THE SAHARA.
Its uncertain Limits--Caravan Routes--Ephemeral Streams--Oases--
Inundations--Luxuriant Vegetation of the Oases contrasted with the
surrounding Desert--Harsh contrasts of Light and Shade--Sublimity
of the Desert--Feelings of the Traveller while crossing the Desert--
Its charms and terrors--Sand-Spouts--The Simoom--The ‘Sea of the
Devil’--The Gazelle--Its chase--The Porcupine--Fluctuation of
Animal Life according to the Seasons--The Tibbos and the Tuaregs--
Their contempt of the sedentary Berbers.
From the Nile to the Senegal, and from the vicinity of Agades or of
Timbuctoo to the southern slopes of the Atlas, extends the desert which
above all others has been named the Great.
Surpassing the neighbouring Mediterranean at least three times in
extent, and partly situated within the tropical zone, partly bordering
on its confines, its limits are in many places as undetermined as the
depths of its hidden solitudes. No European has ever travelled along
its southern boundary, nor is its interior known, except only along a
few roads, traced for many a century by the wandering caravans.
In general the desert may be said to extend in breadth from the
thirty-ninth to the seventeenth degree of northern latitude; but while
in many parts it passes these bounds, in others fruitful districts
penetrate far into its bosom, like large peninsulas or promontories
jutting into the sea.
Until within the last few years, it was supposed to be a low plain,
partly situated even below the level of the ocean; but the journeys
of Barth, Overweg, and Vogel have proved it, on the contrary, to be a
high table-land, rising 1,000 or 2,000 feet above the sea. Nor is it
the uniform sand-plain which former descriptions led one to imagine;
for it is frequently traversed by chains of hills, as desolate and
wild as the expanse from which they emerge. But the plains also have a
different character in various parts: sometimes over a vast extent of
country the ground is strewed with blocks of stone or small boulders,
no less fatiguing to the traveller than the loose drift sand, which,
particularly in its western part (most likely in consequence of the
prevailing east winds), covers the dreary waste of the Sahara. Often
also the plain is rent by deep chasms, or hollowed into vast basins.
In the former, particularly on the northern limits of the desert,
the rain descending from the gulleys of the Atlas, sometimes forms
streams, which are soon swallowed up by the thirsty sands, or dried
by the burning sunbeams. In spite of this short duration, the sudden
appearance of these streams is not unfrequently the cause of serious
distress to the oases which border the northern limits of the desert.
For this reason, as soon as the Atlas veils itself with clouds,
horsemen from the oases of the Beni-Mzab are sent at full speed into
the mountains. They form a chain as they proceed, and announce, by the
firing of their rifles, the approach of the waters. The inhabitants of
the oases instantly hurry to their gardens to convey their agricultural
implements to a place of safety. A rushing sound is heard; in a short
time the ground is inundated; and the little village seems suddenly
as if by magic transported to the banks of a lake, from which the
green tufts of the palm-trees emerge like islands. But this singular
spectacle soon passes away like the fantastic visions of the mirage.
The deeper basins of the Sahara are frequently of great extent, and
sometimes contain large deposits of salt. Wherever perennial springs
rise from the earth, or wherever it has been possible to collect
water in artificial wells, green oases, often many a day’s journey
apart from each other, break the monotony of the desert. They might
be compared with the charming islands that stud the vast solitudes
of the South Sea; but they do not appear, like them, as elevations
over surrounding plains of sea, but as depressions, where animals and
plants find a sufficient supply of water, and a protection, not less
necessary, against the terrific blasts of the desert.
A wonderful luxuriance of vegetation characterises these oases of
the wilderness. Under and between the date-palms, grow apricot and
peach trees, pomegranates and oranges, the henna, so indispensable
to Oriental beauty; and even the apple-tree, the pride of European
orchards. The vine twines from one date-palm to another, and every spot
susceptible of culture produces corn, particularly dourrah or barley,
and also clover and tobacco. With a prudent economy the villages are
built on the borders of the oases on the unfruitful soil, so that not a
foot of ground susceptible of culture may be lost.
The vast tracts of sterile sand, where not even the smallest plant
takes root, and which might be called the ‘desert of the desert,’
present the greatest conceivable contrast to its green oases. With
the vegetable world the animal kingdom likewise disappears, and for
days the traveller pursues his journey without meeting with a single
quadruped, bird, or insect. All is solitude and death in this awful
wilderness, where, in the Bedouins’ poetical language, ‘nothing exists
but Allah!’ Nowhere are the transitions of light and shade more abrupt
than in the desert, for nowhere is the atmosphere more thoroughly free
from all vapours. The sun pours a dazzling light on the ground, so that
every object stands forth with wonderful clearness, while all that
remains in the shade is sharply defined, and appears like a dark spot
in the surrounding glare.
These harsh contrasts between light and shade deprive the landscape
of all grace and harmony; but this want is amply compensated by its
singular grandeur. The boundless horizon and the silence which reigns
over the whole scene, appeal with powerful effect to the imagination,
and thus constantly amuse the mind amid scenery that presents so few
objects to occupy it. But in such a country every slight modification
of form or colour rivets observation: the senses are sharpened, and
perceptive faculties prone to grow dull over a perpetual shifting of
scenery, act vigorously when excited by the capability of embracing
each detail. To the solitary wayfarer there is an interest in the
wilderness unknown to the Alpine glacier and even to the rolling
prairie, the effect of continued excitement on the mind, stimulating
its powers to their pitch. Above, a sky, terrible in its stainless
beauty, and the splendour of a pitiless blinding glare; around you,
drifted sand-heaps upon which each puff of wind leaves its own trace
in solid waves; naked rocks, the very skeletons of mountains, and hard
unbroken plains, over which he who rides is spurred by the idea that
the bursting of a water-bag or the pricking of a camel’s hoof would be
certain death of torture--a haggard land infested by wild beasts and
wilder men--a region whose very fountains seem to murmur the warning
words ‘Drink and away.’ What can apparently be more devoid of every
charm, and yet in none of her aspects is Nature more fascinating and
sublime. Man’s heart bounds in his breast at the thought of measuring
his puny force with the desert’s might, and of emerging triumphant from
the trial--and this sense of danger never absent invests the scene of
travel with an interest not its own.
Thus, in spite of all he may have endured, the traveller that has
once crossed the desert will ever after remember it with regret, and
long for the renewal of its deep emotions. For the life of the Sahara
resembles that of the ocean. During a continuance of bad weather or
a calm the mariner may vow to forsake the sea for ever, but he has
scarcely landed when his affection revives and he longs for the sea
again.
In summer when the sun pours his vertical rays over the arid waste the
desert is one vast furnace; but in the temperate season, its pleasures
well repay the wanderer for many a peril or hardship. In this pure dry
atmosphere his health improves, and with his health the tone and vigour
of his mind. Though his mouth glows and his skin is parched--yet he
feels no languor, the effect of humid heat; his lungs are lightened,
his sight brightens, his memory recovers its strength, his spirits
become exuberant, his fancy and imagination are powerfully aroused--
and the wildness and sublimity of the scenes around him stir up all the
energies of his soul--whether for exertion, danger, or strife. His
senses are quickened; they require no stimulant but air and exercise--
in the desert spirituous liquors only excite disgust. There is a keen
enjoyment in a mere animal existence. The vigorous appetite disposes
of the most indigestible food; the sand is softer than a bed of down,
and the purity of the air suddenly puts to flight a dire cohort of
diseases. Hence it is that both sexes and every age, the most material
as well as the most imaginative of minds, all feel their hearts dilate
and their pulses beat strong, as they look down from their dromedaries
upon the glorious desert.
Nothing can equal the beauty of the night in these arid wilds,
doubly grateful after the heat and glare of the day. We, the sons
of a colder clime, accustomed to see the starry firmament faintly
glimmering through a misty haze, can have no idea of the magnificence
of its luminous worlds brightly sparkling through an atmosphere of
incomparable clearness. Grazing at these isles of light the soul rises
on the wings of adoration to Him who made them. The desert is the image
of the Infinite; no place is more apt to awaken religious feelings,
and no time is fitter for devotion than its still and solitary night.
He, who, in the desert does not hear the voice of God, knows not the
Almighty, and ranks far below the wandering Arab, who, after the toil
of the sultry day, reverentially bows down his forehead in prayer over
the sand of the desert. Falling on his knees he exclaims: ‘Allah hu
akbar! God is greater:’ greater than all created things, which only
bear witness to His greatness.
But it is not alone the sublime grandeur of the desert which raises
the spirit of man to his Maker; its terrors also make him vividly feel
the Almighty presence, for when the sense of his helplessness becomes
overpoweringly acute, he then instinctively looks for protection above.
As the conflicting air-currents of the ocean occasion water-spouts,
the terror of the mariner; so also sandspouts or trombs arise in
rotatory eddies from the midst of the desert, and assume the form of
mighty columns, sometimes slowly moving along, at others advancing with
menacing swiftness.
As they rapidly scud with the wings of the whirlwind over the plain--
huge, yellow shafts with lofty heads horizontally bent backwards in
the form of clouds, it requires but little stretch of fancy to enter
into the Bedouin’s superstition, and, like the imaginative sons of the
desert, suppose them to be the genii of the waste which cannot be
caught, a notion arising from the fitful movements of the wind-eddy
that raises them. As they advance, the pious Moslem stretches out his
finger, exclaiming, ‘Avaunt, O thou ill-omened one!’
Every moment the dread columns change their station, their appearance,
their form. Onward they move, with terrible rapidity; the sun tints
them with the brilliancy of fire; the storm, whirling in and around
them, cuts them into several branches, reunites them, now weakens and
now again strengthens them; and when, the whirlwind having spent its
force, they suddenly collapse, and relieve the traveller from the fear
of immediate danger, he yet must not exult too soon, for generally
these sandspouts are followed by the dreaded simoom.
The temperature of the air becomes intolerably oppressive; it is
sultry and enervating as before a thunder-storm. The hitherto crystal
transparency of the sky is veiled with a hazy dimness, it is the sand
of the desert whirling at a distance in the atmosphere, but as yet no
wind is felt. The camels, however, are conscious of its approach. They
become restless and anxious, and appear overcome by fatigue.
And now a light hot wind arises from the south, or south-west, blowing
in intermittent gusts like the laborious breathing of a feverish
patient.
Gradually the convulsions of the storm grow more violent and frequent;
and although the sun is unable to pierce the thick dust-clouds, and
the shadow of the traveller is scarcely visible on the ground, yet so
suffocating is the heat that it seems to him as if the fiercest rays of
the sun were scorching his brain.
The fiery purple of the atmosphere gradually changes to a leaden
blackness; the wind becomes constant; the camels, snorting and
groaning, stretch out their necks flat upon the ground, and turn their
backs to the raging sand-storm. The Arabs pile up the water-bags, so as
to screen them from the wind and diminish the surface exposed to the
dry air, and wrapping themselves up as closely as possible in their
cloaks, seek protection behind chests or bales of merchandise.
At night darkness is complete, no light or fire burns in the tents,
which are hardly able to resist the gusts of the simoom. A deep silence
reigns throughout the whole caravan, yet no one sleeps; the bark of
the jackal or the howl of the hyæna alone sounds dismally from time to
time through the loud roaring of the storm.
A prolonged simoom causes more fatigue to man and beast than all the
other hardships of a desert journey, and brings new and as yet unknown
sufferings to the traveller. Under the desiccating influence of the dry
air, his lips spring open and begin to bleed, his parched tongue vainly
longs for a refreshing draught; and, together with a raging thirst, an
insupportable itching and burning invade the whole body; for the skin
bursts in a hundred places, and the fine irritating dust penetrates
into every wound.
Sometimes a raving madness, the symptoms of a fatal inflammation, is
the result of these complicated tortures; in other cases the blood
circulating with feverish haste through the veins, produces congestion
of the brain; and, senseless and motionless, the wretch sinks down upon
the ground, never to rise again. And the lot of him who still retains
the full consciousness of his misery is not more enviable, for death
by thirst awaits him, with slower but more dreadful pangs. His camel
drops, his water-bag is nearly empty. He tries to walk; in a short time
the glowing sand produces gangrenous sores in his feet, and every step
is accompanied by the most excruciating pain. His companions are all
too busy with themselves to pay the least attention to the unfortunate
sufferer; they have but one thought--self; one aim--that of reaching
the next well. Abandoned to his fate, the deserted traveller stands
alone, waterless, helpless in the dreadful waste. He tears his beard,
he curses his destiny; for him there is no hope.
And now, when earth and heaven begin to reel around him, the ‘_Sea
of the Devil_’ spreads out its delusive phantoms before his weakened
vision. He sees all his heart can wish for; palm groves waving over
a broad expanse of lake; winding rivers covered with barges, their
streamers gaily floating in the breeze; fairy gardens surrounded by
rippling waters. The glorious prospect stimulates him to one last
exertion; could he but reach that blessed shore the joys of paradise
were his, but his paralysed limbs mock the vain effort which exhausts
the last remnant of his strength.
The crows, wheeling with dismal cries over the dying wretch, often
hack out his eyes before death relieves him of all pain. These corsairs
of the air accompany the caravan as sharks accompany a vessel; for they
reckon, like the tyrants of the seas, upon the tribute of the journey.
In a short time the dry atmosphere changes the corpse into a natural
mummy, which, ‘grinning horribly a ghastly smile,’ seems to defy the
desert. Perchance some future caravan passing along throws some pious
dust upon the shrivelled body, but the wind soon uncovers it again, for
the shifting desert will not even grant a burial to its victims. On
every great caravan route such mummies protruding from the sand meet
the eye of the traveller, telling him, in their mute but expressive
language, ‘Such, stranger, may be thy fate to-morrow.’
The arid desert produces only a few plants and animals, but stamps them
all with its own peculiar mark. From the tawny Bedouin to the worm
scarcely distinguishable in the sand, it gives all its creatures the
same dress, the same colour, which might justly be called the colour of
the desert. It is the pale greyish-yellow tint which belongs as well
to the gazelle as to the small lark of the sandy wastes. Among the
birds there are no doubt many modifications of this general rule, and
the deviations increase as the desert gradually merges into the more
fertile steppes, but even here its characteristic mark is not to be
mistaken.
A wandering desultory life is the lot of the children of the desert.
The nourishment afforded them by their sterile home is too scanty
for sedentary habits, and cannot be obtained without exertion. But
Nature has endowed them with an activity and powers of endurance which
distinguish them from many other animals, and enable them to exist
where less hardy or less spirited beings would perish. Even such of
them as originally did not belong to the desert, but since several
generations have learnt to make it their home, such as the noble horse
of the Bedouin, acquire the spirit it engenders. The same love of
independence, the same attachment to their native haunts, animates all
the inhabitants of the desert. Separated from their home they droop and
pine away. The richest food affords the captive gazelle no compensation
for the meagre herbage of the sandy waste; the widest space seems
narrow when compared with its boundless extent.
Nothing can be more elegant than the figure of this beautiful antelope
in the full unfettered freedom of its native wilds. Its slender but
vigorous limbs are in the highest degree elastic; all its actions
are animated and graceful. When the approach of a caravan surprises
it in its solitude, it pricks up its ears, stretches forth its neck,
and fixes an attentive gaze upon the strangers. Distrusting their
intentions, it vaults with a few bounds over large stones or bushes,
and then again stops, playfully waving its horns to and fro. When once
it has been chased it becomes extremely wary, and on account of its
amazing fleetness can only be taken by dint of the utmost perseverance
and cunning. It is often seen in large groups, bounding across the
desert with such extraordinary swiftness that it seems bird-like to
skim over the surface. From time immemorial its elegant form and
brilliant eye have played a conspicuous part in Oriental poetry. The
Arab loves to compare the eye of his mistress with that of the gazelle--
‘Her eyes’ dark charm ’twere vain to tell,
But look on that of the gazelle,
It will assist thy fancy well’--
and ‘Thou art as graceful and as beautifully-shaped as a gazelle,’ is
the highest compliment that can be paid to an Oriental beauty.
The chase of the gazelle is a favourite amusement of the inhabitants
of the Saharian oases. On seeing a herd at a distance, they approach
as cautiously as possible; and when about a mile distant, they unleash
their greyhounds, who dart off with the rapidity of arrows, and are
excited by loud cries to their utmost speed. Yet they only reach the
flying herd after a long race; and now the scene acquires the interest
of a drama. The best greyhound selects the finest gazelle for his prey,
which uses all its cunning to avoid its pursuer, springing to the
right, to the left, now forwards, then backwards, sometimes even right
over the greyhound’s head; but all these zigzag evolutions fail to save
it from its indefatigable enemy. When seized it utters a piteous cry,
the signal of the greyhound’s triumph, who kills it with one bite in
the neck.
When we consider the scanty vegetation of the Sahara, we cannot wonder
that animal life is but sparingly scattered over its surface. The lion,
so frequently misnamed ‘the king of the desert,’ only shows himself
on its borders; and on asking the nomads of the interior whether it
is ever seen in their parts, they gravely answer that in Europe lions
may perhaps feed on shrubs or drink the air, but that in Africa they
cannot exist without flesh and water, and therefore avoid the sandy
desert. In fact, they never leave the wooded mountains of the Atlas,
or the fruitful plains of the Soudan, to wander far away into the
Sahara, where snakes and scorpions are the only dangerous animals to be
met with. The snakes, which belong to the genus _Cerastes_, which is
distinguished by two small horns upon the head, have a deadly bite, and
are remarkable for their almost total abstinence from water.
Among the animals which inhabit those parts of the desert which are
covered with prickly shrubs, we find hares and rabbits, hyænas and
jackals, the hedgehog and the porcupine. Well-beaten paths, and here
and there a scattered quill, lead to the hole which this proverbially
fretful animal burrows in the sand. The hunters widen the entrance with
their poniards or swords, until a hoarse, prolonged growl, and the
peculiar noise which the enraged porcupine makes on raising his quills,
warn them to be on their guard. Suddenly the creature rushes from its
burrow to cast itself into the thicket; but the well-aimed blow of a
poniard stretches it upon the sand. A fire being kindled, the animal is
buried under the embers; and the quills then easily separate from the
roasted and excellently-flavoured meat.
Several lizards inhabit the desert; among others, a large grey monitor,
and a small white skink, with very short legs, called Zelgague by
the Arabs. Its movements are so rapid that it seems to swim on the
sand like a fish in the water, and when one fancies one has caught
it, it suddenly dives under the surface. Its traces, however, betray
its retreat, and it is easily extracted from its hole,--a trouble
which, in spite of the meagre booty, is not considered too great when
provisions are scarce.
According to the seasons animal life fluctuates in the Sahara from
north to south. In winter and spring, when heavy rains, falling on
its northern borders, provide wide districts, thoroughly parched by
the summer heat, with the water and pasturage needed for the herds,
the nomadic tribes wander farther into the desert with their camels,
horses, sheep, and goats, and retreat again to the coast-lands as
the sun gains power. At this time of the year the wild animals--
the lion, the gazelle, and the antelope--also wander farther to the
south, which at that time provides them, each according to its taste,
with the nourishment which the dry summer is unable to bestow; while
the ostrich, who during the summer ranged farther to the north, then
retreats to the south; for hot and sandy plains are the paradise in
which this singular bird delights to roam.
In the southern part of the Sahara the tropical rains, whose limits
extend to 19° N. lat., and in some parts still farther to the north,
produce similar periodical fluctuations in the animal life of the
desert. Under their influence the sandy plains are soon enlivened
here and there with grasses, and the parched shrubs clothe themselves
with verdure. In the dry season, on the contrary, the green carpet
disappears, and the country then changes into a dry waste. Frequently,
however, the tropical rains fail to appear on their northern
boundaries, and disappoint the hopes of the thirsty desert.
Two nomadic nations, the Tuaregs and the Tibbos wander with their
camels and sheep over the immense expanse of the Sahara in quest of
scanty forage and thorny shrubbery. The abstinence and hardships they
frequently endure, the freedom of a roving life, and their predatory
habits, give them an evident superiority over the sedentary Berbers,
who inhabit the oases, and repay the haughty demeanour of the nomads
with hatred and contempt. Yet, in spite of these feelings of ill-will,
the bonds of traffic and of a common interest connect the vagrant and
the agricultural tribes. Condemned to perpetual migrations, the nomad
is forced to confide all the property he is unable to carry about with
him to the inhabitants of the oases; he may even possess a small piece
of land, the cultivation of which he entrusts to the latter, who, on
his part, as soon as he has saved something, buys a sheep or a goat
which he gives in charge to the nomad.
An unmitigated hatred, on the contrary, exists between the various
erratic tribes, as here no mediating self-interest softens the
antipathies which are almost universally found to exist between
neighbouring barbarians, and their robber expeditions not merely attack
the richly-laden caravan, but also the oasis which may be connected by
the bonds of intercourse with their hereditary enemies.
[Illustration: BEDOUIN WARRIORS.]