The more intimately one comes to know the desert, the more it grows
upon one, alleviating and lessening all toil and discomfort. Yet the
last hours of the journey are those of greatest joy. When the first
palm-village of cultivated land appears in sight, when the silver line
of the sacred river is once more visible, gladness fills the heart.
Men and beasts hasten as if to prove that the glad reality is not an
illusion which may vanish in the mist. But the goal becomes more and
more distinct; it seems as if we had never seen fresher colours, we
fancy that nowhere else can there be trees so green, water so cool.
With a final effort the camels push on, far too slowly for their
impatient riders. Friendly greetings reach our ears. The village on
the Nile is reached at last. From all the huts throng men and women,
the aged and the children. Inquisitively they crowd around the camp,
men and women curiously questioning, youths and maidens eager for
the dance. Tambura and tarabuka, the zither and drum of the country,
invite to motion; and the dancing-girls gladden the eyes of strangers
and countrymen alike. Even the creaking of the water-wheel on the
river, formerly a thousand times cursed, seems musical to-day. The
evening brings fresh joys. Comfortably couched on the cool and elastic
divan, the foreigner pledges the native in palm-wine or merieza--the
nectar of the land; while the sound of zither and drum, and the
rhythmic hand-clapping of the dancing youths and maidens form a merry
accompaniment to the dainty banquet. But at length the approaching
night begins to press its claims. Tambura and tarabuka sink into
silence and the dance comes to an end; one after another, refreshed and
well-content, the travellers seek rest. At length only one is left, a
son of Khahira, the mother of the world, whom sleep still refuses to
bless. From beside the flickering camp-fire comes his simple, tremulous
song--
Sweet night, dear night, thou mak’st me sad,
Longer thou seem’st and alway longer;
No peace from thee I ever had,
With thee day’s pain grows ever stronger.
Oh, gentle night, how long, how long,
Since these poor eyes last saw her beauty!
Seeing aught else they do her wrong;
When will she come to claim their duty?
Oh, tender night, now hovering near,
Lighten Love’s load, and my undoing!
Bring Peace to me, Peace to my Dear,
Shelter my Sweet, and speed my wooing!
But this lover’s plaint also dies away, and the silence of the night is
unbroken save by the murmurings of the wavelets on the sacred river.
NUBIA AND THE NILE RAPIDS.[B]
[B] In order to understand and appreciate this chapter the reader
should bear in mind that the Nile is in flood from June to about the
end of September, being at its highest in the latter month, and at
its lowest in April. At low Nile the rapids present a very different
appearance from what they do at high Nile.
Egypt and Nubia, though immediately adjacent, and closely connected
by a river common to both, are essentially different countries.
Through Egypt the sacred Nile flows with leisurely dignity, through
Nubia it rushes in furious haste; over Egypt it distributes its
blessings widely, in Nubia it is hemmed in by high rocky banks; in
Egypt it triumphs over the desert, in Nubia the desert is supreme;
Egypt is a garden which the river has formed after thousands of years
of ceaseless labour, Nubia is a desert which it cannot conquer. Of
course this desert has its oases like any other, but they are few and
scarcely worth considering in comparison with the lands on both sides
of the stream which remain in unchangeable sterility and desolation.
Throughout the greater part of the long winding valley which forms what
we call Nubia, dark, gleaming masses of rock rise from the bed of the
river or from its immediate vicinity, and over wide tracts prevent the
growth of almost all vegetation. They have for their sole adornment the
waves of golden yellow sand which are blown from the deserts on east
and west, and gradually slide down the rocks into the river. The sun
beats from the deep-blue and rarely cloudy sky; for many years together
not a single shower refreshes the thirsty ground. In the deeply cut
gorges the life-giving waves of the fertilizing stream contend in vain
with the unimpressionable rocks, on which they hurl themselves roaring
and foaming, blustering and thundering, as if enraged that their
generosity is met with ingratitude and their beneficence with disdain.
The field on which this battle is waged is the region of the rapids.
Very few travellers who visit the lower valley of the Nile ever reach
the rapids of its middle course. A few go beyond the so-called first
cataract, scarcely one in a hundred passes the second. Wady Halfa, a
village immediately below the second group of rapids, is the usual
goal of travellers; only purposes of exploration, the passion for the
chase, or some commercial enterprise, leads any one further south.
For it is at Wady Haifa that the difficulties of a journey into the
interior really begin, and it is therefore not surprising that the
great majority turn the prow of the boat homewards at that village of
palms. But no one who is young and vigorous, energetic, and not too
luxuriously inclined, will ever regret if he pushes farther south.
In the Nile valley, which is by no means rich in picturesqueness,
the region of the rapids is quite unique. Grandeur and beauty,
sombreness and gaiety, desolation and overflowing life mark the scenes
that here follow one another in quick succession; but they are all
desert pictures which this landscape presents, and one must forget
conventional standards in order to appreciate them as they deserve.
The man who is unable to appreciate the desert, to revel in its wealth
of colour, to endure its scorching heat, and to find refreshment in
its solemn night, would do well to avoid the desert of the Nile. But
he who travels through the country of the rapids with open eye and
receptive heart, who in his frail boat engages, wherever possible, in
the struggle with the furiously foaming waves, will have his whole
life enriched with precious memories. For never will the impressive
spectacle that his eye has looked on fade from his mental vision, never
will the sublime melody the stream has sung in his ear cease to echo
in his soul. Such, at least, is my experience, and I have journeyed
through the rocky valley of Nubia on land and on water, up the river
and down, contending with the waves, ay, and with hunger and want, and
looking down on the rapids from the tops of high cliffs as well as from
the camel’s back.
It is customary to speak of three cataracts. Each consists of a series
of rapids, which, for about a mile, make navigation in the highest
degree difficult and dangerous. At the first cataract there is properly
but one rapid; taking the second and third together there are about
thirty which the Nubian boatmen call by special names. There are no
waterfalls which make navigation of any kind impossible, not at least
on the regular route where, in addition to passing vessels, there ply
boats specially built and equipped for the rapids.[76]
When the traveller in his progress up the sacred river has traversed
the north-easterly tract where the river is hemmed in between the
Rocks of the Chain (_Jebel Silsileh_), the scenery changes abruptly.
Behind him lies Egypt, in other words the low-lying valley, broadening
seawards into a boundless plain; before him rises the rocky threshold
of Nubia. The contrast is most striking. Monotony is replaced by
diversity. It is indeed true that even the scenery of Egypt presents
many a picture which is stimulating to the eye and refreshing to the
soul; it is true that its beauty is enhanced, especially in the morning
and evening hours, by the wondrous brilliance of southern light; but
taken as a whole it seems monotonous, for everywhere the prospect is
alike, whether the eye rests on rocks of sandstone and limestone by
the margin of the valley, or takes a wider survey over the river and
the fields. One and the same picture, with little variety, is repeated
a hundred times: hills and fruitful plains, river-banks and islands,
thickets of mimosa, groves of palms and sycamores, towns and villages,
everywhere bear essentially the same stamp. But at the rock-masses of
the first cataract, which form the last barrier overcome by the stream
as it presses towards the sea, Egypt really ends and Nubia begins. No
longer does the boat glide smoothly on a surface majestically calm; it
has to fight its way among low masses of rock, and among rocky cones
that rear themselves above the waves.
Nearing the first cataract, we see, high on a precipitous headland
on the left bank, a wretched and yet impressive piece of Arabic
architecture, the sepulchre of Sheikh Musas, the patron saint of the
first rapids. Further on lies the island of Elephantine, rich in palms,
and immediately beyond is Assuan. The way is hemmed in by masses of
rock, from whose surface the waves, storming for thousands of years,
have not succeeded in obliterating hieroglyphics graven in the time of
the Pharaohs. These rocks compel the boat to follow a tortuous course,
till at length it finds a safe landing-place in a calm creek, which is,
however, so near the rapids that it is resonant with their raging.
It is venerable ground on which we stand. Through the inscriptions
in the sacred characters of the ancient Egyptian people, past ages
converse with us in intelligible speech. “Ab”, or ivory-store, was
the name of the town Elephantine on the island of that name, and the
island remains though even the ruins of the town have almost completely
disappeared: “Sun” or Syene was the township on the right bank where
the modern Assuan stands. Elephantine was the most southerly harbour of
the old Egyptians and the capital of the southern Nile district; it was
the ancient depot for produce from the interior, especially for ivory,
highly prized then as now. “Sun” was probably only a village of working
people, but as such by no means of less importance than Elephantine.
For near here, from the earliest times, the “Mat” or “Ethiopian stone”
of Herodotus was quarried, and was brought to the river-banks to be
loaded on the boats, which bore it to its destination. It was from
this place that the valuable stone derived the name of Syenite, which
it still bears.[77] Inscriptions which are found on monuments dating
from the oldest dynasties of Egyptian kings, that is to say from
two or three thousand years before the Christian era, make repeated
mention of “Sun”, and countless other hieroglyphics in the adjacent
quarries testify to the importance of this industrial village. These
quarries extend over many square miles of the desert to the east of
the cataract. From them were hewn those immense blocks which form the
columns, obelisks, cornices, and lintels of the temples, and fill us
with wonder and admiration. With them, too, the ancients roofed in the
sepulchral chambers of the pyramids, confident that they would bear
the stupendous burden piled above them. “All around us here”, says my
learned friend Dümichen, “we see how human hands laboured to loosen the
valuable stone from the wall of rock, and to immortalize this or that
event in sculpture or inscription. Everywhere the rock has become a
memorial of the past, and numerous inscriptions, often on the highest
peaks of the mountains, proclaim the glory of the divine trinity
worshipped by the first province of Upper Egypt--the Cataract-god
Chnum-Ra, and his two consorts Sati and Anuke--or celebrate the
exploits of Egyptian kings and high officers of state. Some of these
go back to the oldest historic times, and yet how young they seem in
comparison with the work, which through innumerable ages the Egyptian
Sun-god Ra has wrought upon the stone. For the rocks, all around which
are as yet untouched by human hand, present to us a surface covered
with a dark crust gleaming like enamel; while the cut surfaces of the
syenite (to many of which we may certainly ascribe an age of four
thousand years) still show, like the blocks in the quarries, the
characteristic red of the granite in its pristine vividness--they are
still too young to show the impress of Time’s hand.”
From any of the higher peaks on the banks one can get a survey of a
part of the cataract. Two deserts meet at the Nile, and join hands
across it by means of hundreds of small rocky islands. Every island
splits the stream, forcing it into a narrower channel, through which,
however, it rushes all the more violently, ceaselessly dashing against
the ruins of the rocky barrier through which it burst hundreds of
thousands of years ago. The river seems to be intent on sweeping them
away to utter destruction, and to be enraged at finding its opponents
still invincible. The thunder of its waters resounds in the ears of
the spectator above, and seems to him a fit accompaniment to the
magnificent scene beneath him. Restless as the ever-flowing waves, the
eye travels over the chaos of rocks; it embraces hundreds of single
pictures in one glance, and then combines these into one sublime,
harmonious whole, the stiff masses of gleaming rock contrasting sharply
with the white foam of the hissing water, the golden-yellow deserts
that bound them on either side, and the dark, cloudless sky overhead.
The upper region of the rapids is especially charming. A chain of black
rocks, the natural boundary-wall between Egypt and Nubia, stretches
obliquely across the river, and sweeps out on both right and left
bank in a wide curve, thus forming before the eye of the spectator
a great basin almost completely surrounded by rocky ramparts. These
walls consist in part of continuous masses, but in part also of loose
blocks--round, oval, and angular--lying one upon the other as though
piled up by the hand of some giant. Here and there portions of this
wonderful rampart project and again recede; here and there they rise
like islands from the bed of the ancient lake which they encircled
before the mighty stream broke its way through.
In the midst of these prehistoric ruins lies the green, palm-clad
island of Philæ with its stately temple. I know of no more impressive
picture than this. Surrounded by dark, rugged rocks, encompassed by the
ceaseless roar of the waves as they beat on its foundations, bedecked
with fruitful palms and fragrant mimosas, the temple stands--a striking
emblem of inner peace amid raging strife. The river shouts its mighty
battle-song; the palms wave back an answer of peace. A worthier place
could scarcely be found for the worship of the great god to whom it was
dedicated. Amid such solitude, and in such an environment, the spirit
of the youths whom the wise priests taught must surely have found both
nurture and life, must surely have turned to what is high and holy,
have recognized the kernel within the sensory symbolism of their cult,
and have beheld the veiled image of Sais.
In the sacred trinity--Isis, Osiris, and Horus--to whom the temple of
Philæ was dedicated, Isis stood supreme. “Isis, the great goddess, the
queen of heaven, sovereign of all gods and goddesses, who with her son
Horus and her brother Osiris is worshipped in every city; the exalted,
divine mother, the spouse of Osiris, she is the queen of Philæ.” Such
is the tenor of the inscriptions in the temple itself. But records in
all the different kinds of writing that were in use at various epochs
of Egyptian history tell also of the changes which have befallen the
temple in the course of ages, down to the time when the Christian
priests, who had succeeded the servants of Isis, were driven from the
sanctuary by hordes of immigrant Arabs.
To-day the greater part of Philæ is in ruins. Instead of the
solemn chant of the priests, one hears only the simple song of the
desert-lark; but the waves of the stream still roar in their strength
as they did thousands of years ago. The island is desolate, but the
peace of the temple has remained to it. And, in spite of all changes,
island and temple are still the jewel of the first cataract.[78]
For some distance upwards from this point the Nile is free from
rocks, yet quite incapable of bestowing its blessing upon the shore.
Laboriously man endeavours to force from the stream what is elsewhere
so lavishly bestowed. Wheel after wheel creaks as it raises the
life-giving water to the narrow fringe of cultivation along the banks.
But in most places the desert and the rocks press so closely on the
river that no space is left for field or grove of palms. For long
stretches one sees nothing but stunted weeds, between which the yellow
drift-sand rolls ceaselessly down, as though it would help the desert
even here to a victory over the sacred giver of fruitful land.
To the south of Wady Halfa, the most southern village of the tract
above mentioned, the stream again rages among impeding rocky islands.
Countless masses of stone, blocks and cones of rock, compel the river
to divide its forces; the eye is bewildered by a chaos of rock and
water, the like of which is to be seen nowhere else. When the water
is high, the roar of the waves whirling and surging between the rocks
drowns the human voice; the river rumbles and thunders, rages and
blusters, dashes and hisses, so that the very rocks appear to quake.
Beyond the rapids and whirlpools, which at this point are almost
continuous, the full-swollen Nile lies like a broad, calm lake; but
this pleasant picture, enhanced by the presence of several green
islands, is circumscribed by narrow limits. For, further up, the bed of
the stream is again divided by countless rocky islands, which mark the
beginning of the “Batte el Hadjar”, or “rocky valley” of the boatmen,
in which lie no less than ten considerable rapids. It is by far the
dreariest region in Nubia, or in the whole Nile valley. From the river
there is usually nothing to be seen but sky and water, rock and sand.
The rocks rise steeply, sometimes almost vertically, on either bank,
and between them and the countless islands the Nile is so cooped up
that during its flood-time it reaches a height of 40 to 50 feet above
its lowest level.
The rocky banks of the stream are as smooth as if they had been
polished; they gleam and glow by day as if they had just left the
earth’s fiery interior. The beneficent stream rushes over them,
leaving scarcely a trace behind; indeed, only in a very few places
can it possibly exercise its prerogative of blessing. Here and there,
in receding creeks, or behind projecting bastions, which divert the
violent current, the river deposits its fertile mud and may carry a
few seeds to a resting-place. Then, even in this wilderness, there
is germination and growth, foliage and flowers. On all the islands
in whose rocky clefts mud has been caught and kept, and in all the
inlets which the current does not sweep, there is a growth of willows
and scattered mimosas, evidences of life in the realm of death. When
a willow has found a foothold it sends out root after root, shoot
after shoot, and soon the naked ground is clothed in enlivening green.
While the water is low the willows gradually spread; when the flood
comes the waves roll over both island and willow-beds. Higher and
higher rises the stream, fiercer and stronger press the waves; the
willows bow before them, but keep firm hold of the rocks. For months
the flood buries them, all but a few twigs which project above the
boiling, hissing waves; yet the roots hold fast, and the shrubs sprout
with renewed vigour as soon as the flood subsides. In such pleasant
spots, amid the dreary waste, signs of animal life are to be seen,
as in some other parts of the Nile valley. Here and there among the
willows a pair of Nile-geese have settled, lively and clamorous; on the
rock above, the pretty water-wagtail has made its home; from the shore
cliffs sounds the song of the blue rock-thrush or the black wheatear;
on the blossoming mimosas a gorgeous sun-bird--the first tropical bird
one meets--is busily at work; and now and then one may come upon a
flock of pretty little rock-partridges. These, and a few others, form
the sparse fauna of the rocky valley, but during the migrating season
they are often joined by large flocks of birds, who make the course
of the stream their highway to the interior, and rest here and there
on the journey. But they hasten on again at their utmost speed, since
the rocky valley is incapable of supporting them even for a few days;
indeed, it is often difficult to understand where they find their daily
bread.
But these are not the only settlers in this wilderness of waters. Even
men are able to find a home here. At intervals of a mile or more one
comes upon a miserable straw hut, in which a Nubian and his family eke
out a meagre subsistence. A small creek between the precipices on the
shore filled with fertile mud, or it may be only a deposit of mud upon
the rocks themselves, forms the paltry farm which he cultivates. The
owner of a creek is rich compared with his poor neighbour who can call
himself master only of a mere mud-bed. At the risk of his life the
latter swims to spots which are inaccessible on foot, and sows some
beans on the mud-plot from which the falling stream has just receded.
Some days later, when the river has sunk still lower, he repeats his
visit and his sowing operations, and so proceeds on the parts of the
mud-bank successively uncovered as long as the river continues to
fall. Thus at such places one sees fields of beans at all stages of
growth, becoming broader as the water sinks; and the frugal husbandman
is engaged at once with sowing and reaping. In the most favourable
circumstances a deeply receding inlet, filled with Nile mud, makes it
possible for the farmer to erect a water-wheel and to irrigate a field
a few acres in extent. The fortunate possessor is then able to keep a
cow, and to live at least in tolerable comfort, although he is still so
poor that even the Egyptian government does not venture to burden him
with taxes. But such places are rare oases in this forbidding waste.
The boatman, fighting his way up-stream, welcomes every bush; he greets
a palm-tree with manifest joy, a bean-field, perhaps hoped for all day
long, with exultation, a water-wheel with thanks to the All-merciful.
For it is not merely that his bold spirit has learned to know fear in
this valley of rocks, but also because he knows well that, should his
supply of provisions fail, bitter want would befall him, and starvation
stare him in the face. Down-stream the well-steered boat speeds rapidly
through this land of desolation and poverty; but sailing up-stream it
often lies, as if spell-bound, for hours, or even days, at a time,
waiting for a favourable wind, sheltered by a rock from the force of a
rapid. The boatman, who becomes “sea-sick” with the incessant rocking
of his craft, may roam or swim for miles without coming upon men or
fields.
[Illustration: Fig. 54.--An Egyptian _Sakieh_ or Water-wheel.]
At its southern limit the rocky valley passes almost abruptly into the
fertile country of middle Nubia. Before the traveller lies a narrow
basin shut in by two deserts, and with several large islands in its
midst. The basin is filled with mud, and of this the islands are
composed. Though we do not yet find all the wealth of tropical life,
there are hints of it in the freshness and vigour of both fauna and
flora. Almost continuous palm-groves, in which ripen the most delicious
dates in the world, border this pleasant oasis in which the labours
of the husbandman are rewarded by rich harvests. Christ-thorns and
various mimosas, not hitherto seen, give evidence that we have crossed
the equator. Besides the sun-bird already mentioned, there are now
other birds characteristic of the interior of Africa. In the first
dhurra-field which one carefully observes, the eyes are gladdened by
a sight of the fiery weaver-bird, as beautiful as it is agile, which
has its home among the stems, and from time to time appears like a
flash of fire on the top of an ear, uttering from this perch its simple
whirring and buzzing song, and inciting others of its kind to a like
display. In the holes and crevices of the mud-huts other members of the
family, especially steel-finches and blood-finches, have established
themselves; in the gardens round the houses the cape-pigeons have
settled; on the sand-banks in the stream have been hollowed out the
shallow mud-nests of the shear-waters or skimmers--night-terns, of
peculiar habit, who do not begin to seek their prey until the twilight,
and fish, not by diving, but by skimming over the waves and rapidly
ploughing the water with their bills, thus catching small creatures
which swim on or near the surface.