* * * * *
“I’ll tell you a story
Of Jack and Manory.”
* * * * *
FROM OM-BADR TO KARNAC.
A rough journey. — A shot at an ostrich. — Mohommed Gadderâb. — Mohommed
Rhanem. — A strange story. — A narrow escape. — Karnac. — The school. —
The tame ostrich. — Cultivation.
ON the morning of March 7th we continued our journey in two sections,
each on its way to meet again at Orgoodt, where the routes join.
The Wady Milkh may correctly be described as beginning in the plain
opposite Om-Badr. Three valleys here unite to form it: the “Wady Amees”
from the south, the “Wady Zancore” from the south-west, and the “Wady
Arredeeb” from the west. Two ranges of rocks, the Zancore on the east,
and the Zayenat on the west, divide the central of these valleys from
the other two, which are of less importance than the Wady Zancore, and
rise only ten or fifteen miles before the junction of them all three
takes place.
The route I followed with my companion skirted the northern slope of the
Zayenat, and the other section travelled by Fogah, Mushanger, and
Massarah.
On our left was the range of rocks, varying from five to ten miles in
width and from one hundred to four hundred feet in general height, and
broken up into a thousand beautiful and fantastic shapes. Seven lofty
summits, Zaint Om-Badr, Zaint Anooba, Zaint er Rhannam, Zaint Atshan,
Zaint es Semhah, Zaint Om-Sharb, and Zaint Adderb or Megzaam, each about
a thousand feet high, nearly equi-distant, and closely resembling each
other in appearance, form a very imposing feature in the landscape, and
give the name to the Zayenat range, which terminates in the last-named
mountain, and joins the Seroog range, a continuation of the Zancore, at
a distance of about forty-five miles from Om-Badr. At the top of Zaint
Atshan is a natural reservoir, whence the name of the mountain, “Atshan”
or “thirsty.” It fills during the rains, and the water lasts for some
time after, and is frequently resorted to by the cattle and camels
feeding at that season in the Wady Zancore, whence it is easily
approachable.
On my right, after we had crossed the Wady Arredeeb, stretched, as far
as we could see, a rough expanse of country, intersected by numerous low
ridges of granite and quartz, and broken up by as many “khors,” or dry
watercourses, with directions towards every point of the compass, and
leading nowhere but into the sand. All this ground was pretty thickly
covered with mimosas of various kinds, the “kitter” with its claw-like
thorns being the most plentiful. On the sides of some of the larger
“khors,” where the brown bushes were thickest, a solitary “ziraffa” tree
sometimes reared its pale green head, or a small cluster of leafless
“gangalooses,” though of stunted growth, towered higher still, and
somewhat broke the monotonous and ugly evenness.
Our journey over this part of the route was slow. To avoid the almost
impassable bush below, the caravan travelled, when possible, on the
stony slopes of the rocks where, however, the bushes were perhaps only a
little less dense. When a descent was unavoidable, which was not seldom
the case, many a load was dragged by the interlaced branches from the
camels’ backs, causing delay and serious damage; and, what was worse,
many a water-skin was torn and the precious contents lost. The camels
suffered much, many from sore feet, many from lacerated sides, but all
went on unmurmuringly. Not so the drivers, who, though they took care of
their own skins, growled at the injury done to their water-skins. The
loss of the water itself they did not care for, they helped themselves
to that which was in our tins. As they were thirsty, it was under the
circumstances, perhaps, pardonable. I was not sorry when on the morning
of the fourth day we reached the camel-track from Fogah to Karnac—the
first sign of a camel-track we had seen since our departure from Old
Dongola.
Late in the afternoon of the second day of this journey, while in the
neighbourhood of Zaint Atshan, we saw, about three hundred yards off,
two stately full-grown ostriches walking slowly, side by side, in the
sandy bed of one of the numerous “khors.”
My companion stalked them to within about a hundred and fifty yards and
fired. The shot was a fraction of a second too late; they saw him, and
away they went, running, leaping, flapping their wings, stumbling
blindly against the trees, falling down, standing for a moment still,
then rushing off in another direction, and sometimes making directly for
us, when, discovering their mistake, they would turn and go off again
faster and more madly than ever, jumping over the bushes and rolling
over each other as they fell on the other side. I watched them for a
long time, during which they never ceased their wild and headlong
flight, and they were only hidden from my view when the horizontal rays
fell directly on their path, which was towards the setting sun.
From a professed ostrich-hunter whom I afterwards met at El Fasher, I
learned that these birds when first scared shut their eyes and run in
any direction, sometimes even towards the object of their dread,
stumbling over anything that may be in their way, and that when after a
short time they partially recover their scattered senses, and open their
eyes, they invariably make for some prominent object, such as a mountain
or a tree, or often towards the sun when near the horizon; something
seems to be necessary for them on which to fix their eyes to enable them
to keep anything like a direct line. This circumstance is taken
advantage of by the hunters, who, if in the open country there is
nothing likely to afford a guide for the birds on which to direct their
flight, will erect some striking-looking object for the purpose, where
some of the hunting party, concealed near it, make an easy bag of the
valuable prey.
The camel-track was well trodden and, though in parts not quite free
from “kitter” bushes and larger trees, had evidently been used from time
immemorial. It lay through that part of the country where the vegetation
was densest, and on each of its sides the trees and scrub formed an
almost impenetrable wall. Only at occasional intervals could anything of
the surrounding country be seen, and I was forced, for hours together,
to give up all idea of making sketches, and walked my camel slowly
behind those of the guide and lunch soldier, who rode side by side and
chatted as they went.
Each of these men was, in his way, a character. Mohommed Gadderâb, the
guide, was of the Khabbabbeesh tribe, and a settler on the banks of the
Nile not far from Old Dongola, where he possessed a little land, a small
house, a wife, and two little girls, three cows, a few sheep, and a
mother who looked after the wife and children, and was responsible to
him for their proper behaviour during his absence. In addition to these
evidences of prosperity he owned some ten or twelve camels, which we had
hired of him for the journey to El Fasher, and for which he received a
little extra pay in consideration of his knowing the road and serving as
guide. Unlike the generality of Arabs, who wear their heads bare, he
wore a date basket tied by the handles under the chin with a rope not
less than half an inch in diameter; the long ends were thrown over his
shoulders, and mingled gracefully with the folds of his drapery. The
object of this head-dress was not protection from the sun, but to keep
his head warm and to prevent him from catching cold. He suffered much
from an ominous consumptive cough, and seemed to know that he was not
long for this world, for when on our return to Old Dongola after the
work was done, I expressed a hope that we should see each other again at
some unknown future time, he pointed to the graves on the borders of the
desert, and said: “You must go and look for me there.” He was very
intelligent, faithful, honest, and regular in his devotions. Each
morning, when he came to my tent with the riding-camels ready to start,
his forehead was marked with a patch of sand about the size of half-a-
crown, showing that he had prayed and had bowed his head down to the
very earth in strict obedience to the injunctions of his Prophet. He had
only once before made the journey from Old Dongola to El Fasher, and
although the route was often very intricate, he was never at fault. He
knew the names not only of the districts and principal mountain ranges
and valleys, but of nearly every single hill possessed of a designation
at all, and when it had none, did not obligingly invent one for it, as
guides often do, probably thinking that one name is as good as another.
Mohommed Rhannem, as far as intelligence was concerned, was a complete
contrast to the guide, and for dull stolid stupidity, without doing any
injustice to my numerous friends and acquaintances, I may indisputably
award him the first place. To say he was dishonest would be a wide
departure from the truth, but to call him an honest man, in the active
sense of the word “honest,” would be almost as absurd as to speak of an
honest ostrich, an honest mule, or an honest camel. Similarly he was
faithful only in the sense of not being faithless. In addition to these
estimable qualities he possessed a remarkable fondness for hearing
himself talk, and the channel in which his loquacity usually flowed was
the narration of stories, partly imagined, partly remembered, and wholly
absurd. In camp or on his journey he would seek out an audience, whether
of twenty or thirty or of one only was to him immaterial; he would then
commence a narrative as interminable as it was inconsistent, until he
got so inextricably mixed up that he was fain to leave off suddenly and
commence another, equally confused and ridiculous.
On the present occasion, as I rode behind him and the guide, he was as
usual telling a story to which the guide listened and put an occasional
question when the subject interested him, and to which I, having nothing
better to do, listened too. The story went something like this:—
“A very great number of years ago”—
“How many?”
“A million—there lived a great and glorious Sultan.”
“Where?”
“Perhaps Cairo. He had many wives.”
“How many?”
“Four thousand.” Here he commenced giving their names, and had
enumerated about a dozen when the guide told him to go on with the
story.
“Many as were his wives he had more children still given to him by
Allah, and slaves from all parts of the world to serve him and his wives
and his children.”
“Go on.”
“Some of the children were boys and some were girls; the boys were all
strong and warlike, and the girls beautiful, and married to kings who
were subjects of the great Sultan. Numerous as were his children, they
were not to be compared in numbers with his army, which marched
conquering over all the earth. It was armed with cannons and rifles, and
none of the Christian nations could stand against it.”
Here there was an interruption of the story. Mohammed Rhannem leant over
the camel and unstrapped the Remington rifle slung at its side, inserted
a cartridge, and proceeded to explain the superiority of the breech-
loading system, and finished by handing it over to the guide to examine
and approve of. The latter handled the weapon in such an extraordinary
manner that I began to be afraid lest some accident should occur, and
shouted:
“Take care, O foolish son of a mad buffalo.”
The soldier snatched the rifle from him, and turning sharply round fired
it off without looking. The ball passed within six inches, more or less,
of my helmet, and indisposed me to listen to any more of the story.
After using some language which, until quite recent times, would have
been considered unparliamentary, and which moreover the soldier could
not understand, I ordered him off his camel and told him to serve up
lunch.
During lunch and afterwards the story went on, mixed up with a thousand
extraneous and incongruous incidents. It seemed to resolve itself into
a history of the Crimean war from a Mohommedan point of view. Three
Christian vassal-states helped the Sultan to chastise a fourth, who was
rebellious and insolent. The chastisement completed, the tribute
reimposed and the rejoicings finished, the faithful vassal states were
suitably rewarded, and to each of their loyal rulers presents were
sent—twenty of the most beautiful wives of the great, good, wise and
powerful Sultan. One of the states being, however, ruled by a queen,
the twenty wives were presented to her Grand Vizier. I could scarcely
help smiling at this extraordinary termination. As Lord Palmerston was
Premier at that time, I suppose the twenty beautiful ladies fell to his
envied lot, and, from his well-known generosity, have no doubt that he
distributed them fairly amongst his successful commanders in the field
and the members of his cabinet who aided him in his war against Holy
Russia for the benefit of the “irreclaimable and unspeakable Turk.” I
sincerely trust all these recipients of his bounty may live long to
enjoy his gift.
After two or three hours’ journey on the morning of the 11th, we
reached Karnac, the first village we had yet come to which contained a
settled population. We were all, more or less, in a state of
dilapidation. I especially had not escaped. My camel, a half-bred
“hygeem,” irritated by the constant tearing of the thorns at his sides,
had made a sudden turn with me into the thickest part of the bush,
whence I was not extricated without great trouble and considerable
injury to my face and hands.
The well at Karnac (there is but one) is, like those at Om-Badr,
situated in a plain surrounded on all sides by hills of various
heights; those on the west, towards which our route now lay, are the
highest, and form the commencement of an extensive plateau trending
westward and northward. The village is built on the northern slopes of
the plain, and consists of “tuckles,” beehive-shaped huts, constructed
of the branches of trees deeply set into the ground in a circle of ten
or twelve feet in diameter, drawn together, and fastened at the top,
and firmly interlaced with “duchn” stalks.[10] The interior affords
perfect protection from the sun and rain, and the most violent storm of
wind can seldom do more than temporarily bend the structure before its
blast. In addition to these “tuckles,” there are a few square
structures—upright sticks, interlaced with stalks and loosely covered
with mats or skins sewn together.
From personal inquiries, made in the village, I am able to lay before
the reader the following valuable statistics relating to this important
place:—
Men, 58; women and girls, 177; boys, 43; donkeys, 25; sheep, 433; cows,
134.
The people are of the Sayadeeyeh race of Arabs, and, being settlers,
own no camels.
The village possesses a school—one of the square structures—to which I
paid a visit. There was no schoolmaster and only one pupil—who, when I
saw him, was engaged in copying a verse from the Korân written in large
characters on a wooden tablet of the same size and shape as our common
school-slates. He was writing in ink with an ordinary stylus on a tablet
like that on which the original was traced; his copy was fairly good,
but his progress was very slow, each word taking many minutes to form.
That he was ignorant of what he was writing, I was convinced from the
fact of the original and his own work being both upside down. He seemed
melancholy and stupid, and had been sent to school as a punishment, the
only reason, I was given to understand, for which pupils ever attend.
The inference is obvious, those in Darfoor who can read and write must
have misconducted themselves in their childhood, and, from the paucity
of those possessed of these accomplishments, the conclusion follows that
the youth of this nation are generally well behaved.
In a cage, adjacent to the school, and differing from it only in having
no covering, was an ostrich stripped of its plumes. These birds are kept
for the profit that the sale of their feathers yields, and are generally
quite tame, wandering about as they please. This one, however, was
jumping and flapping his featherless wings in his endeavours to get out
of the cage, and seemed extremely melancholy and stupid, like the poor
pupil in the school next door. From the circumstance of the bird’s
having not a vestige of a feather on his body, I concluded, perhaps not
without reason, that the time for plucking was shortly before our
arrival, namely, about January or February. There are generally two or
three of these birds in each village; they are one of the chief sources
of wealth to the inhabitants.
The ground round the village, as well as that on the southern side of
the plain, is planted with “duchn,” only the stubble of which remained,
the grain having been gathered in shortly after the termination of the
rainy season. With the exception of one or two small patches grown with
cotton, there seemed to be no other crop.
[Decoration]