
wakil’s huge beard flowed grey and soft over dark jubba with a many-
coloured waistcoat beneath, but there was no lavish display of silk or
embroidery, because the ekhwan of Jaghabub are more devoted to learning
than to luxury. “We are poor men who spend our time in prayer,” said one
of them with the utmost simplicity and a dreamy look in his faded old
eyes. Their great pride is their qubba, and a reflection for this homage
showed in Yusuf’s face when, the night of our arrival, just as I had
finished scrubbing off the first layer of grime and was wondering if I
could decently ask Amar to heat another quart or two of water, he
arrived with a guttering candle to suggest that I should go at once to
see the sanctuary. “There will be no people there at this hour,” he
said, but, when we had crossed the starlit square and left our shoes
inside the first arcade of the mosque, we heard a low, monotonous
chanting coming from the shadows beyond the great white court! It was in
keeping with the solemn spirit of the night and the scene and the proud
happiness in Yusuf’s face, as he led me through long, dim ways which he
trod unfaltering, back again in imagination in his boyhood’s days, when
perhaps he had been as earnest and devout a learner as the grave-faced
students who passed us in the square.
Through a fine carved and painted door we passed into the mosque, very
quiet, white and dignified, the dark carpets on the floor the only rich
note to break its utter simplicity. The silence began to beat on my ear
drums with the impression of so many prayers, hopes, resolves, fervently
uttered by youth in these low aisles, remembered again by age when it
revisited the earliest centre of its faith. Yusuf did not break it. Eyes
bright with a light I had never seen in them before, he beckoned me on
into the qubba itself and we stood in a painted chamber, ornate with
gold and many colours, below the big dome, hung with huge, finely
moulded glass lamps. I murmured swift Arabic prayers before a square
grid of carved bronze that surrounded the tomb of the great Senussi. I
was afraid even the whisper of the “Fatha” might hurt the silence, for
our footfalls were muffled by thick, piled carpets, but the man whose
mind I had always imagined fixed on things of the earth, earthly,
shattered it with a sudden sound, half cry, half groan, as he bent
passionately to kiss the rail and afterwards the hand with which he had
touched it!
In the morning, after an excellent but peppery breakfast brought by
Mabruk, a hatchet-faced slave whom we used to watch running across the
square with a bowl into which he poked a surreptitious finger at our
door to see if it were still hot, I went again to the mosque and saw
other Senussi tombs. I found the wide, white arches had much charm by
sunlight, but I never again caught the mystic spirit of the night when
the living force of Islam had flamed for a second before my eyes.
Yusuf proved an excellent guide to Jaghabub. With intense pride he took
us through the maze of college buildings, pointing out the house of each
of the Senussi, Sidi Rida, Sidi Idris, Sayed Ahmed Sherif, Sayed Hilal
and Sayed Safi ed Din, which make a massive block round the white qubba.
In the big open square, where the pupils of the zawia lodge, he
announced, “We each of us have a house here. Amar has one. I have one.
We can come back whenever we like. It is our own country.” Thus the
zawias hold their pupils long after they have gone out to the cities and
deserts. The portly ekhwan, the prosperous merchant, the Beduin sheikh
or the wandering scribe may turn into the zawia where he has been
educated, sure of finding a room and a welcome. Even the chance
traveller may claim the three days’ hospitality of the Senussi and the
poorer he is the more generous it will be.
We spent two days in the high tower above the square, talking simply
about simple things with the ekhwan, doctoring some of the students with
pathetically inadequate remedies, exchanging the gossip of Kufara for
that of Egypt with a few west-bound merchants. Then we set out on the
last stage of our journey, determining that for once we would travel
slowly and peacefully, grazing the camels as we went, riding a little by
night for the sheer joy of the stars and barraking to make mint tea
wherever a haita tempted us with its wood and shade.
Fate must have laughed in her sleeve, but no echo of her mirth reached
us as we loaded our four camels inside the zawia walls or paused beyond
the first gherd while Sidi Hussein said the “Fatha.” I only realised
that this was the last Arabic blessing that would attend my journey and
suddenly I felt heartsick for the land I was leaving. The white,
clustered walls, the white qubba behind, stood for the effort we had
made, the object we had struggled for, far more than Kufara itself had
ever done. Mohammed was really broken down by the journey and unable to
come on with us, so, with this little land of hope and fear, success and
failure, with these winter months of high-pitched excitement and tense
endurance, we were losing a friend! An odd pain possessed me as we
finally parted in fine, whirling sand and a wind which blew his jerd
wildly about his face and when Yusuf said complacently, “The Sitt
Khadija is happy. She will be in her own country soon,” I knew the
desert had won after all. Those who are initiated into her secrets are
for ever held in her thrall. I think my voice was rather wobbly as I
answered, “No, no, I am sad because I am leaving the Senussi country
behind!” So quick is Arab sympathy, so responsive is their instinct,
that Yusuf’s face reflected my woful expression. “My heart was touched,”
he confided to Amar. “I would have wept with the Sitt Khadija because
she has many feelings.”
There was a strong north-west wind that day, but it was behind us, so we
rode slowly and placidly through the distorted country of sand and shale
that lies east of Jaghabub. I do not know whether sportive giants dig
for treasure or young gods build play castles and entrenchments in that
desolate land, but on every side rise fantastic shapes of wind-blown
sand. Reddish layers drip over polished white bases that look like
chalk. Ridge after ridge of storm-polished gherds shut one into a maze
of strange hillocks that give way occasionally to welcome green of
hatias. The retinue had shrunk to three, Yusuf, Amar and a new guide,
one Abu Bekr Manfi, who looked exactly like the wicked Caliph in Dulac’s
illustrations to the Arabian Nights, for he had a huge beaked nose
which, under an immense loosely rolled turban, curved to meet his
pointed beard and nut-cracker jaw. His curious eyes were for ever asking
questions, but his dialect was almost beyond my comprehension.
We proceeded very slowly because all the camels were tired and the
retinue had surreptitiously added to their loads immense earthenware
jars to fill with oil at Siwa, but it did not matter, for this was a
friendly desert, generous of her wood and water. We halted at El Amra,
where the Mahdi had built two great cisterns some fifty feet long with
domed roofs, through holes in which the water drips into the immense
chamber below. Abu Bekr made tea with a swiftness suggesting that his
Caliph ancestor had bequeathed to him the services of his familiar
genii. Then we proceeded slowly, walking and riding alternately another
12 kilometres to Maktuh, where we turned the weary camels loose to graze
and cooked our rice and “asida” respectively under a delightfully sweet-
scented bush, while inquisitive blackbirds with impertinent white
patches over their bills hopped cheerfully around us. In red mist of
sunset we started to reload, noticing that Abu Bekr carefully joined his
“Asr,” “Fagr” and “Aisha” prayers into one unending stream in order to
avoid having to do any work.
A golden crescent lighted a white world as we left the hatia, labouring
through the sabakha with great dunes looming on our right. I felt
infinitely at peace in the shimmering, silvery stillness, the silence
only broken by the soft pad-padding of the camels or Yusuf’s sudden
wailing chant in praise of his beloved qubba, “white as the breast of a
virgin.” The desert was in her most magical mood and I longed to turn
south again and ride back into her bourneless country by the pale light
of Jedi and Suhail. Then a strange murmuring sound arose in the dunes.
It was as if a great wind bore the humming of a myriad monstrous bees.
“The jinns are awake to-night!” said Yusuf fearfully. “Something evil
will befall us. They are making a great noise in the sands!” I laughed
at him and wondered if it were the throb of the breeze reverberating in
the empty oil jars or if we were so near civilisation that an aeroplane
had become a possibility. Then I remembered the desert drums of the
French Sahara, for which no human fingers are responsible, and I
wondered if, when one is very near akin to the Spirit of the Earth, one
can hear the beat of her pulse.
I turned on my big blond beast to ask Hassanein what he thought of the
strange throbbing and instead of a crouched figure swaying monotonously
on the grey Tebu, I saw a heap pick itself briskly from a patch of
stones. “I think I have broken my collar-bone!” said a calm, laughing
voice. “You wouldn’t say it quite so happily if you had!” I grunted,
with memories of hunting falls. “Perhaps not,” replied my companion,
clambering back on to his camel. “All the same, there’s a most enormous
lump. I believe I have.” And, though the voice still laughed, I grasped
suddenly that it spoke disastrous truth! Camels were roughly barraked.
Yusuf, for once bereft of speech, stumbled round, mutely offering most
of his clothing as bandages. Abu Bekr, practical and brutal, wished to
massage the lump as a sprain. I blessed for once the cumbersome length
of the red hezaam. Bandages and sling it made at the same time and left
an end over to fix a cushion under the armpit.
All the time Hassanein was cheerfully explaining that the Tebu had
thoughtlessly stumbled just as he was practising gymnastics, in order to
extract a blanket from some mysterious recess among the baggage sacks,
but we gave him short time for talk. We hustled him into a roughly made
“basoor” and a pitiful little procession started off again, for suddenly
the silver night had become desperately lonely, the drumming of the
jinns sinister and the trail to Siwa, with half-exhausted camels and
none too willing men, a thing of intolerable length.
Thereafter our journey was just the chronicle of a very gallant feat of
endurance. The golden sickle died behind us, but we plodded on. No
longer were the 85 kilometres in front of us a friendly desert to be
traversed slowly and comfortably. At all costs we must reach Siwa and a
doctor before the fractured bone broke the skin and set up
mortification. The greatest difficulty was the retinue, who could not
believe that the “Ahmed Bey” who laughed at them and urged them to sing
could really have a broken bone. “It is a little sprain,” said Yusuf
hopefully. “We will make a fire and massage it with oil of jasmine and
it will be cured.” But I drove them on unrelenting till the rough ground
west of Kusebeya made the camels stumble hopelessly in the darkness. I
hated Abu Bekr when he calmly lit himself a fire and, warming his feet
at the blaze, started chanting the Koran in a loud, exasperating voice.
We could not get the unfortunate Hassanein into a flea-bag and no
position we could devise could give rest to his shoulder, already jarred
by the unending bumps and jerks of a camel’s pace. All we could do was
to pile our cushions and blankets under him and cover him with the
sleeping-sacks. Yusuf toiled nobly and, in the cold night which
followed, during which Abu Bekr was the only one who slept, I heard him
come shuffling several times to see if he could help.
Never was a dawn more welcome, but as we helped my infinitely plucky
companion on to a camel, waiting for no breakfast except coffee, made
overnight in a thermos flask, I wondered whether human endurance could
last out another forty-eight hours like this. The shoulder was already
inflamed and the ground terribly rough, so that every few minutes the
rider was jerked and jolted painfully. We passed the blue salt lake of
Kusebeya, a strip of colour on our left, and clambered down into the
hatia, where the camels had to be turned loose to graze. We found a palm
clump and cooked rice in the shade and Hassanein’s smile grew a little
more twisted, in spite of my best efforts with bandages and sling.
I would hardly allow the retinue to finish their noisy gulps of tea.
“What does it matter if you are tired?” I flung at them. “That bone has
got to be set to-morrow night!” “Three and a half days from Jaghabub to
Siwa,” said Yusuf mournfully. “We would walk with you all night, but the
camels will not go.” “They have got to go,” said I sternly, but I knew
that our animals were very nearly exhausted. They had come more than a
thousand miles, with periods of overloading and insufficient food. For
nearly three months they had had no rest but the eight days at Kufara,
and we had always hoped to leave them at Jaghabub to recuperate.
Unluckily, there was not a single beast of burden in the zawia to take
us on, so we had to pick out the four least weary camels and trust once
more to luck.
That afternoon was one of the longest I have ever spent. When I saw
Hassanein put away his compass I knew that things must be pretty bad and
the fantastic hills were a tortuous maze through which we wandered
eternally! Yusuf pointed out the “Grid,” a group of three gherds which
might serve to support the cookingpots of the largest giants. “We shall
camp at Zaizeb,” he said and I prayed that it might be near. “Allah
alone knows how far it is to that hatia,” said Abu Bekr placidly as we
mounted, it seemed to me for the millionth time, a little rise and saw
nothing below but reddish sand over hard, white blocks, in monstrous
forms that suggested beasts and edibles to the fanciful Amar. Hassanein
was the last of us to fall into silence.
The sun set without showing any signs of the promised hatia. The camels
were obviously incapable of going much farther. Yusuf said pathetically,
“I have walked seventeen days from Kufara on these legs and now they are
very tired.” But Hassanein said nothing. Only when I climbed a huge
mound of stones beside the track and saw the hope in his face as I
looked across a great expanse of broken country I could not resist the
impulse. “I see the hatia,” I lied. “It is quite near.” Darkness came as
we jolted down into the wadi and every rolling stone, every sudden drop
made me realise that two more days of this would be impossible. The
swift appearance of the hatia almost justified my impulsive speech, but
it was very dark as we barraked behind a convenient mound. I insisted
that food should be eaten quickly and that we should then walk till the
moon went down. The retinue expostulated violently. “You must leave some
of the loads,” said Yusuf; and Abu Bekr so firmly ensconced himself in
his blankets that I thought a concerted mutiny was probable. However,
after a forlorn meal, for even my companion’s unfaltering courage could
not hide his pain, I literally pushed the retinue on to their feet and,
by dint of doing half the loading myself, forced them to prepare for
another march.
Hassanein dragged himself mutely on to the grey Tebu, still far the
strongest of the hamla, but when I saw the party crawl away from our
camping ground I knew that I could not force the pace any longer. On the
morrow I would put up the tent and leave my companion there with Yusuf
and Amar. I would take the Kufara camel and Abu Bekr who, for love of
heavy mejidies, would guide me in one long march to Siwa, from where I
could bring back help. “This is the end,” I said to Yusuf. “Pull up your
energy!” And then, Hamdulillah, a dog ran out barking and figures loomed
in the shadows. “Friend,” came the answer to Amar’s challenge. “No
friend walks thus at night,” said Yusuf decidedly and to me, “Get ready
your revolvers!” But I had heard an English voice! Rushing forward,
unheeding of ungirdled barracan, of Moslem custom, of anything in the
world but that the hands of my own countrymen could help as no other
hands in the world, I met a Camel Corps Patrol which the Frontier
Districts Administration had sent out to look for us!
I have absolutely no recollection of what I said to the calm-eyed shadow
in khaki who drew away from the dark figures in close-rolled turbans and
the precise, double row of neatly barraked hejin, but, oh! the
efficiency of England! I have railed at her so often and with so much
justice. I have run away from her powers-that-be when I have wanted to
penetrate to particularly unauthorised and impossible places, but that
night I valued her as never before! In so few minutes the situation
changed. Did I relinquish my command or was it unconsciously taken from
me by Beneficent Khaki? I do not know, but the retinue’s grumbling sank
to awed silence at the power which had leaped to meet us. The hamla were
driven on to camp at a given place and the swiftest hejin went back to
Siwa, untiring through the night, to fetch a doctor and car to Girba,
only half a day ahead.
Fate had played against the kindness of an English Governor then at
Siwa, for the rescue party had camped but a couple of hundred yards from
our distressed dinner, and she had lost, because the wandering dog had
heralded our approach. Otherwise we might have drifted on into the
night.
Almost before I realised how life had changed I found myself on a white
trotting camel with a specially immense sheepskin testifying to very
gracious forethought. Beneficent Khaki was beside me and, behind me, a
swiftly broken camp, the still-glowing ashes of the fire and then a line
of dark figures on the slender hejin of the Camel Corps. It seemed so
small a thing now, the distance that lay before us, and even the long
trail behind us was suddenly of no account, for we talked of world wars,
of nations still in the melting-pot. How eagerly I asked for news!
Governments had fallen, a new republic had sprung into existence, a
famous general had vanished with a great army! Long before I had filled
the gap those desert months had made in newspaper knowledge, we had
overtaken the hamla and Beneficent Khaki was looking out for convenient
shelter. “The leeside of a gherd, I think,” he said firmly. “That big
fellow over there will do,” and he wheeled his tall, white beast sharply
under the hill.
So swiftly the camp was made! I felt ashamed of our clumsy loading, our
lumbering halts, when I saw the ease with which each tall hejin barraked
in its own place in the double line. “What a good thing it is to belong
to such a Government,” said Yusuf enviously. “What fine camels and what
a good turn-out!” There was no grumbling at making a zariba that night.
A meek retinue bestirred themselves mightily to little effect, but
Beneficent Khaki took charge. Marvellously soon, it seemed, Hassanein
was tucked into a wondrous flea-bag, complete with sheets, a real pillow
propped up his shoulder, a thoroughly wind-proof zariba shut out
northern blasts, a fire blazed cheerfully before us and, as I tugged my
own roll of bedding nearer its happy crackling, a voice said
reproachfully: “You mustn’t do that! Do remember that you’ve got lots of
people to do it for you now!” I smiled, for I had almost forgotten the
ways of England.
“Hot tea,” said the same voice. “With milk.” And I noticed an enormous
kettle on the fire. Mugs came from a magic picnic basket filled with all
sorts of good things. Rugs and sheepskins appeared from the spare camels
brought for our riding. Was there anything the Frontier Districts
Administration could not produce at a second’s notice? Then someone said
“Sausages” and even Hassanein was enthusiastic. We cooked them with
tomato sauce on the scented brushwood fire and ate them steaming hot,
with white new bread from the hospitable basket and then—how we talked!
Beneficent Khaki smoked a pipe and we, blissfully indifferent to the
stern Senussi laws which had forbidden us tobacco for so many weeks, saw
visions and dreamed dreams in the blue haze of our first cigarettes.
It must have been nearly 2 A.M. when we finally buried ourselves in our
flea-bags, but no one slept—Hassanein because of his broken bone,
Beneficent Khaki because he had been too recklessly generous in the
disposal of his own blankets and I because the Great Adventure was
ended!
I lay on my back and looked at the stars, weighing the balance of
success and failure and, suddenly, I felt that this was not really the
end. Some time, somehow, I knew not where or when, but most assuredly
when Allah willed, I should come back to the deserts and the strange,
uncharted tracks would bear my camels south again.
For those who like to know the end of every story be it said that the
efficiency which had taken possession of us did not relinquish its grasp
until it had deposited us, bewildered and hopelessly out of place, in
the hotel at Alexandria, after a 430-mile motor drive from Siwa. It was
complete to the last detail.
Hot tea steamed beside our flea-bags before the dawn brought us out of
them. At a pace which would have made light of the long trail to Zakar
we trotted on to the hatia at Girba, where, under the largest palm,
waited a doctor complete with aluminium fittings. The cars arrived
exactly at the correct moment. The road to Siwa was unexpectedly smooth
and oh! how hot and plentiful was the bath water at the rest house!
There I discarded my worn barracan with a sigh of relief, yet, as I
wandered through the honeycomb of old Siwa, with its close-piled houses
one upon another and its labyrinth of dark tunnels that serve as
streets, I was ashamed before the gaze of Arabs. It seemed to me
intolerable that a Moslem should see my face unveiled. Instinctively I
pulled at my hat brim and my flying cloak, for, curiously, the soul of
this people had become mine and I resented the lack of privacy till I
remembered that the Sitt Khadija was no more!
Once again we spent a night in the desert, but this time in the shelter
of a tarpaulin hung between two F.D.A. cars, which were to take us to
Matruh, and it was a tame desert with friendly caravans passing and
newly sunk cisterns to prove the enterprise of its Governor. Yet the
silvery moon was the same that turned the Hawari sands to molten amber,
scarred with the sapphire of her palms, and I crept beyond the shelter
and the comfort to watch the setting of the star that Mohammed had
always wanted to “put out!”
“Warm congratulations on your success,” said generous-hearted
officialdom at Siwa and Matruh and the more than kindly welcome was our
best reward.
“So you have been to Kufara,” said a civilian on the coast. “It is an
island, isn’t it, but I always thought it was spelt Korfu!”
Then I met a pretty Englishwoman. The stripe in her skirt matched her
French sweater and faint scent of “Mille Fleurs” drifted from her rose-
petal skin. My nails were broken, my nose blistered. My only European
dress had been hidden for months at the bottom of a sack of bully beef
tins, yet was I sincere when I echoed Hassanein’s vicious “Civilisation,
Hamdulillah!” as he stuffed his kufiya into a corner of his knapsack and
pulled out a fez!
DABA-A, _February 19, 1921_.
APPENDIX A
ROUTE HISTORY
──────┬─────────┬────────┬──────────┬───────────┬──────────┬──────────────────
_Date_│ _Start_ │ _Halt_ │_Distance_│_Direction_│_Weather_ │ _Temperature_
│ │ │ │ │ │
──────┼─────────┼────────┼──────────┼───────────┼──────────┼─────────┬────────
„ │ „ │ „ │ „ │ „ │ „ │_Highest_│_Lowest_
──────┼─────────┼────────┼──────────┼───────────┼──────────┼─────────┼────────
Dec. │6.0 a.m. │9.30 │24 kils. │ 140°│Strong, │26° Cent.│ 2.77°
8th │11.30 │a.m. 2.0│ │ │cold E. │ │ Cent.
│a.m. │p.m. │ │ │wind. Sun.│ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │8.0 a.m. │5.0 p.m.│36 kils. │ 165°│Rain at 9 │43° Cent.│ 5.55°
9th │ │ │ │ │a.m. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Cloudy. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │ │ │ │ │Hot sun. │32° Cent.│ 3.88°
10th │ │ │ │ │ │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │At Wadi. │Farig. │ │ │Strong S. │44° Cent.│ 6.66°
11th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
Dec. │1.30 p.m.│3.0 p.m.│8 kils. │ 170° and│E. wind │30° Cent.│ 5.55°
12th │ │ │ │ 175°│a.m. N. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind p.m. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │8.40 a.m.│2.40 │24 kils. │ 170° and│Shower 10 │40° Cent.│ 3.88°
13th │ │p.m. │ │ 175°│a.m. Sun. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │N. W. │ │
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │6.15 a.m.│8.45 │22 kils. │ 155°│Sun. No │42° Cent.│
14th │1.30 p.m.│a.m. 4.0│ │ │wind. │ │
│ │p.m. │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │7.30 a.m.│2.30 │30 kils. │ 155°│Cold S. │24° Cent.│
15th │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │Gibli at │ │
│ │ │ │ │night. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │7.30 a.m.│3.30 │38 kils. │ 160°│S. wind. │22° Cent.│ 5.55°
16th │5.30 p.m.│p.m. 9.0│16 kils. │ │Cold. Sun.│ │ Cent.
│ │p.m. │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │8.30 a.m.│3.30 │30 kils. │ 135°│Strong S. │32° Cent.│ 5.0°
17th │ │p.m. │ │ │W. wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Sun. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │At │ │ │ │Very hot. │45° Cent.│ 3.33°
18th │Aujela. │ │ │ │No wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │9.30 a.m.│3.30 │24 kils. │ 110°│Cool. │32° Cent.│ 4.44°
19th │ │p.m. │ │ │Cloudy. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │At Jalo. │ │ │ │Hot. │42° Cent.│ 5.0°
20th │ │ │ │ │Cloudy. No│ │ Cent.
Dec. │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
21st │ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │11.30 │12.30 │3 kils. │ 115°│Sandstorm.│21° Cent.│ 6.66°
22nd │a.m. │p.m. │ │ │ │ │ Cent.
Dec. │7.30 a.m.│1.30 │24 kils. │ 115°│Sun. │30° Cent.│ 6.66°
23rd │ │p.m. │ │ │Strong N. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │At │ │ │ │Strong N. │26° Cent.│ 6.66°
24th │Buttafal.│ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Cloudy. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │Do. │ │ │ │No wind. │38° Cent.│ 5.0°
25th │ │ │ │ │Sun. │ │ Cent.
Dec. │8.30 a.m.│7.30 │46 kils. │ 180°│Cloudy. N.│39° Cent.│ 3.88°
26th │ │p.m. │ │ │Wind. Sun.│ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │8.0 a.m. │7.0 p.m.│44 kils. │ 180°│Cloudy and│28° Cent.│ 7.77°
27th │ │ │ │ │sun. N. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │7.40 a.m.│7.10 │46 kils. │ 180°│Cloudy. │30° Cent.│ 6.66°
28th │ │p.m. │ │ │Sun. N. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │6.40 a.m.│6.5 p.m.│46 kils. │ 165°│Hot sun. │34° Cent.│ 7.22°
29th │ │ │ │ │N. wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Shower at │ │
│ │ │ │ │night. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │7.0 a.m. │6.35 │46 kils. │ 180°│Very hot. │46° Cent.│ 6.11°
30th │ │p.m. │ │ │ │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Dec. │6.30 a.m.│7.0 p.m.│46 kils. │ 190°│Cool. Sun.│36° Cent.│ 6.11°
31st │ │ │ │ │N. wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.0 a.m. │7.0 p.m.│48 kils. │ 30 K. M.│Hot. │42° Cent.│ 5.55°
1st │ │ │ │ 220°│Cloudy. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ 18 K. M.│ │ │
│ │ │ │ 180°│ │ │
Jan. │8.0 a.m. │6.0 a.m.│40 kils. │ 170°│Fog a.m. │40° Cent.│ 5.0°
2nd │ │ │ │ │Hot. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Cloudy. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │8.30 a.m.│2.0 p.m.│18 kils. │ 130°│Mist a.m. │42° Cent.│ 4.44°
3rd │ │ │ │ │Sun. No │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.30 a.m.│6.0 p.m.│40 kils. │ 180°│Mist a.m. │37° Cent.│ 3.33°
4th │ │ │ │ │Sun. S. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.30 a.m.│2.30 │28 kils. │ 180°│Cold S. │26° Cent.│ 4.44°
5th │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. Hot │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Sun. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │At │ │ │ │Cool. │32° Cent.│ 2.77°
6th │Buseima. │ │ │ │Bright. No│ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │Do. │ │ │ │No wind. │43° Cent.│ 3.33°
7th │ │ │ │ │Hot. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │8.30 a.m.│5.0 p.m.│25 kils. │ 130°│Hot. No │45° Cent.│ 3.88°
8th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │8.0 a.m. │3.0 p.m.│28 kils. │ 130°│Cold N. E.│30° Cent.│ 3.33°
9th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │6.30 a.m.│6.0 p.m.│44 kils. │ 130°│Very hot. │45° Cent.│ 3.88°
10th │ │ │ │ │ │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │6.30 a.m.│4.0 p.m.│38 kils. │ 130°│Hot. │43° Cent.│ 5.55°
11th │ │ │ │ │Still. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan │In Hawari│ │ │ │Torrid. │ 112° F. │ 5.0°
12th │ │ │ │ │ │in tent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │Do. │ │ │ │Cool. │30° Cent.│ 4.44°
13th │ │ │ │ │ │ │ Cent.
Jan. │11.0 a.m.│4.0 p.m.│20 kils. │ 140°│Cold. E. │23° Cent.│ 5.0°
14th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
to │ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan │At Taj. │Kufara. │ │ │Sun. │ Average │Average
23rd │ │ │ │ │Occasional│35° Cent.│ 2.22°
│ │ │ │ │cool N. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │wind. │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
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│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │To Hawari│(Awardel│23 kils. │ N. W. to│Cold. N. │36° Cent.│ 2.77°
24th │5.0 p.m. │village)│ │ Hawari,│wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │11.0 │ │ then E. N.│ │ │
│ │p.m. │ │ E. 3 kils.│ │ │
│ │ │ │to Awardel.│ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │8.0 a.m. │6.0 p.m.│40 kils. │ 345°│Cold. N. │30° Cent.│ −1.11°
25th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.0 a.m. │8.30 │45 kils. │ 345°│Cold. N. │33° Cent.│ −2.22°
26th │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │4.30 a.m.│5.45 │45 kils. │ 345°│Cold. N. │32° Cent.│ −1.66°
27th │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │6.0 a.m. │2.0 a.m.│32 kils. │ 345°│N.W. │43° Cent.│ −1.66°
28th │ │ │ │ │breeze. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │At well │Zakar. │ │ │Strong │16° Cent.│ −2.22°
29th │at │ │ │ │sandstorm.│ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.0 a.m. │7.0 p.m.│50 kils. │ 60°│Cold. N. │12° Cent.│ −1.66°
30th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │Sandstorm.│ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Jan. │7.30 a.m.│8.30 │52 kils. │ 60°│Torrid. No│50° Cent.│ −2.22°
31st │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │7.20 a.m.│2.15 │28 kils. │ 60°│S. W. │ 43.33° │ 0.0°
1st │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.30 a.m.│7.30 │54 kils. │ 360°│N. W. │ 40.55° │ −1.11°
2nd │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.30 a.m.│7.0 p.m.│52 kils. │ 360°│Torrid. │ 52.22° │ −0.55°
3rd │ │ │ │ │ │ Cent. │ Cent.
Feb. │6.15 a.m.│6.45 │50 kils. │ 360°│Very hot. │ 50.55° │ 3.33°
4th │ │p.m. │ │ │Slight │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │breeze. │ │
Feb. │6.30 a.m.│7.0 p.m.│54 kils. │ 360°│Slight │ 47.77° │ −1.11°
5th │ │ │ │ │breeze. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.0 a.m. │6.30 │54 kils. │ 360°│S. E. │ 46.11° │ −1.66°
6th │ │p.m. │ │ │wind. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.30 a.m.│7.0 p.m.│48 kils. │ 360°│N. E. cold│ 26.66° │ −2.22°
7th │ │ │ │ │wind. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.30 a.m.│6.30 │42 kils. │ 360°│E. wind. │ 32.22° │ −2.22°
8th │ │p.m. │ │ │ │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │6.20 a.m.│6.25 │48 kils. │ │Torrid. No│ 51.11° │ 1.11°
9th │ │p.m. │{10 kils. │ {360°│wind. │ Cent. │ Cent.
│ │ │{28 kils. │ { 42°│ │ │
│ │ │{10 kils. │ { 80°│ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │7.0 a.m. │3.30 │34 kils. │S. E. wind.│48.88° │ 0.0° │
10th │ │p.m. │{29 kils. │ │Cent. │ Cent. │
│ │ │{ 5 kils. │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │At Jaghabub. │ │ │ │ │
11th │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │Do. │ │ │ │ │ │
12th │ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │ │ │
Feb. │Start for Siwa. │ │ │ │ │
13th │ │ │ │ │ │
──────┴──────────────────┴──────────┴───────────┴──────────┴─────────┴────────
──────┬───────────┬────────────┬───────────┬───────────
_Date_│_Altitude_ │ _Country_ │ _Wells_ │_Zawias and
│ │ │ │ Qubbas_
──────┼───────────┼────────────┼───────────┼───────────
„ │ „ │ „ │ „ │ „
──────┼───────────┼────────────┼───────────┼───────────
Dec. │ 40 metres │Flat. │ │At Jedabia.
8th │ │Gravelly │ │Modern
│ │sand. Thick,│ │zawia.
│ │coarse │ │Sheikh
│ │grass. │ │Mohammed
│ │ │ │Qurinyim
│ │ │ │and some 40
│ │ │ │ekhwan.
│ │ │ │Disused
│ │ │ │Madeni
│ │ │ │Zawia of
│ │ │ │Omar Zafr.
Dec. │ 60 metres │Flat. Sandy.│ │
9th │ │Much grass. │ │
│ │Two faint │ │
│ │rises. │ │
Dec. │ │ │Wadi Farig,│
10th │ │ │long │
│ │ │depression │
│ │ │running E. │
│ │ │and W. No │
│ │ │vegetation │
│ │ │or palms. │
│ │ │One large │
│ │ │well │
│ │ │(spring) 15│
│ │ │ft. deep. │
│ │ │Perennial │
│ │ │water, very│
│ │ │salt in │
│ │ │summer and │
│ │ │always │
│ │ │slightly │
│ │ │bitter. │
Dec. │ │Wadi Farig. │ „ │
11th │ │ │ │
Dec. │ 30 metres │Undulating │ │
12th │ │E. to W. │ │
│ │Vegetation │ │
│ │scarce. │ │
Dec. │30 metres. │Flat Sand. │ │
13th │ │Slight │ │
│ │ridges E. │ │
│ │and W. No │ │
│ │scrub. │ │
Dec. │000 metres.│Tableland, │Bir Rassam.│
14th │ Sea level │sudden │1 well in │
│ by well. │square │soft flat │
│ │ridges. No │sand. │
│ │vegetation. │Tufts, │
│ │Drop to │palms. │
│ │plain, El │Perennial │
│ │Arida Hill │bitter │
│ │in sight. │water. 1 │
│ │ │well, │
│ │ │Sahabi, 4 │
│ │ │kils. S. │
│ │ │W., bitter.│
Dec. │30 metres. │Rolling │One bitter,│
15th │ │sand. Rare │bad well. │
│ │vegetation. │Bir Mareg │
│ │Sharp square│E. of │
│ │hillocks El │route, 10 │
│ │Arida Hill │kils. from │
│ │8.30 a.m. │Rassam. │
Dec. │ 90 metres │Very flat. │ │
16th │on hillock │No │ │
│ nr. Garet │vegetation │ │
│ el Melh. │except in │ │
│ │Hatiyet │ │
│ │Buddefar. 2 │ │
│ │p.m. Rolling│ │
│ │sand. │ │
Dec. │ 70 metres │Deep sand. │Msus Oasis.│Zawia built
17th │on highest │Flat. │Many wells,│1872, with
│ swell. │Occasional │Bir Sibil │mosque.
│ │swells. │in wadi. │Eight
│ │ │ │smaller
│ │ │ │mosques.
│ │ │ │Salch Bu
│ │ │ │Fatma
│ │ │ │square
│ │ │ │tower on
│ │ │ │hill. 30 to
│ │ │ │40 ekhwan.
│ │ │ │Sheikh
│ │ │ │Abdul-
│ │ │ │Kassim.
│ │ │ │Mohammed’s
│ │ │ │clerk
│ │ │ │Abdullahi
│ │ │ │Sahabi
│ │ │ │Qubba.
Dec. │ │Oasis with │Aujela. │
18th │ │palms and │Many wells.│
│ │acacias. │Good water.│
Dec. │ │Flat. Fine │Jalo. │
19th │ │gravel. No │Wells, bad │
│ │grass. │water at │
│ │ │Shurruf. │
Dec. │ 80 metres │Large │Wells at │Zawia El
20th │on highest │straggling │Manshia, El│Erg. Sheikh
Dec. │sand ridge │oasis. │Erg, Lebba,│Mohammed es
21st │near town. │Palms. │and water 5│Senussi,
│ │Acacias. │ft. below │modern. 40
│ │Cultivation.│surface in │ekhwan. 7
│ │ │most parts │mosques. 2
│ │ │of oasis. │unimportant
│ │ │ │qubbas,
│ │ │ │Sidi Saleh
│ │ │ │and Sidi
│ │ │ │Mukhtar
│ │ │ │Zawia Lebba
│ │ │ │founded by
│ │ │ │Sidi Ben
│ │ │ │Ali Sheikh
│ │ │ │Omar 80
│ │ │ │ekhwan 150
│ │ │ │boys.
Dec. │ │ │ │
22nd │ │ │ │
Dec. │ 60 metres │Flat. No │Bir │
23rd │ │vegetation. │Buttafal. 1│
│ │ │well often │
│ │ │has to be │
│ │ │dug. │
│ │ │Excellent │
│ │ │water. │
Dec. │ │No │ │
24th │ │vegetation │ │
│ │or palms. │ │
│ │Rolling │ │
│ │sand. │ │
│ │Firewood 5 │ │
│ │kils. E. │ │
Dec. │ │ │ „ │
25th │ │ │ │
Dec. │ │Desolate, │ │
26th │ │flat waste, │ │
│ │unchanging. │ │
│ │Kelb el │ │
│ │Metemma to │ │
│ │E. on │ │
│ │Zieghen │ │
│ │route. _See │ │
│ │note A, page│ │
│ │322._ │ │
Dec. │ │Desolate, │ │
27th │ │flat. No │ │
│ │vegetation. │ │
│ │Unchanging. │ │
│ │Hameimat to │ │
│ │E. on │ │
│ │Zieghen │ │
│ │route. │ │
Dec. │ │Flat waste. │ │
28th │ │No │ │
│ │vegetation. │ │
│ │Unchanging. │ │
Dec. │ │Flat waste. │ │
29th │ │Wadi Farig │ │
│ │imaginary │ │
│ │depression │ │
│ │running E. │ │
│ │and W. │ │
Dec. │220 metres │Flat with │ │
30th │ │faintest │ │
│ │sand-waves. │ │
│ │El Mazul to │ │
│ │E. on │ │
│ │Zieghen │ │
│ │route. │ │
Dec. │ │Flat. No │ │
31st │ │vegetation. │ │
│ │Patches of │ │
│ │black │ │
│ │pebbles. │ │
Jan. │240 metres │Flat. │ │
1st │ │Patches │ │
│ │larger black│ │
│ │stones. │ │
Jan. │240 metres │Slight rise.│El Atash │
2nd │ │Mounds. Big │well near │
│ │dunes 60 ft.│dune 60 ft.│
│ │at 4 p.m. │high N.E. │
│ │ │to S.W., │
│ │ │disused │
│ │ │well, good │
│ │ │water. Few │
│ │ │shrubs. No │
│ │ │fodder. │
Jan. │ │In Hatia, │El Harrash.│
3rd │ │near │Wells can │
│ │Zieghen, few│be dug in │
│ │palms. │bed of │
│ │Mounds. │Hatia near │
│ │Small dunes.│vegetation.│
│ │ │Good water.│
│ │ │Fodder very│
│ │ │scarce. │
Jan. │280 metres │After Hatia,│ │
4th │ │barren sand │ │
│ │in slight │ │
│ │waves. Saw │ │
│ │Buseima │ │
│ │Gebel at 10 │ │
│ │a.m. │ │
Jan. │300 metres │Buseima. │Many wells.│No zawia.
5th │ │Black Nubian│Nasrani │Sheikh
│ │sandstone, │well best │Mohammed el
│ │impregnated │water, │Madeni is
│ │iron oxide │clear, but │chief of
│ │and │flavoured │Senussi.
│ │magnesian │magnesia │
│ │cliffs. Big │sulphate. │
│ │dunes. │ │
Jan. │380 metres │Oasis with │ │
6th │(on dunes) │salt lake 8 │ │
│ │to 10 kils. │ │
│ │long. │ │
Jan. │ „ │Palms. │ │
7th │ │Mountains 15│ │
│ │kils. long. │ │
│ │1 fresh │ │
│ │spring. Salt│ │
│ │marsh. Figs.│ │
│ │Tamarisks. │ │
│ │Acacias. │ │
│ │Tebu ruins. │ │
│ │Sandstone │ │
│ │(Nubian). │ │
│ │Flints and │ │
│ │little │ │
│ │quartz on │ │
│ │sub-layer of│ │
│ │limestone. │ │
Jan. │460 metres │Large dunes.│ │
8th │(on dunes) │Two black │ │
│ │sandstone │ │
│ │cones E. of │ │
│ │route called│ │
│ │Gor Sibb el │ │
│ │Abid or Saar│ │
│ │el Khaddama.│ │
Jan. │500 metres │Large dunes,│ │
9th │(on dunes) │highest Seif│ │
│ │el Birem. │ │
Jan. │520 metres │Dunes │ │
10th │(on dunes) │gradually │ │
│ │smaller. │ │
│ │Gebel Neri │ │
│ │S. Hawaish │ │
│ │mountains W.│ │
Jan. │500 metres │Mountains. │ │
11th │(on dunes) │Rocky waste.│ │
│ │Stony │ │
│ │ridges. │ │
│ │Black │ │
│ │sandballs │ │
│ │and tubes. │ │
│ │Passed W. of│ │
│ │Hawari Gara │ │
│ │12 noon. │ │
Jan │440 metres │Long strip │Hawari. │Small
12th │(on dunes) │oasis. │Wells. Good│zawia.
│ │Palms. │water. │Sheikh Musa
│ │Vegetation. │ │Sqaireen. 1
│ │Gardens. │ │mosque.
Jan. │ Do. │ │ │
13th │ │ │ │
Jan. │ │Kufara. Taj │Wells at │At Taj,
14th │ │on cliff │Taj 120 ft.│Zawia El
to │ │overlooking │deep. │Asyad.
Jan │490 metres │wadi. No │Good water.│Qubba of
23rd │ Taj. │palms or │No springs │Mahdi.
│ │vegetation. │in Wadi, │Important
│ │Wadi 68 │but water 9│mosque. No
│ │kils. long │ft. under │sheikh.
│ │and 15 to 30│soil. Wells│Sidi Saleh
│ │kils. wide, │everywhere.│el Baskari
│ │surrounded │Jof, │acts as
│ │N. S., and │Talakh, │sheikh. 30
│ │E. by cliffs│Zuruk, │ekhwan. At
│ │& gherds │Buma, │Jof,
│ │about 100 to│Boema, │ancient
│ │160 ft. │Tolab, and │original
│ │high. On W. │Tolelib. │zawia.
│ │and in │System of │Sheikh
│ │places S. W.│artificial │Mohammed el
│ │wadi runs │irrigation │Basama.
│ │out into │by shadouks│Qubba
│ │flat sand. │and │daughters
│ │Palm groves │channels. │of Mahdi.
│ │at Buma, │ │Large
│ │Boema, │ │mosque. 20
│ │Zuruk, Jof, │ │to 25
│ │Tolab, and │ │ekhwan.
│ │Tolelib. │ │
│ │Also some │ │
│ │belts │ │
│ │“hattab” │ │
│ │with mounds │ │
│ │up to 20 ft.│ │
│ │high. In │ │
│ │cultivation,│ │
│ │barley, some│ │
│ │wheat, │ │
│ │vegetables, │ │
│ │grapes, │ │
│ │peaches, │ │
│ │olives, │ │
│ │figs, │ │
│ │tamarisks, │ │
│ │acacias. │ │
│ │Thorns wild.│ │
│ │Salt lakes │ │
│ │Buma, Jof │ │
│ │and Bahr el │ │
│ │Azra. Large │ │
│ │salt marshes│ │
│ │at Jof and │ │
│ │Buma with │ │
│ │Tebu ruins. │ │
Jan. │500 metres │Uneven rocky│Wells at │
24th │ │waste. │Awardel. │
│ │Sandstone │Good water.│
│ │ridges. │ │
│ │Stones give │ │
│ │way to sand │ │
│ │on │ │
│ │approaching │ │
│ │oasis. │ │
Jan. │480 metres │Gebel el │ │
25th │ │Saraia and │ │
│ │Hawari-Gara │ │
│ │to W. 26 │ │
│ │kils. Red │ │
│ │sand; then │ │
│ │white sand. │ │
│ │Occasional │ │
│ │stony │ │
│ │ridges. │ │
│ │Passed E. of│ │
│ │three │ │
│ │landmarks on│ │
│ │Zieghen │ │
│ │route—Garet │ │
│ │el Gardia, │ │
│ │Mohgen, and │ │
│ │Garet es │ │
│ │Sherif; │ │
│ │small hills.│ │
Jan. │400 metres │Camped in │ │
26th │ │Hawaish │ │
│ │mountains. │ │
│ │Rocky, steep│ │
│ │hills, 100 │ │
│ │to 180 ft. │ │
│ │high. │ │
Jan. │ │In Hawaish │ │
27th │ │mountains. │ │
│ │Flat sand 16│ │
│ │kils., │ │
│ │between 2 │ │
│ │ranges. │ │
│ │Black │ │
│ │pebbles. │ │
│ │Stony │ │
│ │ground. │ │
Jan. │360 metres │Beyond │ │
28th │ │second │ │
│ │Hawaish │ │
│ │range large │ │
│ │flat stone │ │
│ │slabs. Sand │ │
│ │waves. Saw │ │
│ │third │ │
│ │Hawaish │ │
│ │range to E. │ │
Jan. │250 metres │Two clumps │Zakar well.│
29th │ │of palms. │Good water.│
│ │Small │14 ft. │
│ │mounds, │deep, 2½ │
│ │hattab. │ft. across.│
│ │Rolling │Stone-made │
│ │sand. Stone │walls, │
│ │gherds to │filled in │
│ │N., which │with sand. │
│ │are possibly│_Note._— │
│ │continuation│Before │
│ │of third │digging, │
│ │range of │water must │
│ │Hawaish. │be used to │
│ │ │damp │
│ │ │surrounding│
│ │ │sand and │
│ │ │prevent │
│ │ │walls │
│ │ │falling in.│
Jan. │340 metres │Dunes wide, │ │
30th │ │flat-backed │ │
│ │and rolling.│ │
│ │A few │ │
│ │ridges. │ │
│ │Probable │ │
│ │continuation│ │
│ │of dunes │ │
│ │between │ │
│ │Zieghen and │ │
│ │Gedel Fadil,│ │
│ │which join │ │
│ │the Buseima │ │
│ │dunes. │ │
Jan. │ │Dunes for 12│ │
31st │ │kils., then │ │
│ │uneven, │ │
│ │stony │ │
│ │country. │ │
│ │Milling │ │
│ │stones │ │
│ │occasionally│ │
│ │found. │ │
│ │Mehemsa │ │
│ │dunes seen │ │
│ │half-day │ │
│ │away N. E. │ │
Feb. │280 metres │Mehemsa—two │ │
1st │ │stretches │ │
│ │“hattab” │ │
│ │between │ │
│ │large dunes │ │
│ │running S. │ │
│ │W. to N. E. │ │
│ │Empty │ │
│ │cisterns. │ │
Feb. │ │Flat, │ │
2nd │ │unbroken │ │
│ │fawn sand. │ │
│ │Minute │ │
│ │pebbles. No │ │
│ │vegetation. │ │
Feb. │ Aneroid │Do. │ │
3rd │ stolen. │ │ │
Feb. │ Heights │Do. │ │
4th │were taken │ │ │
│ from │ │ │
Feb. │ highest │Mazul dunes │ │
5th │points near│visible W. │ │
│ camping │10 a.m. │ │
│ ground. │Entered N. │ │
│ │dunes 4 p.m.│ │
Feb. │ │Large dune │ │
6th │ │ridges N. to│ │
│ │S. Flat │ │
│ │stretches │ │
│ │between. Dry│ │
│ │“hattab.” │ │
Feb. │ │Dunes closer│ │
7th │ │together. │ │
│ │Occasional │ │
│ │green │ │
│ │“hattab.” │ │
Feb. │ │Dunes with │ │
8th │ │green │ │
│ │“hattab” │ │
Feb. │ │Dunes. Much │Bu Salama │
9th │ │“hattab,” │Hatia, much│
│ │patches │brushwood │
│ │black stones│and fodder.│
│ │and grey │Filled-in │
│ │rocks. │well. │
│ │Hatias Bu │ │
│ │Alia 4.30 │ │
│ │p.m., and Bu│ │
│ │Salama 5.30 │ │
│ │p.m. Garet │ │
│ │el Mahdi, │ │
│ │large rock │ │
│ │at E. end of│ │
│ │Bu Alia. │ │
Feb. │ Grey │Arrived │Large zawia│
10th │ sandstone │Jaghabub │of Sidi es │
│ gherds. │ │Senussi │
│ Uneven, │ │with his │
│ rocky │ │qubba and │
│ country. │ │the qubbas │
│ Hatia Bu │ │of his │
│Battal with│ │family. │
│vegetation,│ │ │
│ 11 a.m. │ │ │
Feb. │ Circular │Wells in │Large │
11th │ Wadi of │Jaghabub │mosque. │
│ Jaghabub. │Wadi │Colleges │
│ │ │and │
│ │ │lodging- │
│ │ │houses for │
│ │ │200 │
│ │ │students. │
Feb. │ Scattered │brackish and│Post of │
12th │ palms. │water near │Sheikh el │
│Cultivation│surface. │Zawia │
│ below │System of │filled by │
│ zawia. │irrigation │Imam Sidi │
│ Massive │with │el Fagih. │
│blocks and │reservoirs │ │
│ cliffs of │and │ │
│sandstone. │artificial │ │
│ │channels in │ │
│ │gardens. │ │
Feb. │ │ │ │
13th │ │ │ │
──────┴───────────┴────────────┴───────────┴───────────
_For Notes see page 322._
NOTES TO ROUTE HISTORY
NOTE A.—The three little hillocks of sand, Kelb el Metemma, Hameimat and
el Mazul, should not be taken as definite landmarks, as there is much
discussion among the Beduin as to their exact identity and situation.
NOTE B.—The Oasis of Jedabia is inhabited by the Mogharba tribe, with a
few Zouias, that of Aujela by the Aujela tribe, that of Jalo by the
Mojabra, and those of Taiserbo, Buseima, Ribiana and Kufara by the Zouia
with a sprinkling of Tebu. At Zuetina are the Fawakher, and at Solluk
and Ghemines the Auwaghir.
It is estimated that the population of Kufara and Buseima is about 3,000
Zouias and 100 to 150 Tebu. In addition to these there are large numbers
of negroid slaves from Wadai and Darfur. In Jaghabub there is no tribe.
It is a religious centre of the Senussi ekhwan.
NOTE C.—The mileage recorded is the actual distance marched.
Occasionally in dune country it was necessary to make a small détour
which would reduce the distance traversed in a straight line on the map.
NOTE D.—Our failure to reach Taiserbo on the southern journey was partly
due to the fact that we failed to allow for the variation between the
Magnetic North and the True North, while we probably over-estimated the
distance marched. At the same time, as may be seen by comparing the map
published in this book and the 2 million Egyptian Survey printed 1912
and reprinted 1915, we walked through the green cultivated area and
passed Kusebeya as charted in the latter, without finding any signs of
Taiserbo. Our compass traverse showed an error of 20 miles in the final
closure on Jaghabub. The total distance travelled, exclusive of the ride
round Kufara Wadi, was 1,009 miles, so the error of 2 per cent. was
distributed throughout the whole journey.
APPENDIX B
NOTES ON THE HISTORY OF THE SENUSSI CONFRATERNITY
SIDI MOHAMMED BEN ALI ES SENUSSI was born near Mastaghanem in Algeria in
1787. He was of the Ulad Sidi Yusuf, Berbers, yet descendants of the
prophet through Idris, founder of the Moroccan dynasty. It is generally
supposed that the grandfather of Ben Ali derived his name from a holy
man who died in 1490—Sidi Mohammed ben Yusuf ben Amr ben Shat es Senussi
of the Beni Snus—but it has also been stated that it referred merely to
the Gebel Snus where his family lived. Mohammed Ben Ali, having
quarrelled seriously with a cousin, went to Fez in 1821 and studied at
the famous Karuim University. Morocco in those days was the birthplace
of many religious confraternities and, during the seven or eight years
he spent there, Ben Ali joined those of el Gadria, esh Shadelia, ej
Yazula, en Nasria and ed Dergania, while at the same time he seems to
have won some renown as an ascetic who wished to amalgamate every Moslem
sect on a basis of a pure and simple Islam in strict conformity with the
teachings of the Koran, but shorn of every modern digression and
addition.
Mulai Suleiman, Emperor of Morocco, offered him preferment, but he
refused it and, returning to Algeria in 1829, he taught grammar and
jurisprudence at Laquat. At Mesad he married a woman of the Beni Tuaba,
a gift from the faithful, which would prove that already he had gathered
a certain number of disciples. He left Algeria on the eve of the French
occupation and, undoubtedly, his fanaticism was strengthened by the
sight of his native land in the hands of unbelievers, for, though
technically Turks and Christians were equally condemned by his teaching,
he reserved his fiercest hatred for the latter.
Having divorced his wife at Bu Saada, he wandered along North Africa
preaching his mystic doctrine of a purer Islam till he reached Cairo,
where he proposed to continue his studies at the El Azhar University.
Here, however, his asceticism, intolerance and hatred of innovation made
him many enemies among the Ulema and, in 1831, his teachings were
solemnly condemned by the Sheikh el Hamish, a noted Alim.
He therefore went on to Mecca where he became the pupil of a famous
theologian, Sidi Ahmed ibn Idris el Fasi, head of the confraternity of
El Khadria, of much influence in Morocco. Here at last Sidi Ben Ali
found a mind akin to his own. Master and pupil travelled together to the
Yemen, during which missionary journey the former died, having left
instructions to his followers to transfer their allegiance to his
favourite pupil, who thus found himself the head of a definite group of
fervent ascetics—the Tarika el Mohammedia. His teachings met with their
greatest success among the Beduin tribes of the Hejaz and the Yemen, for
many of the Meccan townsmen preferred to follow another pupil of Idris,
one Mohammed ibn Osman el Mirgani, Sherif. Sidi Ben Ali, therefore,
having founded his first zawia at Jebel Abu Cobais made a second journey
to the Yemen where he came in touch with the Wahabis, a puritanical
confraternity founded in 1746. At all times his hatred of Christian and
Turks alike, his opposition to the modern spirit of compromise, appealed
more to the nomad tribesmen than to the settled inhabitants of the
towns.
Therefore, when the opposition of the older sheikhs, who expressed doubt
as to his orthodoxy, forced him to leave Mecca in 1838, he definitely
formulated his policy of keeping away from centres of civilisation, and
thus avoiding contact with those countries which were under European
rule or protection, while uniting the various Beduin tribes in an
immense religious organisation which should eventually include the
negroid races of the south and stretch in an unbroken line from the
Hejaz to the Tuat Oases.
Passing through Cairo, he went to Siwa, where he was ill with fever for
eight months, to Jalo, and to Skekherra where he first came in touch
with the Zouias, who were destined to play such a large part in his
scheme for the regeneration and the unity of Islam, for this warrior
tribe was feared throughout the Northern Deserts, and, having conquered
the Tebu in the oases of Taiserbo and Kufara, they were a possible link
with Darfur and Wadai.
In 1844 the first African zawia was founded at El Beda in the Gebel
Akhdar, where Ben Ali’s eldest son was born the following year, and from
it the ekhwan (brothers of the Order) went throughout Cyrenaica and
Tripoli, the Fezzan and even as far south as Tibesti, founding zawias
and preaching the doctrine of their leader.
The Senussi are sometimes wrongly spoken of as a sect, but at no time
have they been other than an ascetic confraternity, opposed to all forms
of luxury or of ceremonial, intolerant of any intercourse with Jew,
Christian or infidel. Since spiritual and temporal power in Islam are
inevitably synonymous, Sidi Ben Ali, towards the end of his life, was
looked upon as the actual ruler of the Cyrenaican hinterland, but his
aim probably did not go further than a Moslem Freemasonry, primarily
religious but depending for its wealth and political power on the
mercantile organisation of the ancient Saharan trade-routes by which the
commerce of the Sudan came north to the Mediterranean ports. Thus his
zawias were always built at strategic points where passing caravans must
stop at the wells. While camels were watered, the merchants were
entertained by the Senussi sheikh, who was thus afforded the best
possible opportunity for propaganda. The zawias, which were colleges and
marts at the same time, gave three days’ hospitality free to any
traveller and, gradually, as the fame of the Senussi spread among the
tribes, ekhwan were appointed to accompany the more important caravans
to prevent attacks from Beduins. Thus the doctrine of Sidi Ben Ali was
eventually carried to Kanem and Borku, to the Comalis and Senegambia
without the existence of any written dogma. There is, in fact, no
special Senussi ritual, nor have I heard any unusual prayer or rite used
in their mosques. The use of gold or jewels or any form of luxury was
forbidden, as were tobacco and alcoholic stimulants.
The fundamental ideas of the brotherhood were equality, simplicity, and
complete detachment from all outside influence. The sheikhs of the
zawias had considerable temporal power because Sidi Ben Ali’s appeal was
primarily to the Beduin, who were encouraged to bring their disputes to
be settled at the nearest zawia, but they were also responsible for
education and to this day a diploma of learning from Jaghabub or Kufara
is highly valued in the Moslem world.
In 1852 Sidi Ben Ali returned to Mecca where he was able to disseminate
his doctrine among pilgrims from all parts of the world and where he met
Agil the Zouia.
II
Having founded six zawias in the Hejaz and Jedda, he returned via Egypt
and Akaba to Ezziat, where he remained till 1855; thence he sent ekhwan
to build the zawia at Jaghabub. Doubtless this was a precautionary
measure in accordance with his habitual policy of avoiding any open
conflict with existing governments, for Turkey was growing nervous with
regard to the Senussi power in North Africa. At first she had supported
the order, according it important privileges such as grants of land and
exemption of the zawias from taxation. Sidi Ben Ali, however, was not to
be won over from his condemnation of Turkish unorthodoxy and in 1852 he
had excommunicated the Sultan. It was therefore obviously necessary for
him to remove his headquarters from the territory nominally under
Ottoman jurisdiction. He went to Jaghabub in 1856 and, according to
Duveyrier, he made the small and uninteresting oasis into an important
centre of political and mercantile activity. A deputation of Zouias
headed by Abdel Kerim Helayig, Jaballa and Agil visited him there
offering the allegiance of the tribe. Sidi Ben Ali must have realised
the strategical importance of Kufara as a base of propaganda from the
Sudan to Lake Chad, for he instantly despatched four ekhwan to
disseminate his doctrines throughout the four oases. The letter written
at this time to Wajanga, of which the interpretation is given in
Appendix D, page 338, is typical of his missionary methods.
It is probable that Sidi Ben Ali contemplated a further withdrawal from
the zone of Turkish activity for he caused two zawias to be built near
Ghadames, but his death in 1859 occurred suddenly at Jaghabub.
His two sons Mohammed el Mahdi and Mohammed es Sherif were aged 16 and
14 respectively, so most of the ekhwan were in favour of electing Sidi
Abed el Ali Ibn Ahmed Ibn Idris el Fasi as their head. A decision was
finally made in favour of Mohammed el Mahdi because it was remembered
that Sidi Ben Ali had once bidden his eldest son resume his shoes upon
entering a mosque, himself handing the boy the slippers he had put off,
which menial act was interpreted to mean that he had already chosen him
as his successor.
An ancient prophecy foretold that the Mahdi who would reconquer the
world for Islam would attain his majority on the first day of Moharram
in 1300 Hegire, having been born of parents named Mohammed and Fatma,
and having spent several years in seclusion.
On November 12, 1882, after a minority spent in the charge of Sidi Omran
and Sidi Ahmed er Rifi, who afterwards remained his most valued
counsellor, the son of Sidi Ben Ali fulfilled all these conditions.
At this time there were 38 zawias in Cyrenaica and Syrte and 18 in
Tripolitania. Others were sown broadcast through Algeria, Tunis and
Fezzan, but in Morocco there were only five, probably due to the
opposition of another great religious order, the Moulai Tayyeb. By way
of the Western Sahara and Timbuctoo, where they built a zawia, the
Senussi ekhwan had penetrated to Senegal where they must have found
fertile soil for their doctrine, as in 1879 Senegalise pilgrims
travelled 4,500 kilometres across Africa to visit the Mahdi at Jaghabub
and returned to their own country without troubling to continue the
journey to Mecca. From Air to Gonda, from Lake Chad to Wajanga, as well
as among the three millions in Wadai, it may be supposed that the
Senussi influence was preponderant.
The Sultan of Wadai had been wont to entrust his north-bound caravans to
the care of his “brother and fellow-ruler,” Sidi Ben Ali, and immense
gifts of slaves and ivory cemented the friendship between the two
potentates.
In Egypt the influence of the confraternity was never very strong,
though, in 1882, there were 17 zawias within its borders, exclusive of
the mother house of Jaghabub. At the same date there were zawias at
Jedda, Mecca and Taif and at least nine others in the Hejaz and Yemen.
Duveyrier estimates the number of brothers of the Order as anything
between 1,500,000 and 3,000,000 at the time when the Mahdi’s minority
was ended. Each of these ekhwan was a more or less active missionary
agent and each was ready, at the bidding of his superiors, to turn
himself into a soldier to fight the hated infidel. Thus the power given
into the hands of the young Mohammed el Mahdi was great. He might have
declared a Holy War and had as amazing and meteoric a career as the
humble carpenter of Abba Island in the Nile, but he preferred to
strengthen his position at Jaghabub and to carry on his father’s policy
of holding aloof from centres of civilisation and avoiding all open
rupture with European Powers. Doubtless Sidi Ben Ali was responsible for
the stubborn resistance of Laghuat in Algeria in 1852 under Mohammed ibn
Abed-Allah, who had joined the confraternity on a pilgrimage to Mecca,
as well as for much of the opposition to the French occupation of
Nigeria and Senegambia. It is possible that the Mahdi had in view, if
not an empire, at least a sphere of influence among the negroid races
between Wadai and Lake Chad, for which reason he was prepared secretly
to oppose the French penetration of Nigeria, but, in his withdrawal to
Kufara in 1894, is seen his determination to avoid any declared
hostility.
Mohammed el Mahdi was the great figure of the confraternity, and under
his rule the Senussi attained the zenith of their power. Since the
acceptance of his tenets meant the payment of tithes, the leader of the
confraternity had by this time considerable wealth at his disposal.
Having established a profitable trade in slaves and arms between south
and north, he also possessed the nucleus of a negroid army, yet the
Mahdi aimed at peaceful penetration rather than at military occupation.
His zawias were neutral meeting-places where difficulties—tribal,
commercial, legal or religious—could be settled by an unbiassed
authority. His ekhwan were judges as well as missionaries. They defined
tribal areas, settled water and grazing rights, as well as meting out
the justice of the Koran to those who infringed the code of Islam.
In view of the undoubted influence and prestige of such a confraternity,
it is not to be wondered at that wholly exaggerated ideas of its
importance were brought to Europe by rare travellers who, impressed by
the dangers they had escaped from, overlooked the fact that the Order
must necessarily lack cohesion, disseminated as it was through countries
differing in race, tongue, custom and form of government and hemmed in
on every side by gradually encroaching European Powers.
During the 13 years of his rule at Jaghabub the Mahdi resolutely held
aloof from the spirit of revolt which animated the Moslem world.
When the Sudanese Mahdi sent a deputation to ask for his help in driving
the English from Egypt in 1884, he replied, “Tell your master we have
nothing to do with him. He must write to us no more for his way is
wrong. We cannot reply to his letter.”
His move to Kufara isolated him in an almost impregnable position where
he could command the trade routes of half a continent. His chief
counsellors were his old tutor Ahmed er Rifi, his brother Mohammed es
Sherif and Mohammed ibn Hassan el Baskari. His nephew Mohammed el Abed
was left as wakil at Jaghabub.
Kufara under the rule of the Zouias had been the most noted centre of
brigandage in the Sahara. Sidi el Mahdi substituted a regular system of
Customs duty on all merchandise passing through.
He built the towns of Jof and Taj, each with a large zawia, and in the
course of a few years developed the oasis into an entirely self-
supporting centre of civilisation and the headquarters of the
confraternity, visited by large numbers of “Brethren” from all parts of
Africa.
Nevertheless he had to acknowledge that, temporarily, the north offered
no further field of expansion for his teachings. Any trial of strength
with France, Turkey or Egypt could have but one issue. Therefore he
concentrated his energies on Borku, Wadai, Kanem and the Western Sudan.
He sent his ekhwan throughout these districts with instructions to
settle disputes between the tribes, thus inducing them to acknowledge
Senussi authority and to build zawias in such places as would control
the wells and markets. Intending to follow in the wake of his disciples,
he left Kufara in August, 1899, after receiving a deputation from Ali
Dinar expressing the Sultan of Darfur’s devotion to the Order. After 63
days’ travelling by slow stages, he reached Ghiru, from where he
directed the opposition to French penetration from Lake Chad.
This step was notable because it was in direct contravention of the
policy initiated by Sidi Ben Ali and previously adhered to by the Mahdi.
At no time a military power, the Senussi depended for their wealth and
influence on the stability of their mercantile organisation.
The French were the first Europeans who seriously imperilled their
profitable trade in slaves and arms. The former merchandise came from
Constantinople and was disembarked at Tobruk or Benghazi.
Since its principal markets were between Darfur and Kanem it was
essential that France should not advance farther towards Wadai. Tuareg
rebels, flying north from French Nigeria, came in touch with Sidi el
Barrani at Kanem, were converted to the Senussi tenets, and joined with
Arabs from Kufara in fortifying the zawia at Bir Allahi.
The victory of Zugiba on August 23, 1901, relieved the French from
further pressure from the south and they were able to establish
themselves firmly at Massacori. An advance party, however, was attacked
and defeated by Tuaregs from Bir Allahi and this zawia remained a centre
of opposition until it was taken in January, 1902.
By this open aggression Sidi el Mahdi apparently pledged himself to a
definite campaign against France, yet he had no regular army. His policy
was to unite the tribes against the Christian, himself supplying arms,
ammunition and money. Borku was virtually under his rule. He had a wazir
in Wadai and zawias in Nigeria and the Cameroons.
Mohammed es Sunni, one of the most famous Senussi ekhwan, who had
undertaken many missionary journeys in the Sudan and West Africa, was
adviser to the Sultan of Wadai, for whom he had obtained the financial
support of the Tripolitanian merchants.
The sudden death of the Mahdi, however, on June 1st, 1902, removed the
motive force of the order. As his sons were then minors at school at
Jaghabub, his nephew Sayed Ahmed es Sherif was nominated as his
successor.
The new Sheikh es Senussi remained at Ghiru, from where he continued to
oppose the French advance, till a bad defeat in December, 1902, decided
him to retire to Kufara.
For some years he moved his headquarters between this oasis and Jaghabub
so that he was able to keep in touch with his northern zawias without
relinquishing the hold gained by the Mahdi on the negroid races of the
south.
Since the Anglo-French Treaty of 1904 ceded the Zinder-Chad route to
France, the advance of the latter power has inevitably involved the ebb
of the Senussi influence throughout the occupied districts.
The Ulad Suleiman tribes, who had been among the strongest adherents of
the Mahdi, submitted in 1905.
The following year Bilma was occupied in spite of determined attacks by
Tuaregs and Kufara Arabs.
In March, 1907, the principal zawia in Borku, Ain Malakka, was captured
and its sheikh, Sidi el Barrani, the virtual ruler of Borku, killed.
In June, 1909, Abeshe, the capital of Wadai, was entered.
Turkish troops occupied Tibesti in May, 1910, and Borku in September,
1911, but were recalled at the outbreak of the Turco-Italian war in
1912, leaving the Senussi free to continue the propaganda that was
finally put an end to by the French advance into Tibesti and Borku, in
the winter of 1913–1914.
Meanwhile, Cyrenaica and Tripoli having been acknowledged an Italian
sphere of influence, Sayed Ahmed was fully occupied in the north.
When the Italians landed in Libya in 1911, there existed a kingdom
within a kingdom and the Turks were only masters in name. They were
almost as much despised as the Christians by the ascetic confraternity
of Sidi Ben Ali, who held themselves entirely aloof from the Ottoman
Government.
Therefore when Sayed Ahmed definitely allied himself with Turkey, he
departed from the fundamental principle of his Order. He was persuaded
by Enver Pasha to allow the tribes to take part, under Turkish
leadership, in the long-drawn-out guerilla warfare which was so
successfully carried out that, in 1914, Italy was left in possession of
the coast towns of Tripoli and Cyrenaica only, while the interior was in
the hands of the Senussi.
This material success was counter-balanced, however, by the dissolution
of Senussi entity. The principle of religious detachment for which the
Order had originally stood had disappeared and the confraternity had
resolved itself into a political weapon in the hands of Turkey. From
this standpoint it was but a short step to the declaration of war
against Egypt.
At no period was Sayed Ahmed really anti-British, because he knew that
Britain had no interests to serve in Libya. Moreover, she facilitated
his trade with Egypt, a vital point for the welfare of the Beduins, for
the Cyrenaican ports were already closed to them.
Mannismann and Nouri Pasha, respectively German and Turkish agents,
provided arms, ammunition and money, while holding before the Senussi
sheikh the idea that the Egyptian Beduins would all join him, and that
he would be the ruler of Egypt, yet, in spite of Teuton organisation and
of a widely preached Jehad, it is doubtful if the Senussi could ever
have put in the field more than 4,000 men.
Sayed Ahmed established his headquarters at Bir Waer and the Egyptian
Coastguards, under Mohammed Saleh, were persuaded by religious
fanaticism to join him.
Jaafer Pasha, a keen and capable soldier, an Arab from Baghdad, trained
in German methods, was in command of the Senussi troops.
The _Tara_ was sunk on November 5, 1915, and her crew sent as prisoners
to the desert.
Sollum, under the command of Colonel Snow Bey, of the Egyptian
Coastguards, was evacuated in the same month, and as the garrison went
down the coast in a cruiser, they could see Sidi Barrani in flames.
British Headquarters were established at Mersa Matruh and in December
the outlying garrisons were collected there.
Colonel Snow Bey, whose name with that of Major Royle Bey is famous
throughout the Western Desert, was shot in a reconnaissance on November
11.
On Christmas Eve the Senussi were defeated at Medwa and on December 29
at Jerawla, but the first decisive battle was at Halazin, where Sayed
Ahmed had gathered his main force.
On January 23 he was attacked with complete success, and forced to
retreat precipitately towards Sollum, leaving 700 dead on the field.
A further victory on February 26 at Agazia resulted in the capture of
Jaafer Pasha and the flight of Sayed Ahmed, with the subsequent opening
of the road to Sollum, which was occupied on March 14.
The following day the Duke of Westminster made his famous dash to Bir
Hakim on the Tobruk-Jaghabub route, some 60 miles inland, and 120 from
Sollum, to rescue the _Tara_ prisoners.
Sayed Ahmed retired through Siwa to Dakhla, while the remaining portion
of his force went to Baharia. Kharga was immediately evacuated by the
British and then, with a successful army occupying the post, a beaten
enemy practically cut off from all supplies in two isolated desert
oases, a disaffected and half-starved Cyrenaica, heartily tired of its
ruler’s policy and already turning to Mohammed Idris, whose pro-British
attitude was obvious from the beginning, was initiated the scheme for
fortifying Egypt at an expense of some 60 million sterling against a foe
who numbered perhaps 2,000.
The three armed camps of the Ulad Ali which lay behind the British line
from Matruh were rapidly disposed of, but the whole summer of 1916 was
spent in fortifying the line of the Nile Valley and in October the
Senussi were driven out of Dakhla and Baharia by Camel Corps and Light
Car Patrols. Sayed Ahmed retired through Farafra to Siwa, where he had
left Mohammed Saleh in command.
In February, 1917, after a sharp engagement at Girba, where, east of
Munasib Pass, some 20 armoured cars sustained a 24 hours’ enfilade from
800 Senussi hidden in the rocks above them, the latter were finally
driven out of Egyptian Territory.
For 18 months Sayed Ahmed spent a precarious existence in the hinterland
of Cyrenaica and, in August, 1918, retired to Constantinople by
submarine.
Meanwhile, in 1916, an Anglo-British Mission under General (then
Colonel) the Marchese di Vita and Colonel Talbot had approached Sidi
Mohammed Idris es Senussi at Tobruk and Zuetina with a view to arranging
a _modus vivendi_ in Cyrenaica.
Sayed Idris had taken no part in his cousin’s campaign against Egypt. On
the contrary, he threw all his influence as the son of Mahdi into the
opposing scale.
As soon as Sayed Ahmed decided to attack, the younger Senussi retired,
with his brother Sayed Rida, to Jedabia, writing to General Maxwell to
say that he did not support his cousin’s policy. He continued firmly in
this course, though when Sayed Ahmed was defeated Mannismann came west
with some Turks and Egyptian Coastguards to try and persuade him to
continue the war. Sayed Idris refused, and Mannismann was killed on his
way to Tripoli, a journey he had undertaken in direct opposition to the
Senussi’s advice.
It was thus natural that both Cyrenaica and Italy should turn to the
eldest son of the Mahdi for help in the work of re-organisation,
necessitated by Sayed Ahmed’s disastrous policy.
A dual agreement was drawn up in 1917 between the British and Italian
Governments on the one side and Sayed Mohammed Idris, as the head of the
confraternity, on the other, by which it was agreed that:—
(A) The Italian Government will retain the coast towns, and certain
already occupied posts a short distance inland, but will create no new
posts.
(B) Commerce is to be unrestricted between the interior and Benghazi,
Tobruk and Derna.
(C) Courts according to Sharia Law and schools for the education of
natives will be built and maintained by the Italians who will also
restore zawias and zawia property not still required for military
purposes and be responsible for the salaries of sheikhs el zawia
appointed by Sidi Idris.
(D) Material assistance will be rendered to Mohammed Idris by the
Italian Government supplying him with arms, ammunition, equipment and
food for a limited number of men. For the moment 4,000 is the number
fixed. These are to be used partly against the enemy and partly for
the purpose of maintaining public security in the interior of
Cyrenaica.
(E) Personal allowances to certain members of the Senussi family are
to be paid monthly.
(F) In return for this, Mohammed Idris will make himself responsible
for the maintenance of peace in the interior, but will form no new
posts, will gradually disarm the population, will place no obstacles
in the way of the Italian Government for the forcible disarmament of
hostile groups, will allow Italian delegates to enter the interior for
the settlement of affairs with his local representative while the
Italian Government may at any time send a representative to discuss
matters with him in person.
Since then an excellent understanding has been arrived at, chiefly owing
to the personal influence of H. E. The Governor of Cyrenaica, Senator de
Martino and Sayed Mohammed Idris under which Cyrenaica bids fair to have
a prosperous commercial and agricultural future.
By the accord of Regima in November, 1920, Italy and the Senussi
ratified the Italo-British Agreement before quoted.
Sayed Idris was given the hereditary title of Emir with jurisdiction as
“an independent ruler on behalf of Italy” over the oases of Kufara,
Jaghabub, Jalo, Aujela and Jedabia. He is to disband his “karakols” and
armed camps in Cyrenaica, and the Italians are to find employment for
the men thus left without work in a regular police force. The terms of
the new Constitution granted to Cyrenaica provide that five members, out
of the 44 constituting the Legislative Assembly, shall be elected from
the oases of the interior. It is expected that a port will be built at
Zuetina and that the trans-Saharan trade from Wadai and Darfur will pass
through Kufara, Jalo, and Jedabia on its way to this Mediterranean
outlet.
At the present moment Sayed Idris rules by means of kaimakaans at
Kufara, Jalo, Jaghabub, Jedabia, el Abiar, Takness, Merawa and Kholaf.
Under each kaimakaan is a _Qadi_ (judge), and a _Mahkama Sharia_
(Religious Court) consisting of two clerks, a _Mudir Amual_ (Head of the
Financial Department), a Treasurer and Clerk, and a _Mamur Tahsil_ (Head
Tax-collector).
The justice is that of the Koran and “Onshur”—a tenth part—is paid
yearly on palms and live-stock. Five per cent. Customs dues is levied on
all goods entering the Senussi country and a small sum on the sale of a
camel, sheep or goat, but it is expected that, in view of the friendly
relations at present existing between the Italian Government and the
Emir Idris, a system of customs will be organised to encourage trade
between the interior and the coastal districts. In the future it will be
interesting to observe in what direction the Senussi will develop.
The organisation has departed from the basic elements of its inception.
Begun as an isolated religious confraternity, it has expanded by way of
mercantile and political influence into a dynastic entity whose desire
for civilisation must necessarily force it along lines widely divergent
from those contemplated by its founder. It is certain that the Emir
Idris will have the whole-hearted support of the country in whatever
course he chooses to pursue, and with the present sympathetic co-
operation of the Italian Government it is probable that he will lead the
march of Arab progress in North Africa.
APPENDIX C
_Translation of Arab Document of the Welcome given at Buseima._
In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.
On the blessed day of Friday, 28th Rabia eth Thani, 1339, there came to
our town Buseima, the honourable Ahmed Abu Mohammed Hassanein, the
Egyptian, son of Sheikh Mohammed Ahmed Hassanein el Bulaki, the
professor of the sacred Azhar and the lady Khadija and they are carrying
the orders of His Beatitude our Great Prince, Sayed Mohammed Idris, son
of Mohammed el Mahdi es Senussi. We met them with great honour and
hospitality and congratulated them on their safe arrival to us. We hoped
that God may be exalted, would grant success to their efforts, and
return them safe and victorious in the best conditions for the sake of
the Prophet, his friends and his family.
_Signed._
Mohammed Ali el Mardini
Saad Ibn Ahmed Faqrun
Yunis ibn Mahi
Suleiman ibn Khalid Faqrun
Omar Ibn el Gaid
Saleh Ibn Ahmed Faqrun
_Translation of Arab Document of Welcome given at Kufara (Taj)._
On the blessed day of Friday the 3rd of Jamad el Awal, 1339, there came
to our town in Kufara the honoured Ahmed Mohammed Hassanein Bey, the
Egyptian, son of Sheikh Mohammed Hassanein el Bulaki, professor of the
honoured Azhar and the lady Khadija. They were carrying the orders of
our great prince Sayed Mohammed Idris el Mahdi es Senussi and, according
to the exalted orders we met them with all honour and respect and
thanked God for their safe arrival to us, and hoping of Him their safe
return.
_Signed_:
The Second Adviser of Kufara, Ahmed es Sussi, May God forgive him.
The Judge, Osman el Barassi, May God forgive him.
The Adviser, Sayed Mohammed Ibn Omar el Fadhil, May God forgive him.
The Wakil of the Sayed at Kufara, Mohammed Saleh el Baskari, May God
guard him.
APPENDIX D
_Translation of original MS letter of Sidi Ben Ali es Senussi, founder
of the Senussi Confraternity, to the people of Wajanga. Seen in Kufara._
In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, May God pray on our
master Mohammed, his family and his companions, and may He give them
peace!
It is from the chosen of his God, Mohammed ibn Ali ibn El Senussi El
Khatabi El Hassani El Idrissi to the noble and learned and brilliant
Sheikh Farag El Ginghawi and all the people of Wajanga, old and young,
male and female, may God save them all and give them their wish of this
world and the next! Amen.
Peace be upon you and the mercy of God, His blessings, His salutations,
His forgiveness and His approval.
Our intention and our wish is, first to enquire after you and all your
affairs, may God guide them and make them conform with His Book and the
tradition of His Prophet Mohammed.
Secondly, we wish to ask you in the name of Islam to obey God and His
Prophet. He, praise be to Him, said in His dear Book, “Oh, ye, who are
believers, obey God and obey the Prophet!” He also said, “He who obeys
the Prophet has also obeyed God.” He also said, “He who obeys God and
His Prophet has won a great victory.” He also said, “Those who obey God
and the Prophet, they are with the prophets whom God has rewarded.”
We wish to ask you to obey what God and His Prophet have ordered, making
the five prayers, keeping the month of Ramadan, giving tithe, making the
Haj to the sacred home of God and avoiding what God has forbidden, of
telling lies, abusing people behind their backs, taking unlawfully other
people’s money, drinking wine, killing people unlawfully, giving false
evidence and other things which God has forbidden.
In following these you will gain everlasting good and endless profits
which will never be taken from you.
Some men of your country had asked us to send with them some of our
ekhwan [brothers] in order to remind them of God and teach them what God
and his Prophet have ordained and guide them rightly. We decided to do
this because it is our profession [mission] for which God has put us,
i.e. to remind the negligent, teach the ignorant and guide him who has
gone astray. But at that time we were in the sacred “Haramain” [Mecca].
When we arrived in these parts we occupied ourselves with guiding the
people to the paths of God and we did not find anyone of your country
with whom to send those who would teach people this religion.
Now our sons of Zawaya, who are the inhabitants of Tazerr, which you
know, have come to us and repented and asked us to build a zawia at the
mentioned Tazerr.[6] Our intention is to become your neighbours and
teach you and your sons of the Book of God and the tradition his
Prophet, Mohammed. May God’s prayers and peace be on him! Also we intend
to make peace between you and the Arabs who invade you and take your
sons and your money. In doing this we will be enacting what God has
said, “If two parties of believers fight, make peace between them.” Also
his saying, “Fear God, make peace between one another and obey God and
His Prophet if you are believers.” He also said, “Give an order for alms
or a good deed or making peace between people. He who does this for the
sake of pleasing God will gain a great reward.”
Footnote 6:
Tazerr was the old name for Kufara.
In this way there will be co-operation for doing good and for piety, as
God has ordained by saying, “Co-operate for doing good and for piety and
do not co-operate for vice and assault.” The Prophet said, “People of
God, be brethren and help one another in religion.”
As to rebellion and dispute, no good comes out of them and God has
forbidden them in his dear Book by saying, “Do not dispute or you will
fail and be dispersed; be patient, for God is with the patient.”
Inshallah, if you obey our orders and accept our advice, then a few of
our sons will come to you to teach your sons the Book of God, and your
men the tradition and ways of His Prophet. You will then not fear anyone
and you will have much of God’s bounty and mercy, Inshallah.
Give our salutation and this letter of ours to all who are round you,
those who wish for the obedience of God and His Prophet and who wish to
follow the Book and the Tradition.
May God, may He be praised, make you of those who guide and who have
been guided and of those who point out what is good and who follow it!
May you remain in endless peace and health!
_Dated the fourth day of Moharren, 1266._
GLOSSARY
“_Adaryayan!_” A cry used when halting camels. “We have arrived, oh
sick ones.”
_Agal._ A rope used to tie a camel’s legs or the thick cords worn on
the head above the _kufiya_.
_Alaf._ A measure of fodder.
“_Allahu Akbar._” God is great.
“_Aselamu, Alaikum, Marhaba, Marhaba._” Greetings to you. Welcome!
“_Ash hadu illa Illaha ill Allah wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasul
Allah._” I confess there is no God but God, and I confess that
Mohammed is His Prophet.
_Asida._ Sticky mass of damp flour flavoured with onions or oil.
_Azzau._ The act of calling to prayer.
_Barracan._ A long cotton garment worn by the women.
_Basoor._ Camel saddle in which women travel.
_Bayid._ Far.
“_Beit esh shar._” Camel’s-hair tent.
“_Beit Ullah._” The house of God.
_Belad._ Village.
“_Bisilama._” With safety.
“_Bismillah._” By the name of God.
“_Bismillah arahman arahmim._” By the name of God the merciful and
compassionate.
_Burnus._ Arab garment.
_Ekhwan._ Brothers. Used colloquially in Libya to mean “a brother.”
“_El Fagr._” Dawn.
“_El Maktub Maktub._” What is written is written.
“_En nahs teyibin hena. Ana Mabsut._” The people are good here. I am
happy.
_Fadhling._ Sitting down and talking.
_Fanatis._ Tin water-carriers.
“_Fatha._” The first sura (chapter) of the Koran.
_Fatta._ An Arab dish of carrots, bread and eggs.
_Feisha._ A gourd used as a charm to keep a husband’s affection.
_Fil-fil._ Red pepper.
_Gara._ A tabular hill.
_Gebel._ A mountain.
_Gherds._ Dunes.
_Gibli._ Sand-laden south wind.
_Girba._ Dried goatskin water-carrier.
_Haji._ A man who has made the pilgrimage (Haj) to Mecca.
_Hajin._ Trotting camels.
“_Hamdulillah._” Thank God.
_Hamla._ Baggage camels.
_Hatia._ A depression containing brushwood.
_Hawia._ Baggage saddle.
“_Haya alla Salat! Haya alla falah._” The Moslem call to prayer.
_Hejab._ Charm.
_Hezaam._ Sash or belt.
_Hubz._ Bread.
“_Inshallah ma temut illa Islam._” If God wills (or I hope) you will
die a Moslem.
_Jaafa._ A large leather sack.
_Jelabia._ Wide native coat.
_Jerd._ Native garment—a strip of woollen or silk stuff.
_Jubba._ Arab under dress.
_Kaftan._ Long Arab inner coat.
_Kaimakaan._ Governor.
“_Keif halak?_” How are you?
“_Khallas._” Finished.
_Khoor._ Saddle-bag.
_Kibla._ The direction of prayer (towards Mecca).
_Kufiya._ Arab head-dress.
_Laghbi._ Fermented palm-juice.
Leaf = palm leaf.
_Ma-araka._ Skull cap.
“_Maasellam._” With safety.
“_Mabsut._” Happy.
_Madna._ Tower.
_Mamnum._ Grateful.
_Mandil._ Handkerchief.
“_Marhaba._” Welcome.
_Megliss._ Council.
_Mejidie._ A Turkish coin worth 3s. to 4s.
_Mihrab._ Praying-niche.
_Mimbar._ Pulpit.
_Morabit._ As an adjective “Holy.” As a noun “The tomb of a holy
person.”
“_Min da?_” Who is that?
_Naga._ A female camel.
“_Nahs Taibeen._” Good people.
_Nugga._ A Beduin tent.
_Oke._ A measure.
_Qubba._ A domed holy tomb.
_Qurush._ A small Turkish coin.
“_Raqa-at._” Positions or stages of prayer.
“_Rahmat Allah!_” The peace of God.
“_Rahmat ullahi Allahim._” “The peace of God be on him.”
_Sabakha._ A salt marsh.
“_Salamu aleikum wa Rahmab Allah._” Greetings to you and the peace of
Allah.
_Sederiya._ A short shirt.
_Serg._ A saddle.
_Shadouk._ Well.
_Shamadan._ A certain kind of wind-proof candlestick.
_Shehada._ The Moslem profession of faith, “There is no God but God,”
etc.
“_Shey latif._” A pleasant thing.
_Sitt._ Lady.
_Suq._ Market.
_Sura._ Chapter of Koran.
_Tobh._ Woman’s dress.
_Tukel._ Round hut.
“_Ulla-la een._” Women’s cry of rejoicing.
_Wakil._ Representative (steward or lieutenant-governor).
_Wazir._ Minister.
_Zawia._ College.
_Zeit._ Oil.
_Zemzimaya._ Felt-covered water-bottle.
INDEX
Abdel Salam, Haji, 22, 23
Abdil Rahman Bu Zetina, Sayed, 194
Abdul Kasim, Sheikh, 90, 92, 94
Abdul Rahim (_see_ Rahim)
Abdullah Shekari, Sheikh, 204
Abdullah, a famous guide, 96, 97, 98, 103
a quarrel with Mohammed, 248
a re-echo of, 243
author “relieved of,” 195
complete demoralisation of, 138
cunning treachery of, x, 181 _et seq._
his fear of the Bazamas, 172
his route to Taiserbo, 126 _et seq._
meets author in the Holy Place, 193
misses his way, 134 _et seq._
over-reaches himself, 185
secures permission to camp in Buseima, 148
visits his relations, 161
Abdullahi Sahabi, qubba of, 95
Abed, Sidi el, hospitality of, 223 _et seq._
Abid Auwaghir tribe, the, 206
Abidat tribe, the, 206
Abu Bakr, Sheikh of Ribiana, 236
Abu Bekr Manfi, and Hassanein’s accident, 302 _et seq._
succeeds Mohammed as guide, 300, 301
“Abu fasada” of Egypt, the, 160, 235
Abyssinian soldiers, fantastic dance of, 5
Agaling camels: a saying of the Prophet, 272
Agil, 204, 205
Ahmed Bey Hassanein (_see_ Hassanein)
Ahmed Effendi, 94
Ahmed el Khadri, 220
Ahmed es Senussi, Sayed, a last blessing from, 245
photographed by author, 240
Ahmed es Sherif, Sayed, 9, 16, 18, 109, 197
caravans across a new route, 262
influence of, 226
orders emigration of Madeni to Taiserbo, 158
Ahmed, Sidi, 119
Ahmed, Sultan, his route to Kufara, 92
Ain Jelelat, 157
Ain Talib, 157
Ait Anira tribe, 150
Alexandria, reached by author, 308
Ali Basha el Abdya, General, 3
Ali Dinar, Sultan of Darfur, 39
Amar, a feat of endurance by, 280
ill with fever, 285
kills and eats a sand mouse, 259
Mohammed’s follower, 248, 251, 256
Antelat, 27
Arab hospitality, laws of, 245
outstanding instances of, 11, 198, 223 _et seq._, 230
Arab love of secrecy, 70
Arabs, European policy towards, 63
how British prestige has dwindled among, 111
responsive sympathy of, 300
their distrust and suspicion of strangers, 204, 206
their estimate of gold, 166
tiffs with the Sudanese, 130, 135, 151
(_see also_ Senussi)
Arida, 80
Asayad, zawia of, a visit to, 214
“Asida,” and of what it is composed, 261
Aujela, 19, 88
author’s reception in, 94 _et seq._
ekhwan in, 94
Aulad Bu Hassan, 151
Auwaghirs, an encampment of, 1
horsemanship of, 7
Awardel, 247
Badr, Sheikh, 206, 207
Bahet Hafan, 292
Ball, Dr., Director of Desert Surveys of Egypt, xii
Barca, 213, 229
Basha el Ghariam, Sharuf, 4
Bashar, blind poet of Aleppo, 84
Bazama family, plots of, x, 163, 164, 165
Bazama, Hasan, 240
Bazama, Husein, 240
Beduin, feminine attire described, 44
idea of “comfort,” 231, 234
ignorance of distance, 84
protest against author’s visit, 93
Beduins, and the continued existence of the Mahdi, 167, 215
appetites of, 52
fanaticism of, 56
fatalism of, 254
friction with the blacks, 124
hospitality of, 71
loyalty of, 62
Sidi Idris and the, 110
simple life of, 84
their fear of black slaves, 81
tribute to generosity of, 36
Ben Ali es Senussi, Sidi, 151, 204
home of, 293
important historical letter from, 221, 338–340
Benghazi, 1, 2
death of Korayim at, 18
_en fête_, 5
festas at, 2
Government House at, 2
hospitality at, 18
in suspense at, 19
Rohlfs’ escape to, 149
sale of ivory in, 109
Bir Mareg, 80
Bir Msus, 87
Bir Nasrani, 149, 155
Bir Rassam, 73
wells of, 74
“Black bears,” the, 130
Boema, 17, 158, 192
a visit to, 210
Boema-Farafra route, the, 254
Bornu, 119
Brahsa tribe, the, 206
British prestige, loss of, 111
Bu Alia, 288, 289
Bu Badr, Sheikh Mansur, ix, 176, 181, 183, 184
“Bucksumat,” definition of, 274
Bu Fadil, 195
Bu Gemira, Sidi Yadem, 295
Bu Guettin, Bukr, 17, 149
Bu Hassan, 151
Bu Helayig, Mabruk, 206
Bu Korayim, Hamid, 149, 206, 207, 217
Buma, 192, 210, 211
stories of Rohlfs’ adventures told at, ix
Bu Matar, Sheikh (_see_ Suleiman Bu Matar)
Bu Regea, Sheikh, ix, 149, 150, 156, 162
Burton, Sir Richard, a truism of, 48
Bu Salama, 288, 291
Buseima, 15
dates of, 157
described, 154
dislike of strangers in, 159
enmity of, 163
fearsome tales of the Zouias of, 143
“gara” of, in sight, 145
the charm of, 155
traces of Rohlfs’ journey at, ix
translation of Arab document of
welcome given at, 336–337
Zouia stronghold at, 91
Bush Naf el Ghadad, 177, 206
Buttafal, 15, 91, 120, 121
a time-honoured custom neglected at, 217
Bu Zetina, Sayed Abdil Rahman, 194
Camel, and sand grouse, story of a, 260
regular pace of a, 270
Camel Corps Patrol, a welcome, 306
Camels, a stampede of, 57, 274
effect of singing on, 79, 86, 145
how loaded, 51, 275
the first sign of thirst in, 285
their ninth day without water, 139
Caravans, task of loading, 115
Christmas in the desert, 112 _et seq._
Cleopatra’s asp, 235
Coti face powder, coveted by Omar, 96
“Couss-couss,” 200
Cyrenaica, 288
Agil offers allegiance of Zouias to the Senussi in, 205
capital of, 1
future of, 110
Governor of, receives author, ix (_see_ De Martino, Senator)
Italian control of, 19, 31
Dahwa, 157
Dakhla Desert, 16
“Darb,” definition of, 205
Dates, an Arab proverb regarding, 274
their various uses in Kufara, 234
De Martino, Senator, ix, 3, 18, 110
Desert, the, and the development of character, 129
call of, 300
Christmas in, 112 _et seq._
cities: a celebrated group of, 158
customs of, 65, 175
fatalism of, 68, 168, 254, 265
hospitable customs of nomads of, 65, 117
how news is carried in, 67
how “roads” are marked in, 54
illusiveness of distances in, 50
mirages in, 53, 134, 135, 137, 175, 277
moonlight in, 246
scent of, 4
subtle and cruel charm of, 58
wireless telegraphy system of, 25, 54, 58
Diranjedi, 17, 156
Di Vita, General, ix, 3
Drunkenness, punishment for, 153, 227
“Dune of Firepots,” the, 167
Dunes, elusive, 267, 268, 270 _et seq._
Durur, servant of Sidi Saleh, 223
Eagle, an, Yusuf’s story of, 266
East, the, fatalism of, 68, 168, 254, 265
heredity and, 194
hospitable customs of, 65, 117
Eastern Sahara, the, oases of, 15
Eckhart, 16
Egypt, destruction of Senussi zawias in, 109
vulnerable of attack, xi
Egyptian forts, xi
El Abd, 157
El Abed, Sidi, 194, 223
El Amra, a halt at, 301
El Atash, 140
El Erg, 99, 112
El Gumma, 239
El Harrash, 172
El Kasr, 91
El Wadi, 91, 157
Eritreans, 1
European policy towards Arabs, 63
Fadil, Jebail, 229
Fagil, Sidi el, Imam, 295
Faied tribe, the, 206
Faisul, Emir, 111
Faqrun, Maihub, 154, 156
Faqrun, Saleh, 154, 156, 163
Farafra, route to Kufara, 92
Farraj, 56, 59, 61, 81, 82, 151, 158, 166, 180
his mighty oath, 66
politeness of, in trying circumstances, 136
“Fatha,” the (opening sura of the Koran), as both blessing and oath, 27
Fawai tribe, 151
Feasts in the Holy Place, 185 _et seq._
Feisha, the, and its significance, 99
Festal sheep, sacrifice of, 156
Fetater, Haji, 26, 82, 163
Fezzan desert, 14
“Firepots, Dune of,” 167
Flea-hunting in Jedabia, 60
Forbes, Rosita (“Sitt Khadija”), a prisoner in earnest, 185 _et seq._
a risky snapshot in Kufara, 202
a shooting match with the Mojabras, 69
a terrible walk, 136
across the desert with She-ib, 64 _et seq._
an interrupted visit to Hawawiri, 180 _et seq._
an uncomfortable doze, 285, 286
an unforgettable picture, 273
and Haji Fetater, 26, 82, 163
and Hassanein’s accident, 302 _et seq._
at a dinner to the Emir, 3
bargains for festal sheep, 152
depressing Job’s comforters and, 229
discovers human skeletons, 169
dines with Sayed Rida, 12
dislocates her foot, 13, 49
dispenses medicine, 179, 247
draws sand maps at Taiserbo, 158
encounters a severe gibli, 116 _et seq._
end of her most unpleasant Christmas, 125
enters the dwelling of Sidi Idris, 194
enters the Holy Place, 193
fatalism of her retinue, 136 _et seq._
feasts in the Holy Place, 195 _et seq._
finds Rohlfs’ traces, ix, 149
first sight of Sidi Idris, 2
fitted for “strange garments,” 33
guest of Sayed Rida, 21 _et seq._
heavily veiled in Kufara, 197
her last Arabic blessing, 299
in Beduin feminine attire, 44, 54
invited to proceed to Kufara, 189
limited water supply and the consequence, 78
loses count of time, 225
makes herself understood in Libya, 278
pours oil on troubled waters, 130
rates Beduins and blacks, 151
received by Sayed Rida, 10 _et seq._
sees an original letter of Sidi Ben Ali es Senussi, 221 (for
translation _see_ pp. 338–340)
seventeen hours of torture, 232
starts for Jalo, 98
starts on the great adventure, 7 _et seq._
strikes the Jalo-Jaghabub route, 289
the Sahara gives up her secret, 191
through the mountains, 251 _et seq._
unravels a mystery, 164 _et seq._
visited by mother of Sheikh Musa, 179
Forth, Col., Commandant of Camel Corps, xi
Frontier Districts Administration, the, x, xi
a search party from, 306 _et seq._
Garboah Effendi, 108
Garu, Beduin tales of Sidi el Mahdi’s disappearance at, 167
Gebail Fadil, why so named, 229
Gebel Akhbar, 205, 288
Gebel Neri, 170 _et seq._
as landmarks, 236, 252
Gezira, 157
Gharibeel, Musa, ix, 176, 183, 184, 225
Ghawazi tribe, 151
Ghemines, 7
Gibli, a memorable, 116 _et seq._
definition of a, 60
Girba, 306
Hassanein treated at, 309
Girba, a, definition of, 90
Gold, usual exchange for, 229 (note)
Haballah el Abed, 150
Haifan, Tawati, 208
“Halfa,” definition of, 157
Hameida Bey Zeitun, 101, 105, 112, 163
Hamid Bu Korayim, 149, 206, 207, 217
Hasan Bazama, 240
Hassan tribe, the, 206
Hassanein Bey, accompanies author to Libyan Desert, viii, 6
an accident to, 302 _et seq._
an attack of rheumatism, 49, 50
as barber, 292
as watch-mender, 121
feasts in the Holy Place, 195
his yellow slippers, 22
illness of, 203
in dire straits, 135, 137
left to entertain ekhwan at Jaghabub, 295
made comfortable after his accident, 307
preparations for escape from Jedabia, 42
recovers a lost sardine in the sand, 281
speaks out, 182, 183
suspected of Pan-Islamic designs, 19, 28
thermos flask of, and Musa She-ib’s surprise, 78–9
travelling kit of, 6, 33, 44, 249
“Hattab,” definition of, 157, 175
Hauwa, the slave-girl, 117, 118, 121, 130, 184, 193
Hawaish, meaning of the word, 171
Hawaish mountains, 256 _et seq._, 267
the old-time name for, 170–1
Hawari, 15, 158
apologies for reception of author from, 225
construction of houses at, 176
loading camels at, 251
stories of Rohlfs’ adventures told at, ix
treachery at, 172 _et seq._
tribesmen of, interview author, 177
Hawari Gari, 174
farewell to, 252
Hawawiri, a visit to, 190
an interrupted visit to, 180
reached by Rohlfs, 17
Hejaz Kingdom, the, 110
Helaig, 204
Hilal, Sayed, his house at Lebba, 112
Hilal, Sidi, flees to Tobruk, 120
Hohsa tribe, the, 206
Hornemann on the people of Aujela, 174
Hubner, 16
Hunter, Brig.-Gen., xi
Husein Bazama, 240
Hussein, King, 111
Hussein, Sidi (wakil of Sidi Idris), 296
blesses the author, 299
Ibrahim, Sidi (son of Sayed Ahmed Sherif), 239
Ibrahim Bishari, Sheikh, 103, 104, 108, 110
Idris, Sidi, a dinner in honour of, 3 _et seq._
a personal letter from, x, 8, 67, 90, 101, 102 _et passim_
appearance of, 3
departs for Italy, 6
foreign policy of, 2, 31, 110, 227
gives his blessing to author, 4, 101
his house in the Holy Place, 194
unquestioning obedience of his followers, 5, 109, 205, 226–7, 291
Irak tree, the, and its uses, 205
Italians and Senussi ratify provisional treaty of 1916, 2, 31, 110
Italy, broad-minded policy of, 110
Ivory, a fifty per cent. profit on, 108
Jaghabub, death of Mohammed Ben Ali at, 14
described, 293
entry into, 294
freed slaves of, and their gardens, 293
Mohammed’s mission to, 292
route to Kufara, 92, 262
the college buildings, 298
university of, 293 _et seq._
visits to mosque of, 297, 298
Jalo, a start for, 98
departure from, 115
politics discussed at, 109 _et seq._
Rohlfs’ departure from, 16
routes from, to Kufara, 91
trade of, 108
triumphant arrival at, 88, 100 _et seq._
Jedabia, author watches a dance at, 39 _et seq._
beginning of the great adventure at, 1
escape from, 39 _et seq._
plans for flight from, 21 _et seq._
Jinns, elusive, 171, 301
Jof, 16, 158, 177, 192
a delayed messenger from, 181
a visit to, 218
exclusiveness of inhabitants of, 219
meaning of, 214
population of, 219
qubba of daughters of Sidi el Mahdi at, 219
return to, 237
the Kaimakaan of, and Abdullah, 185, 186
the market in, 213
Kalb el Metemma, 127
Kasr Diranjedi (El Wadi), 157
Kebabo, the Senussi in, 15
(_see also_ Kufara)
Keid el Adu (original name of the Hawaish mountains), 171
Khadija, Mohammed’s first wife, 197
“Khadija, Sitt,” Mohammedan name of author, 54
Kheima, The, 255
Koran, the, and man’s behaviour towards women, 71
as the code of justice, 227
Korayim, Abd Rabu, 17, 18, 149, 206, 207, 217
Kseba, 91
Kufara, a French prisoner of war in, 16
a gargantuan feast at, 198 _et seq._
absence of sugar in, 196
brigands of, 205
“cities” of, 203 _et seq._
commercial aspect of, 159
feasts in, 195 _et seq._
flora and fauna of the wadi, 235
gardens of, 212
prices in, 228
routes to, 91, 92, 108, 109, 262
sacrosanctity of, 14
the Wadi of, 208
what it owes to the Mahdi, 108, 205, 228
“Kufra,” Rohlfs’, viii, 18
Kusebeya, 157, 303
Laghbi, what it is, and laws against, 153
Lake Chad, 14
Landmarks, impromptu, 268
Lebba, 99
Lebba, a visit to, 112
the zawia at, 113
Libya, a German scientific expedition to, 16
difficulties of survey work in, 76
exclusiveness of, x
feelings towards Britain in, 109
its devotion to its ruler, 291
mountain oases of, 171
smoking forbidden in, 4, 14, 220, 308
the mentality of, 189
Libyan Desert, the, an excursion to, 6 _et seq._
man’s trust in some unknown Power in, 128
the postman of, 75
Mabruk, Chief of the Police, 23, 24, 29, 37
Mabruk, the slave, 298
Mabruk Bu Helayig, 206
Mabus (village), 91
Mabus el Awadil, 157
Mabus Gaballa, 157
MacDonnell, Col., Governor of Western Desert, xi
Madeni, the, compulsory emigration of, 158
Mahdi, the, Arab belief in continued existence of, 167, 215
frees slaves, 293
gara of, 289
his work for Kufara, 108, 205, 228
introduces jerd and jubba, 205
opens Jaghabub-Kufara route, 262
orders cisterns to be erected at the Mehemsa, 270
qubba of, 215
Mahmud el Jeddawi, 227, 229, 237, 242, 252
Maktu, a rest at, 301
Mannismann, assassination of, 24, 95
Manshia, 99
Mansur Bu Badr of the Gebail, ix, 149, 176, 181, 183, 184
Map-making in the desert, 158, 159
Mareg, Bir, 80
Marriages arranged in the desert, 83
Martino, Senator de, ix, 3, 18, 110
Matruh, 309
Mazeel, 134
Mecca, a Senussi zawia near, 111
Mediterranean, the, Egyptian Coastguard forts along, xi
Mehemsa, the, barraking at, 268
cisterns of, 270
Merg, 279
Mighrib, of the Mojabra tribe, 74, 81, 87, 99
Mirages in the desert, 53, 134, 135, 137, 175, 277
Misurata, 267
Mogharba tribe, the, 206
Mohammed Ali, polices his frontiers, xi
Mohammed Ben Ali, teachings of, 14
history of, 323 _et seq._
important letter from, 221, 338–340
zawia at Lebba, 113
Mohammed el Jeddawi, Sidi, 196
Mohammed el Madeni, Sidi, sheikh of Gezira, ix, 149, 151, 156, 157,
158, 159
Mohammed, Haji, 39
Mohammed Hilal es Senussi, 9
Mohammed Idris es Senussi, the Emir (_see_ Idris)
Mohammed Maghruf, 103, 108
Mohammed Quemish (_see_ Quemish)
Mohammed Sherif, Sheikh, 211, 212
and the Kufara tribesmen, 213
and the Zieghen route, 255
Mohammed Semmen, Sayed, 208
Mohammed, Sidi, the Mahdi, 14, 95, 108
(_see also_ Mahdi, the)
Mohammed Tawati, a paralysed “close friend of the Mahdi,” 227
Mohammed Teifaitah, 209
Mohgen, The, 255
Mohi ed Din, Sidi (son of Sayed Ahmed Sherif), 239
Mojabras, the, 68 _et seq._
Moraja (author’s sergeant), 105, 126, 127, 159, 160, 180
marriage of, 241
reaches Aujela, 96
Moslem, the, fanaticism of, 24, 111
Msus, Bir, 87
Mukhtar attacks Bomba, 119
“Mulukhia,” 195
Musa Gharibeel, Sheikh, ix, 176, 183, 184, 225
Musa Squaireen, Sheikh, ix, 176
Mustapha, 22, 23
“Nasrani,” Moslem hatred of, 26, 56, 76, 107, 150, 206
Nasrani well, the, 149, 155
North African travels, Rohlfs’ work on, viii, 17
Nubian sandstone, 146
Omar (Government interpreter), 27, 87, 89, 95
Omar, of She-ib’s caravan, and a suitor for his sister, 83
Omar Pasha, a dinner to Sidi Idris, 3
Omar, Sheikh of Lebba, greets author, 113
Omar, Sidi, ix, 149, 150, 156
a broad hint to author from, 225
as guide to author, 201, 202
his affection for author, 226
his fear of the camera, 240
“Onshur,” definition of, 164
Orfella, the, 120
Osman Qadi, 227
terrified at being photographed, 240
Osman, Sayed, judge of Kufara, 195
Oweinat well, 279
Palm-leaf baskets and rope, 212
Paper money, usual exchange for, 229 (note)
Passometer, a, accurate measurements of, 80
Paternity, importance of, 131
Pianola, a, in the house of Sayed Saleh, 198
Queirolo, Cavaliere, ix
Quemish, Mohammed (guide), x
a feat of endurance by, 280
and Abdullah’s treachery, 186
and the flight from Taj, 238
author introduced to, 47
cowardice of, 160
demoralisation of, 173
dispatched to Taj, 187
fine qualities displayed in a trying time, 129 _et seq._
quarrels with Abdullah, 248
recovers his self-respect, 181 _et seq._
Sayed Rida entrusts care of author to, 35
sent to Jaghabub, 292
takes leave of author, 299
wants a star “put out,” 272
Rahim, Abdul, escorts author, 27, 96, 97, 241
hides in his tent, 180
his fear of the Bazamas, 172
on the Senussi influence, 119
poor physique of, 130, 160
Ramadan Shetewi, 120
Rassam, Bir, 73
Red Sea, the, Egyptian Coastguard forts along, xi
Regima, Senussi understanding with Italians at, 2, 31, 110, 227
Ribiana, 15
an invitation to visit, refused, 241
arrival of a spy from, 163
gara of, 170
mountain of, 166
population of, 236
Tebu stronghold at, 91, 150, 157
zawia of, 236
Rida el Mahdi es Senussi, Sayed, 10
a festa in honour of author, 39 _et seq._
author as guest of, 21
author’s passport from, x, 90, 101, 102 _et passim_
effect of his letter, 93 _et passim_
fanaticism of, 24
favours from, 33, 34, 97
receives author, 11
Rohlfs, ill-fated expedition of, 16 _et seq._, 91, 149, 150, 154, 189
Rohlfs’ “Kufra,” viii, 18
Route history, 311 _et seq._
Saad, Sheikh, 183
Sa-ad el Tebu, 220
Safi ed Din, Sayed, 10, 12
Sahara, the, Kufara the secret of, 16, 20
routes discussed at Jalo, 109
sunset in, 127
unforgivable sins in, 89
Saleh Effendi, 232, 237, 245
Saleh el Baskari, Sayed, banquets to author, 197 _et seq._
receives author, 194
Saleh, Sidi, a snapshot of, 240
hospitality of, 223
the morabit of, 88
Salt lake in the desert, 153
Salt marshes, proximity of, to ruined Tebu villages, 222, 223, 236
Sand-grouse and camel: story of, 260
Sand-rash, torture of, 284
Sandstorms, remarkable, 60, 116, 263
Sawani, 88
Seif el-Biram, 167
Senegal, Senussi influence in, 119
Senussi confraternity, harsh rules of the, 14
notes on history of, 323 _et seq._
original letter from founder of, to people of Wajanga, 338–340
story of the, 14, 323 _et seq._
Senussi, and Italians, a provisional treaty, 2
belief in continued existence of the Mahdi, 167, 215
difficulty of gaining information from, 106
distrust of strangers, 107
Emir of, 2 _et seq._
faith in spiritual and mental power of the Sayeds, 291
hatred of infidels, 15
holy place of, 191 _et seq._
home of the, 1
hospitality of, 299
leader of, described, 3
mentality of, 107
power held by family of, 33
towns, absence of cafés in, 219
zawia at Gezira, 157
Senussi, Sidi (son of Sidi el Abed), 239
Shakri, 137, 151, 158, 159
Sharruf, 99
Sharuf Basha el Ghariam, 4
Shaving extraordinary, 75, 292
She-ib, across the desert with, 68 _et seq._
his consideration for author, 71
quotes an Arab proverb, 73
She-ib, Musa, 68 _et seq._
a gift of fresh eggs, 90
and a thermos flask, 79
challenged by a sentinel, 98
“Shepherd Kings,” the, 130
Shetewi, Ramadan, 120
Sirhen, 91
Siwa, 92, 306
wanderings through, 309
Slave farms, 213
trade, stringent French law against, 213
Slavery in the East, 39
Slaves, smuggled, 109
Smoking prohibited by the Senussi, 4, 14, 220, 308
Snakes, fearsome, 235
Soluk, 7, 63
Squaireen, Sheikh Musa, ix, 176
Stecker, surveyor to Rohlfs’ expedition, ix, 16
Stockley, Cynthia, 58
Sudan, the, Senussi influence in, 119
Sudanese, quixotic valour of, 166
ruthlessness of, 83
tiffs with the Beduins, 130, 135, 151
voracious appetite of, 51
Sudani slaves of Zuruk, 211
Suleiman Bu Matar, Sheikh, 206, 207, 218
as guide and host, 230, 231, 241
on the Mahdi, 228
Suleiman (the guide), 230, 241, 244, 252 _et seq._, 260 _et seq._, 271
_et seq._, 285 _et seq._
a remarkable feat of, 279
loses a leather bag, 276, 277
Surur, 225
Tabawayein, the, houses of, 154
Taiserbo, 15, 91
a start for, 126 _et seq._
Madeni at, 158
Moraja’s opinion of, 144
reached by Rohlfs, 17
Rohlfs and, 154, 156
topography of, 157
villages of, 157
Taj, 16, 177
a council at, 204 _et seq._
city’s formal farewell to author, 240
exploration of, 222
first sight of, 191
flight from, 222 _et seq._
fortress sanctuary of, and its builder, 228
meaning of, 214
qubba of Sidi el-Mahdi at, 191
translation of Arab document of welcome given at, 336–337
Talakh, a visit to, 214
Tawati Halfan, 208
Tazerr, 211
Tea-drinking, ceremony of, 71
Tebu camels, thin coats of, 242
houses, exploration of, 161
oasis, Hornemann on, 174
ruined villages and houses, 15, 154, 157, 210, 218, 223
tombs, 154
village, visit to a, 220
Tebus, tribe of, 91, 151
ousted from Kebabo, 15
their old-time sultanate, 205
Theft, punishment for, 227
Thermos flask, a, in the desert, 78
Tobruk, 120
Tolab, 158, 192
gardens of, 236
why so named, 214
Tolelib, 158, 192, 233, 236
Treachery, punishment for, 227
Tribal bands, savage, 91
Tripolitania, 16
Italians at bay in, 120
Tuaregs, the, 20, 52, 104
slave farms of, 213
Tuggourt, 52, 219
Tunisi, 157
Uau, Szerir, 16
Vita, General di, ix, 3
Wadai, desert of, 14
Mahdi institutes regular caravan route to, 228
Senussi influence in, 119
Wadi Farig, 53, 55, 73, 81, 132, 133
Wajanga, 35, 220–221
translation of original letter of Sidi Ben Ali to people of, 338–340
Washing-day in the desert, a, 121
Wells, “miraculous” discovery of, by the Mahdi, 228
Wilhelm I sends a scientific expedition to Libya, 16
(_cf._ Rohlfs)
Yadem Bu Gemira, Sidi, 295
Yusuf el Hamri, acts as guide to Jaghabub, 297 _et seq._
an unfortunate remark by, and its sequel, 130
and the Zouias, 264
as cook, 284
becomes an unexpected ally, 173
discerns a caravan, 96, 256
entrusted with care of author, x, 35
his guiding star, 48, 55 _et seq._
his partiality for “asida,” 267, 282
his solicitude at Hassanein’s accident, 302, 303
in a cheerful mood, 275, 278
in a reflective mood, 129
introduced to author, 47
longs for a wife or two, 254, 255
makes “asidas” in the sand for tired camels, 275
offers the Zouia olive branch, 184
says his morning prayers, 273
shaves Mohammed, 292
stirs himself, 114
wakes author for dinner at Jaghabub, 295–6
Zaizeb, 304
Zakar, a gruesome zariba at, 262
Zakar-Jaghabub route, the, 254
Zakar-Siwa route, the, 254
Zakar well, the, 262–3
Zarrug, ix, 182
Zawias, how they retain hold of their pupils, 299
Zeinab, the slave-girl, 117, 118, 121, 130, 184, 193
Zieghen, 15, 91
Zieghen route, the, landmarks of, 255
Zouias, the, a characteristic of, 251
apologise to Hassanein, 184
appearance of, 180
Hawarian, 177
of Buseima, 91, 143
of the “cities” of Kufara, 203 _et seq._
ousted from Kebabo, 15
voluntary submission to Sid Ben Ali es Senussi, 150, 205, 207
wealth of, 74
Zuetina, 9
Zuruk, 17, 158, 192
a visit to, 211
why so named, 214
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
58 Unfortunately, Hassanein was Unfortunately, Hassanein was
temped to wash his hair, tempted to wash his hair,
78 bringing that huge flash. It was bringing that huge flask. It was
bulky, heavy and, of bulky, heavy and, of
87 there is only a well as Msus and there is only a well at Msus and
no village, we left it no village, we left it
132 and dele out the water and dole out the water
ourselves. Several of the new ourselves. Several of the new
148 vegetation, half grass, half vegetation, half grass, half
moss. White Abdullah tested moss. While Abdullah tested
175 elusive oasis that was no near elusive oasis that was so near
and yet always just and yet always just
268 were disappointingly different. were disappointingly
“Inshallah, we shall indifferent. “Inshallah, we
shall
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Images without captions use the HTML alt text supplied by the
transcriber.
● The map mentioned in the Contents as being on p. 310 was missing
from the original.
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