which lend a fresh charm to the settlement. The palm is here all in
all: it is the queen of trees, the giver of fruit which sustains man
and binds him to his little spot of earth, the tree around which saga
and song are twined, the tree of life. What would an oasis be without
palms? A tent without a roof, a house without inmate, a well without
water, a poem without words, a song without tune, a picture without
colour. The palm’s fruits feed the nomad herdsman and the settler
alike, they become wheat or barley in his hand, they satisfy even the
tax-gatherer of his lord and master. Its stems, its crown, its narrow
leaves supply him with shelter and utensils, mats, baskets, and sacks,
ropes and cords. In the sandy desert one first appreciates its full
worth and importance, it becomes the visible emblem of Arabian poetry,
which rises like it from frequently barren ground, which grows strong
and fades not, which raises itself on high, and there only bears sweet
fruit.
[Illustration: Fig. 52.--An Oasis in the Desert of Sahara.]
Mimosas and palms are the characteristic trees of all oases, and are
never absent from those which have so many springs or wells that
gardens and fields become possible. Here they are restricted, like
outposts against the invading sand, to the outer fringe of the desert
island, while the interior is adorned with more exacting plants
which require more water. Thus around the springs or wells there
are often charming gardens in which grow almost all the fruit-bearing
plants of North Africa. Here the vine clambers, the orange glows amid
its dark foliage, the pomegranate opens its rosy mouth, the banana
expands its fan-shaped leaf clusters, the melons straggle among the
beds of vegetables, prickly-pears and olives, perhaps even figs,
apricots, and almonds, complete the picture of fruitfulness. At a
greater distance from the centre lie the fields, bearing at least
Kaffir-millet, and, in favourable conditions, wheat, or even rice.
In oases so rich man finds a permanent home, while in those which are
poorer he is but a sojourner, or a more or less periodic guest. The
village or small township of a large oasis is essentially like that
of the nearest cultivated country; like it it has its mosques, its
bazaars, its coffee-houses; but the inhabitants are children of a
different spirit from that which marks the peasants or townsfolk in
the Nile valley or along the coast. Although usually of diverse race
among themselves they all exhibit the same customs and habits. The
desert has shaped and fashioned them. Their slender build, sharply-cut
features, and keen eyes, gleaming from under bushy brows, mark them at
once as sons of the desert; but their habits and customs are even more
characteristic. They are unexacting and readily contented, energetic
and full of resource, hospitable and open-hearted, honourable and
loyal, but proud, irritable, and passionate, inclined to robbery and
acts of violence, like the Bedouins, though not their equals either in
good or evil. A caravan entering their settlement is a welcome sight,
but they expect the traveller to pay them toll.
Very different from such oases are those valleys in which a
much-desired well is only to be found at times. The Arabian nomads
are well pleased if the supply of drinking-water for themselves and
their herds is sufficient for a few months or even weeks; and the
caravan, which rests in such a place, may be content if its demands are
satisfied within a few days. The well is usually a deep shaft, from
whose walls the water oozes rather than trickles. A few tom-palms rise
among the sparse mimosas and saltworts which surround the well; a few
stems of grass break through the hard ground.
Unutterably poor are these nomad herdsmen, who pitch their tents here
as long as their small flocks of goats can find anything to eat. Their
struggle for existence is a continuous succession of toil, and want,
and misery. Their tent is of the simplest; a long dark web of cloth,
made of goats’ hair, is laid across a simple framework, and its ends
pinned to the ground; a piece of the same stuff forms the back-wall,
and a mat of palm-leaves forms the door in front. The web is the wife’s
self-made dowry, the materials for which she gathered, spun, and wove
from her eighth to her sixteenth year. A few mats which serve as beds,
a block of granite and a grindstone for pounding the grain got in
barter, a flat plate of clay to roast the cakes, two large jars, some
leather sacks and skins, an axe and several lances, form the total
furnishings. A herd of twenty goats is counted a rich possession for a
family. But these people are as brave as they are poor, as lovable as
they are well-built, as good-natured as they are beautiful, as generous
as they are frugal, as hospitable as they are honourable, as chaste as
they are devout. Ancient pictures rise in the mind of the Occidental
who meets with these folk for the first time; he sees biblical
characters face to face, and hears them speak in a manner with which he
has been familiar from his childhood. Thousands of years have been to
these nomads of the desert as one day; to-day they think, and speak,
and act as did the patriarchs of old. The very greeting which Abraham
uttered meets the stranger’s ear; the very words which Rebecca spoke
to Abraham’s servant were addressed to me, when, tortured with thirst,
I sprang from my camel at the well of Bahiuda, and begged a beautiful
brown damsel for a drink of fresh water. There she stood before me, the
Rebecca of thousands of years ago, alive and in unfading youth, another
and yet the same.
On the arrival of the caravan the whole population of the temporary
settlement assembles. The chief steps forward from their midst, and
utters the greeting of peace; all the rest bid the strangers welcome.
Then they offer the most precious of gifts, fresh water; it is all
that they have to give, and it is given with dignified friendliness,
ungrudgingly, yet without urgency. Eagerly the travellers drink in
long refreshing draughts; the camels also press in riotously upon the
watering-place, although they might know from experience that they
must first be unloaded, tethered, and turned on the grass before they
are allowed to quench an unbroken thirst of four or six days. Even
at the well not a drop is wasted, therefore the camels first get any
water that remains in the skins, and it is not till these are filled up
again that the beasts get a fresh draught, and that with more respect
to the existing supplies than their actual needs. Only at the copious
wells can one satisfy their apparently unbounded desires, and see, not
without amusement, how they swallow without ever looking up, and then
hasten from the well to the not less eagerly desired pasture, forced
by their hobbles to grotesque and clumsy movements, which make their
stomachs rumble like half-filled casks.
And now begins a festival both for travellers and settlers. The former
find fresh water, perhaps even milk and meat, to increase the delight
of the longed-for resting-time; the latter gladly welcome any break
in their life, which, in good seasons, is very monotonous. One of the
camel-drivers finds in the nearest tent the favourite instrument of
those who live in the desert, the _tambura_ or five-stringed zither,
and he knows right well how to use it in accompaniment to his simple
song. The music allures the daughters of the camp, and slim, beautiful
women and girls press inquisitively around the strangers, fastening
their dark eyes on them and their possessions, inquiring curiously
about this and that. Steel thy heart, stranger; else these eyes may set
it on fire. They are more beautiful than those of the gazelle, the lips
beneath put corals to shame, and the dazzling teeth excel any pearls
which thou couldst give these daughters of the desert. And soon all
yields to music and to song. Around the zither-player groups arrange
themselves for the dance; hands both hard and soft beat time to the
tune, the words, and the regular swaying movements. New forms come and
those we have become familiar with disappear; there is a constantly
changing bustle and crowd around the strangers, who are wise if they
regard all with the same innocence and simplicity which their hosts
display. All the discomforts of the journey are forgotten, and all
longings are satisfied, for water flows abundantly and takes the place
of all that one might desire in other places or at other seasons.
Such a rest revives body and soul. Strengthened and encouraged the
caravan goes on its way, and if the days bring nothing worse than
scorching, thirst, and fatigue, a second, and a third well is safely
reached, and finally the goal of the journey--the first township on the
other side of the desert. But the desert--the sea of sand--is like the
all-embracing ocean also in that it is fickle. For here too there are
raging storms, which wreck its ships and raise destruction-bringing
billows. When the north wind, which blows continuously for months,
comes into conflict with currents from the south, or yields them the
mastery, the traveller suddenly sees the sand become alive, rising
in huge pillars as thick as they are high, which whirl more or less
rapidly over the plain. The sun’s rays sometimes lend them the
ruddy gleam of flames, at another time they seem almost colourless,
yet again, portentously dark, the furious storm weakens them and
strengthens them, splits them and unites them, sometimes merging two or
more into one huge sand-spout which reaches to the clouds. Well might
the Occidental exclaim at the sublimity of the spectacle, did not the
anxious looks and words of his escort make him dumb. Woe to the caravan
which is overtaken by one of these raging whirlwinds, it will be good
fortune if man and beast escape alive. And even if the inexorable
messenger of fate pass over the party without doing harm, danger is by
no means over, for behind the sand-spouts usually comes the Simoom or
poisonous storm.
This ever-dreaded wind, which blows as the _Chamasin_ through Egypt,
as the Sirocco towards Italy, as the _Föhn_ through the Alps, as the
_Tauwind_ in North Europe, does not always rise into a storm; not
unfrequently it is hardly noticeable, and yet it makes many a man’s
heart tremble. Of course much that is fabulous is told of it, but this
much is true, that it is in certain conditions extremely dangerous to
the caravan, and that it is responsible for the bleached skeletons of
camels and the half-buried, half-mummified, corpses of men that one
sees by the wayside. It is not its strength, but its character, its
electric potential, which brings suffering and destruction to man and
beast wandering on the sandy sea.
The natives and the observant can foretell the coming of the sand-storm
at least one day, often several days, ahead. Unfailing symptoms tell of
its approach. The air becomes sultry and oppressive; a light, grayish
or reddish vapour obscures the sky; and there is not a breath of wind.
All living creatures suffer visibly under the gradually increasing
sultriness; men grumble and groan; the wild animals are shyer than
usual; the camels become restless and cross, jostling one another,
jibbing stubbornly, even lying down on the ground. The sun sets without
any colour; no red-glow fringes the evening sky; every light is veiled
in a vaporous shroud. Night brings neither coolness nor refreshment,
rather an aggravation of the sultriness, the lassitude, the discomfort;
in spite of all weariness one cannot sleep. If men and beasts are still
able to move, no rest is taken, but they hurry on with the most anxious
haste as long as the leader can see any of the heavenly bodies. But the
vapour becomes a dry fog, obscuring one constellation after another,
hiding moon and sun, though in the most favourable conditions these
may be visible, about half their normal size, pale in colour and of
ill-defined contour.
Sometimes it is at midnight that the wind begins to raise its wings;
more commonly about noon. Without a watch no one could tell the time,
for the fog has become so thick that the sun is completely hidden. A
gloomy twilight covers the desert, and everything even within a short
radius is hazy and indistinct. Gently, hardly perceptibly the air at
length begins to move. It is not a breeze, but the merest breath. But
this breath scorches, pierces like an icy wind into bone and marrow,
producing dull headache, enervation, and uneasiness. The first breath
is followed by a more perceptible gust, equally piercing and deadening.
Several brief blasts rage howling across the plain.
It is now high time to encamp. Even the camels know this, for no whip
will make them take another step. Panic-stricken they sink down,
stretch out their long necks in front of them, press them closely on
the sand, and shut their eyes. Their drivers unload them as rapidly
as possible, build the baggage into a barricade, and heap all the
water-bags closely together, so as to present the least possible
surface to the wind, and cover them with any available mats. This
accomplished, they wrap themselves as closely as may be in their robes,
moisten the part which surrounds the head, and take refuge behind the
baggage. All this is done with the utmost despatch, for the sand-storm
never leaves one long to wait.
Following one another in more rapid succession, the blasts soon become
continuous, and the storm rages. The wind roars and rumbles, pipes and
howls in the firmament; the sand rushes and rages along the ground;
there is creaking and crackling and crashing among the baggage as the
planks of the boxes burst. The prevailing sultriness increases till
the limit of endurance seems all but reached; all moisture leaves the
sweat-covered body; the mucous membranes begin to crack and bleed;
the parched tongue lies like a piece of lead in the mouth; the pulse
quickens, the heart throbs convulsively; the skin begins to peel, and
into the lacerations the raging storm bears fine sand, producing new
tortures. The sons of the desert pray and groan, the stranger murmurs
and complains.
The severest raging of the sand-storm does not usually last long, it
may be only for an hour, or for two or three, just like the analogous
thunder-storm in the north. As it assuages the dust sinks, the air
clears, perhaps a counter-breeze sets in from the north; the caravan
rearranges itself and goes on its way. But if the Simoom last for half
a day or for a whole day, then it may fare with the traveller as it
did with an acquaintance of mine, the French traveller Thibaut, as he
journeyed through the Northern Bahiuda desert. He found the last well
dry, and with almost exhausted water-bags he was forced to push on
towards the Nile, four days’ journey off. On him and his panic-stricken
caravan, which had left every dispensable piece of baggage at the
dry well, the deadly storm broke loose. The unfortunate company
encamped, hoped for the end of the storm, but waited in vain, mourning,
desponding, desperate. One of Thibaut’s servants sprang up maddened,
howled down the storm, raged, and raved, and at last, utterly spent,
fell prostrate on his master, gasped, and died. A second fell victim
to sunstroke, and when the storm at last abated was found dead in his
resting-place. A third lingered behind the rest after they had started
again on their life-or-death race, and he also perished. Half of the
camels were lost. With the remnant of his company Thibaut reached the
Nile, but in two days his coal-black hair had become white as snow.
To such storms are due the mummied corpses which one sees by the path
of the caravan. The storm which killed them also buries them in the
drifting sand; this removes all moisture so quickly that the body,
instead of decaying, dries up into a mummy. Over them one wind casts
a shroud of sand, which another strips away. Then the corpse is seen
stretching its hand, its foot, or its face towards the traveller, and
one of the drivers answers the petition of the dead, covers him again
with sand, and goes on his way, saying, “Sleep, servant of God, sleep
in peace.”
To such storms are also due the dream-pictures of the Fata Morgana
which arise in the minds of the survivors. As long as a man pursues his
way with full, undiminished strength and with sound senses, the mirage
appears to him merely as a remarkable natural phenomenon, and in no
wise as Fata Morgana. During the hot season, especially about noon,
but from nine in the morning until three o’clock, the “devil’s sea” is
to be seen daily in the desert. A gray surface like a lake, or more
accurately like a flooded district, is formed on every plantless flat
at a certain distance in front of or around the traveller; it heaves
and swells, glitters and shimmers, leaves all actually existing objects
visible, but raises them apparently to the level of its uppermost
stratum and reflects them down again. Camels or horses disappearing
in the distance appear, like the angels in pictures, as if floating
on clouds, and if one can distinguish their movements, it seems as
if they were about to set down each limb on a cushion of vapour. The
distance which limits the phenomenon remains always the same, as long
as the observer does not change his angle of vision; and thus it varies
for the rider and the pedestrian. The whole phenomenon depends on the
well-known law, that a ray of light passing through a medium which
is not homogeneous is refracted, and thus it is inevitable, since
the lower strata of air become expanded by reflection of heat from
the glowing sand. No Arab hides his face when he sees a mirage, as
fanciful travellers assure their credulous readers; none puts any deep
interpretation on the phrase which he likes to use--“the devil’s sea”.
But when the anxiety, distress, enervation, and misery consequent on a
sand-storm beset and weaken him, and the mirage appears, then it may
become a Fata Morgana, for the abnormally excited imagination forms
pictures which are in most perfect harmony with the most urgent desire
of the moment--the desire for water and for rest. Even to me, who have
observed the mirage hundreds of times, the Fata Morgana appeared once.
It was after four-and-twenty hours of torturing thirst that I saw the
devil’s sea sparkling and gleaming before me. I really thought I saw
the sacred Nile and boats with full-bellied sails, palm-groves and
woods, and country-houses. But where my abnormal senses perceived a
flourishing palm-grove, my equally abnormal comrade saw sailing-boats,
and where I fancied I recognized gardens, he saw not less imaginary
woodland. And all the deceptive phantasms vanished as soon as we were
refreshed with an unexpected draught of water; only the nebulous gray
sea remained in sight.
Perhaps every one who crosses a stretch of desert in the Nile-lands
sees the devil’s sea; but there is a real and most living desert
picture, a sight of which is not granted to all. On the extreme
limit of vision, raised perhaps by the mirage and veiled in vapour,
a number of riders appear; they are mounted on steeds swift as the
wind, with limbs like those of deer; they approach rapidly, and urging
to full gallop the steeds which till then they had restrained, they
rush down upon the caravan. It always gave me pleasure to meet these
haggard, picturesquely-clad men; they and their horses seemed to be
so thoroughly harmonious with the desert. The Bedouin is indeed the
true son of the desert, and his steed is his counterpart. He is stern
and terrible as the desert day, gentle and friendly as the desert
night. True to his pledged word, unswerving in obedience to the laws
and customs of his race, dignified in bearing, lofty in discourse,
unsurpassed in self-restraint and endurance, more sensitive than almost
any other man to deeds of prowess, to glory and honour, and not less
to the golden web of fancy into which his poetic genius weaves such
wondrous pictures and twines such tender fragrant flowers; yet is he
cunning and crafty towards his enemies, a bounden slave to his customs,
unscrupulous in his demands, mean and paltry in his exactions, greedy
in his pleasures, unrestrained in cruelty, terrible in revenge, to-day
the noble host, to-morrow a threatening and shameless beggar, now a
proud robber and again a pitiable thief. In short he is to the stranger
as fickle and changeful as the desert itself. His horse has the same
keen, fiery, expressive eyes, the same strength and agility in its
thin, almost fragile limbs, the same endurance, the same frugality, the
same nature as his master, for they grew up together under the same
tent, they rest and dwell beneath the same roof. The animal is not the
slave but the companion, the friend of its master, the playmate of his
children. Proud, spirited, and even savage in the open desert, it is as
quiet as a lamb in the tent; it seems altogether inseparable from its
master.
[Illustration: Fig. 53.--Band of Mounted Bedouins.]
In all the deserts which are, in name at least, under the sway of the
Khedive of Egypt, the Bedouins no longer fill the rôle which was theirs
in earlier times, and still belongs to them in Arabia and in North-west
Africa. For between them and the Egyptian government there is a strict
treaty which binds them to allow caravans to pass through their haunts
unmolested. Thus robberies in the desert are of the rarest occurrence,
and an encounter with the Bedouins raises the less apprehension, since
these children of the desert are usually the owners of the hired
camels. At the same time the true lords of the waste still love to
cling to the old customs and to retain a semblance of their dominion,
so that it is prudent before setting out on a desert journey to claim
safe-conduct from some recognized chief. With this in possession, an
encounter took form somewhat as follows.
One of the sunburnt horsemen sprang forward from the troop, and turned
to the leader or head of our caravan.
“Peace be with thee, O stranger!”
“And with thee, O chief, be the grace of God, His mercy, and His
compassion!”
“Whither journey ye, sirs?”
“To Belled-Aali, O Sheikh.”
“Do ye journey under protection?”
“We journey under the safe-conduct of his Excellency, the Khedive.”
“And no other?”
“Also Sheikh Soliman, Mohammed Cheir Allah, Ibn Sidi Aulad Aali, has
granted us protection and peace.”
“Then are ye welcome and blessed.”
“The Giver of all blessings bless thee and thy father, O chief!”
“Have ye need of ought? My men will supply it. In Wadi Ghitere are our
tents, and ye are welcome there if ye seek rest. If not, may Allah
grant a prosperous journey!”
“He will be with us, for He is merciful.”
“And the Guide on all good ways.”
“Amen, O chief!”
And the troop wheels off; rider and steed become one; the light hoofs
seem scarce to touch the sand, the white burnooses flutter in the wind,
and the poet’s words rise into memory--
“Bedouin, on thy steed, thou art a poem in thyself!”