up-stream at middle and low water._ When the Nile is lowest any boat
going down-stream would be shattered; when the flood comes not even
the largest sail would impel a vessel of considerable size against the
current. At low water hundreds of men are requisitioned to haul one
of the all-powerful government’s medium-sized barks up-stream; at the
time of flood, they would scarcely be able to find footing on the few
unflooded rock-islands on either side of the navigable channel. Full
flood is the best time for going down-stream, and middle-water is best
for going up, since at this time the regular north winds have set in
and render practicable the use of sails.
All the craft specially intended for the rapids are distinguished from
other Nile boats by their small size and by peculiarities of build
and of rigging. The hull has but few timbers, and the boards are held
together by nails driven in obliquely. The sail is not triangular, but
four-sided, and fastened to two yards in such a way that from the lower
more or less canvas can be unfurled, or spread to the wind. The build
and rigging are thoroughly adapted to the conditions. The smallness,
especially the shortness of the boat, is adapted to the necessity for
sharp turnings; the manner in which the boards are joined gives the
hull an elastic flexibility and pliancy which are valuable when the
vessel runs aground; the adaptability of the canvas to the strength
of the wind and of the current makes it possible to maintain a fairly
successful contest against a most variable resistance. Nevertheless
no one would willingly go up or down stream alone; the boatmen wisely
prefer to go in companies, so that they may aid one another whenever
occasion demands.
A fleet of boats plying up-stream presents a beautiful, inspiring
picture as it sails away from a landing-place, or from some quiet
creek, in which it has rested by night. All the navigable portions
of the river show white sails, of which one can see twenty or more
gliding among the dark rocks; at first all the craft are about the
same distance apart, but soon the variable currents and breezes break
their order. One and then another lags farther and farther behind, one
and then another shoots ahead of the main body of the fleet, and in
the course of an hour there is a wide interval between the first boat
and the last. Yet, even with a strong and constant wind, the progress
of the voyage is much less than it seems. The waves, indeed, break
impetuously on the bow, but the boat has to contend with so strong an
opposing current that its forward movement is really slow. It is an art
to steer under such conditions, so that the boat may sail as straight
as possible, consistent with avoiding the rocks hidden beneath the
surface. For every tack means a change in the position of the unwieldy
sail, and every time the boat touches a rock a leak is caused. Captain
and crew have thus constant employment. Yet their work only begins
in earnest when they near one of the countless rapids which have to
be overcome. The sail, hitherto but partially unfurled, is now given
fully to the wind; the bark pushes its way like a strong steamship
through the chaos of rocks and reaches the whirlpool which is found
beneath almost all rapids. All the men stand with oars outstretched
and ropes in readiness, awaiting the inevitable moment when the boat
will be gripped by the whirlpool and drawn into its vortex. At the
skipper’s bidding the oars on one side dip into the water, on the
other side long poles are thrust out to keep the boat off the rocks,
while the sail, skilfully handled by the most experienced sailors, is
taken in or let out, turned and twisted, as the circumstances demand.
Once, twice, six times, ten times, they try in vain to cut through the
whirlpool; at last they succeed and the boat reaches the lower end of
the water-rush. But here it stops as if spell-bound; the pressure of
the current equals that on the sails. The wind rises, and the vessel
moves on a few yards; the pressure on the sail slackens again, and the
waves drive it back to its former place. The contest with the whirling
waves recommences, and again the boat is worsted. At last it reaches
the desired goal, and must hold to it. One of the crew grips a rope in
his teeth, plunges into the midst of the wild surge, and dragging the
heavy rope behind him seeks to gain a rock which rises above the raging
waves some little distance ahead. The waves hurl him back, cover and
overwhelm him, but he continues his efforts, until it becomes plain
that he must yield to the superior force of the stream. He gives up the
struggle and is pulled by the rope back to the boat. Again the whirling
waves, so strong to destroy, play with the frail structure which
ventures to oppose them; and at last the wind gives the victory to the
boat. But suddenly a portentous crash is heard; the steersman loses his
footing and is projected into the stream; the boat has struck on one
of the hidden rocks. With the utmost speed one of the crew gets hold
of the rudder, a second throws a rope and a bladder to the struggling
steersman, and without a moment’s delay the rest jump into the hold,
and with hammer, chisel, and tow seek to repair the leak which they
are sure to find. The man at the rudder endeavours to save the vessel
from further mischance; the drenched steersman clambers up with an “_El
hamdi lillahi!_” or “Thank God!” more grumbling than grateful; the rest
hammer and plug the gaping leak, one even surrendering his shirt to eke
out the scanty tow. Once more the boat sails through whirl and wave,
rocking, creaking, groaning like a storm-tossed ship; once more it
reaches the rapids; once more it is arrested between wind and current.
Two sailors spring overboard at once, and, fighting against the stream
with all their strength, at last succeed in gaining the rock. They
surround it with one end of the rope and signal to the others to pull
the boat up. This done, the vessel is moored to the rock, and there it
hangs in the midst of the wild rush of waters, rocking so violently
and continuously that it causes nausea. A second boat draws near and
asks for assistance. A rope is floated down on a bladder, and thus
time and trouble are saved. Soon the second also reaches the rock, a
third follows, and a fourth, and all dance up and down together in
the tumult. And now the united strength of the crews is sufficient to
effect a successful passage. One of the boats is manned with double the
normal crew; the other boatmen swim, and wade, and climb, dragging the
rope to another rock further ahead, and, with all the help that the
sail can give, one boat after another is pulled through the rushing
waters of the rapid. Now and then at certain places the sail alone is
sufficient to carry the boat up, but in such cases a lull of the wind
not unfrequently endangers both craft and crew. Often, too, boats are
forced to linger in the midst of the tumult for hours or even days,
waiting for a favourable wind. Then one may see a tiny bark hanging
behind every jagged rock, all alike unable to help their neighbours.
Several times I have been forced to make my bed on one of the black
rocks amid-stream, for the violent rocking of the boat in the rapids
made sleep an impossibility. A stranger sleeping-place can scarcely
be imagined. The ground on which one lies seems to tremble before
the assaults of the flood; the roaring and bellowing, hissing and
splashing, rumbling and thundering of the waves drowns every other
sound; one sits or lies on a rug with his comrades without uttering a
word. Every blast of wind drives the spray like a fleeting mist across
the rock island. The glowing camp-fire throws a weird light on the
rock, and on the dark water foaming around its ragged edges; the falls
and whirlpools in the shade seem even more gruesome than they are. At
times one cannot help fancying that they open a hundred jaws to engulf
the poor child of man. But his confidence is firm as the rock on which
he rests. The mighty stream may thunder as it will, the seething waves
may rage and foam, he is safe on a rock which has defied the flood for
ages. But what if the rope break, and the boat be hurled and shattered
on the nearest rocks? Then another will come to take the shipwrecked
crew ashore! In spite of these and similar thoughts, and in spite of
the ceaseless roar, the traveller can sleep, and sleep tranquilly
too. For danger lends courage, and courage brings confidence, and the
thunder of the waves becomes at length a lullaby to the wearied ear.
And on the ensuing morning what an awakening! In the east the sky is
suffused with red, the ancient giant-rocks wear a purple cloak on
their shoulders, and shine in gleaming light, as if they were clad
in burnished steel. Sunshine and shadow flit over the dark reefs and
through the gullies filled with golden-yellow sand, and over all is
thrown the marvellous, indescribably beautiful, colour-garment of the
desert. Thousands and thousands of water-pearls shine and sparkle,
and the mighty river rolls out its mighty melody, which is ever the
same and yet eternally new. Such a glory, such a harmony, fills the
heart with contentment and rapture. The morning is spent in devotional
contemplation of this glorious spectacle, for it is not till forenoon
that the wind begins to blow from the north and fill the sails. Work
and danger, toil and struggle, hazard and anxiety, begin anew; and thus
one day follows another, and rapid after rapid is at length overcome.
The voyage up-stream is dangerous and tedious; the voyage down-stream
has no parallel in perilousness, such a mad rush is it through flood
and rapid, whirlpool and eddy, cataract and gorge,--an exciting game in
which life is the stake.
Voyages down-stream through the region of the rapids are only
undertaken by the special boats which are made for the purpose in the
Soudan. About ten per cent are smashed on the voyage, and that the
percentage of deaths is not equally high is simply due to the matchless
swimming powers of the Nubian boatmen. Even when they are dashed by the
waves against a rock they do not always drown; usually they are like
ducks in the water, and reach the shore in safety.
Let me try to give a faithful picture of one of these down-stream
voyages.
Six new boats, built of the much-prized heavy mimosa-wood which sinks
in water, are moored to the shore at the southern limit of the third
group of rapids. The men who compose their crews are lying on sandy
places between the black rocks, where they have spent the night. It is
still early morning and the camp is quiet; only the river roars and
murmurs in the solitude. As day dawns the sleepers awake; one after
another descends to the stream, and performs the ablutions ordained to
accompany morning prayer. After the prescribed prayer has been uttered
from “preface” to “conclusion”, they refresh themselves with a frugal
breakfast. Then old and young betake themselves to the tomb of a sheikh
or saint, whose white dome gleams among the light-green mimosas, there
to offer a special petition for a fortunate voyage. In this they are
led by the eldest _Reis_, or steersman, who represents the Imam.
Returning to the river, they observe an ancient heathen custom of
throwing some dates, as an offering, into the waves.
At length each skipper orders his men to their posts. “Let go the sail!
Row, men, row--row in the name of God, the All-Merciful,” he shouts.
Thereupon he strikes up a song, with an ever-recurring refrain; one of
the rowers takes it up and sings verse after verse; and all the rest
accompany him with the rhythmically repeated words: “Help us, help us,
O Mohammed, help us, God’s messenger and prophet!”
Slowly the bark gains the middle of the stream; quicker and ever
quicker it glides onwards; in a few minutes it is rushing, more swiftly
than ever, among the rocky islands above the rapid. “O Said, give us
good cheer,” says the Reis, while the sailors go on singing as before.
More and more quickly the oars dip into the turbid flood; the men,
who were freshly anointed yesterday, are naked to the loins, and the
sweat pours down their bodies as they strain every muscle. Praise and
blame, flattery and reproaches, promises and threats, blessings and
curses, fall from the skipper’s mouth according as the boat fulfils
or disappoints his wishes. The strokes of the oars, pulled at full
strength, follow each other more quickly still, though their purpose is
solely to direct the otherwise exceedingly rapid course of the boat,
and, as they often increase the danger they seek to avoid, the Reis may
be excused if he exhausts all the hortatory vocabulary at his command
in his desire to stimulate his crew. “Bend to your oars; work, work,
my sons: show your strength, ye children and grandchildren of heroes;
display your prowess, ye brave; exert your strength, ye giants; do
honour to the prophet, all ye faithful! Oh, for the _merieza_! Oh,
for the scented damsels of Dongola! Oh, for the delights of Cairo;
all shall be yours. Larboard, I say, ye dogs, ye children of dogs,
ye grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and litter of dogs, ye
Christians, ye heathen, ye Jews, ye Kaffres, ye fire-worshippers. Ah!
ye rascals, ye swindlers, ye thieves, ye villains, ye vagabonds, do
you call this rowing? First oar, starboard! are there women hanging
about you? Third oar, larboard! throw overboard the weaklings who are
misleading you. That’s right, well done; bravo, ye strong, supple,
clever youths; God bless you, brave fellows, and give your fathers joy
and your children His blessing. Better, better, better yet, ye cowards,
ye strengthless, ye sapless, ye miserable, ye pitiable--Allah damn you
all in His righteous wrath, ye--ye--Help us, help us, O Mohammed.” Such
is the torrent which rushes uninterruptedly from the skipper’s lips,
and all his commands and cries, entreaties and execrations, are uttered
with the utmost seriousness, and enforced with appropriate gestures of
hand, and foot, and head.
[Illustration: Fig. 57.--A Passage through the Nile Rapids.]
The boat sweeps into the first part of the rapid. The rocks on both
sides seem to whirl round; the surge floods the deck, and its thunder
drowns every order. Unresisting the frail craft is borne towards a
neck of rock--fear, anxiety, dismay may be read on every face, but
there--the dreaded spot is already behind the stern, the foaming
backwash has saved the imperilled boat, only a couple of oars have
been shivered like thin glass. Their loss hinders the right management
of the bark, and it sweeps on without answering to the rudder, on to
a formidable waterfall. A general cry, expressing horror and despair;
a sign from the Reis standing in the bow with trembling knees, and
all throw themselves flat on the deck, and hold on like grim death; a
deafening crash and an overwhelming rush of hissing, gurgling waves;
for the space of a moment nothing but water, and then the boat gives
a leap upward; they have passed the cataract and escaped the jaws
of death. “El hamdi lillahi!” (God be thanked) rings out from every
breast; some hurry to the hold to find the leak and plug it, others lay
out new oars, and on they go.
Behind the first boat comes a second, hurrying through the dangerous
rapid. The oarsmen are labouring with extraordinary, ever-accelerating
velocity; then, suddenly, all are thrown prostrate, all but one, who
describes a high curve through the air into the river. He seems lost,
buried in the raging depth; but no, while his comrades wring their
hands in dismay, the matchless swimmer appears on the surface in the
middle of the foaming whirlpool beneath the rapid. As a third boat
shoots past the second, which has stuck on a rock, and reaches the
whirlpool, the swimmer catches one of the oars, swings himself cleverly
on board, and is saved. A fourth boat also hurries past; the beseeching
gestures from the crew of the second boat implore for help; but a hand
raised to heaven is the only answer. In truth, no human help could be
given, for no craft is here under man’s control; the stream itself must
help, if it will not destroy,--and it does help. The boat oscillates
violently on the rock; its prow and stern dip deep in the water; but
suddenly there is a whirl, and once more it is borne on through the
surging current. Some of the crew row, others bale out the water, as
do two women journeying with them, others hammer, and plug, and caulk
in the attempt to repair the damage done. Half-full of water, scarce
keeping afloat at all, the boat reaches the shore and is emptied of her
cargo. But half of this, consisting of gum-arabic, is spoilt, and the
owner, a poor merchant, tears his beard, moaning, lamenting, weeping,
and cursing the two women passengers. The two women are to blame for
all. How could they, who brought ruin to the first man in paradise,
bring any blessing to faithful Mussulmans? Woe, woe upon the women and
all their kind!
Next day the bark is repaired, new caulked, and reloaded; it speeds on
with the rest to the next rapids, passes through these without further
mischance, and reaches the fertile valley of middle Nubia, which is
free from rocks and gives a hospitable welcome to every voyager. The
cares, lately so grievous, are as soon forgotten; like children, the
brown men laugh and joke, and drink with content great draughts of palm
wine and _merieza_. Much too quickly for their taste does the stream
bear the boat through this happy land.
Again the desert spreads its golden-yellow sand over the rocky banks;
again rocky islands narrow, divide, and impede the river; the barks are
entering the second group of rapids. One after another the dangerous
currents, the dreaded whirlpools, the perilous straits and corners, are
safely passed and left behind; only the last and wildest of the rapids
lie between the boats and the palmy Wady Halfa. And below that village
all is smooth sailing except at one place below Philæ, where the river
is once more broken up by rocks. Above these last rapids--Gaskol,
Moedyana, Abu-sir, and Hambol--which are truly dreadful, the boats seek
for a quiet bay; and here all encamp to gain strength for the work and
warfare, cares and trials of the coming day. The northerners also enjoy
the prospect of a quiet night’s rest.
Night draws its veil over the desert land. The rushing waves thunder
in the rocky valley; the stars are reflected in the peaceful creek;
the blossoming mimosas make the shore fragrant. An old gray-haired
Reis, born and bred among the rapids, approaches the strangers from the
north. A snow-white beard ennobles his impressive features; his flowing
cloak suggests a priest’s robe. “Sons of strangers,” he says, “men from
the land of the Franks, difficult things have ye overcome along with
us, but there is harder still before you. I am a child of this land,
seventy years has the sun shone upon me, and at last he has whitened my
hair: I am an old man, and ye might be my children. Therefore take ye
heed to my warning, and draw back from what ye propose--to accompany
us on the morrow. Witless ye go to the danger, but I know it. Had ye
seen, as I have seen, those rocks which bar the way of the waves; did
ye know, as I know, how these waves storm and rage for entrance and
passage, how they overwhelm the rocks, and hurl themselves roaring into
the depths below, ye would see that only the grace of God, whom we
praise and glorify, can guide our poor boat aright, ye would yield to
me. Would not the heart of your mother break should the All-merciful
refuse us His compassion? Ye will not stay? Then may the grace of the
Father of mercies be with us all.”
Before sunrise the shore becomes a scene of activity. Devoutly as
before the boatmen offer the prayer of the dawn. Serious, experienced
steersmen, who know the river well, and young, strong-limbed,
adventurous oarsmen, offer their services to the ancient. Carefully he
chooses the most skilful steersmen and the strongest oarsmen; he sets
three men to the rudder; and then he gives orders to start. “Men and
sons of the land, children of the river, pray the Fatiha,” he orders.
And all repeat the words of the first Sura of the Koran. “Praise and
honour to the Lord of the world, the All-merciful, He who ruleth at
the day of judgment. Thee would we serve, to Thee would we pray, that
Thou wouldest guide us in the way that is right, in the way of those
who enjoy Thy favour, and not in the way of those with whom Thou art
displeased.” “Amen, my children, in the name of the All-merciful! Let
go the sail, and bend to the oars.” With rhythmic stroke these dip into
the water.
Slowly the pent-up stream bears the boat towards the first rapid.
Again, as it nears the rocks, the boat refuses to obey either rudder
or oars, but creaking and groaning in every joint, it rushes through
the overwhelming waves and boiling foam, through eddy and whirlpool,
through narrow channels and abruptly-winding courses, drenched and
flooded with water, shaving rocky corners by an arm’s-length, almost
touching the teeth of hidden reefs. On it rushes to the second rapid.
From the height of the cataract the eye looks down with dismay at the
dreadful violence of the torrent, and one sees at the lower end of
the rapid a round block of rock surrounded by foaming waves as if it
were the head of a white-haired giant rising above the surface. Like
an arrow to its mark our fragile ungovernable boat rushes towards this
giant’s head. “In the name of the All-merciful, row, row, ye men,
ye strong, brave, noble men, ye children of the stream!” cries the
steersman. “Larboard, larboard the rudder with all your strength!”
But the boat answers neither to oars nor to rudder. It is not indeed
the giant block which endangers the craft, but a narrow channel to
the starboard into which we are swept and in which we are hurried on
towards a labyrinth of rocks through which no possible pathway can
be seen. The men already leave their oars, and throw off any clothes
they have on, so that they may be unhampered in swimming. A fearful
crash turns all eyes backward: the giant’s head has caught the next
boat, which was longer and less pliant, and holds it oscillating over
the seething flood. This increases the dismay. All our men regard the
crew of the second boat as doomed, and as for themselves they prepare
to plunge into the torrent. Then the voice of the ancient pilot rings
out sharp and clear: “Are ye mad, are ye God-forsaken, ye children
of heathen? Work, work, ye boys, ye men, ye heroes, ye giants, ye
faithful! In the hand of the Almighty rests all power and strength;
give Him the glory, and bend to your oars, ye sons of heroes!” And he
himself takes the rudder, and in a few minutes directs the misguided
boat from the “way of sinners” into the “right way”. One boat after
another appears in the open water: but not all. The giant’s head
still bears his victim, and will most likely bear it until next
year’s flood. The ill-fated boat with the women on board was shivered
to pieces at the uppermost of this group of rapids. With the crews,
happily saved, the skipper prays, as he did before departure, “Glory
and honour to the Lord of the World.”
Before the village of Wady Halfa, overshadowed with palms, the boats
are moored; the men have gone ashore, and lie in picturesque groups
around the camp-fire. Big-bellied flagons, filled with _merieza_,
invite the thirsty; in other vessels the flesh of new-killed sheep is
boiling under the care of women and girls who have quickly gathered
round. Reeking of castor-oil, they are by no means welcome visitors to
Europeans. The notes of the zither and the beating of the drum announce
the beginning of the “fantasia”, the feast and the revel. Unutterable
comfort takes possession of the boatman’s heart, joyous contentment is
expressed in every look and gesture. At length, however, the inevitable
fatigue after the heavy anxious work of the day asserts itself. The
tarabuka sinks from the wearied arm, the tambura falls from sleepy
fingers, and all the voices, which but a few moments ago were so loud,
become silent.