THE ESCAPE FROM JEDABIA
December 7 dawned brilliantly fine. We rose from our camp beds feeling
joyfully that thirty-six hours would elapse before we slept on them
again. Our morning was enlivened by the visits of two or three friends
from the neighbouring encampments. Sheikh Mohammed, the Haji, came in to
tell us that we were welcome visitors to any Beduin camp. He drank three
glasses of sweet tea in three gulps, asked in a mysterious whisper for a
cigarette, hastily put the whole packet into his sleeve and demanded
that I should repeat suras from the Koran to him. I did so to the best
of my ability and he was much impressed. We meant to sleep in the
afternoon, but the unsuspecting Sayed had most kindly ordered his slaves
to perform a dance in our honour, so about 3 P.M. the sound of drums was
heard outside our blind walls. Ali summoned us forth in great
excitement. We sat on two chairs before our door and gradually the whole
male population of Jedabia gathered round us, row upon row of shrouded
white figures crouching on the sand. In an irregular circle round a
couple of hide drums danced the black Sudanese slaves from Wadai, bought
in the market at Kufara, presents from native potentates to the Senussi
family, or children of slaves sent by the famous Ali Dinar, Sultan of
Darfur. Slavery in the East is a kindly institution, quite unlike the
horrors of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” The blacks are treated as part of the
family. They are proud of their masters and devoted to them. They are
trusted and confidential. Thus Ali came to us one evening in honest
grief. “That Mustapha is a bad man,” he said. “He goes to the house of
the doctor and says he has not had enough to eat here. It is not true.
The Sayed is generous. There is everything here. It is not good for the
Sayed’s honour that such things should be said.”
The blacks enjoyed the dance even more than we did, for we had just
heard that through too much ardour on the part of our allies there was
likely to be a hitch in the arrangements. The long-delayed camels for
the caravan had arrived at last. The soldiers had come in from Zuetina.
We had better all start together at midnight, said our confidant
triumphantly. Anyone who knows the East will realise how difficult it is
for even two or three people to slip away secretly. Everyone’s business
is known from A to Z. Projects are discussed in the bazaars while they
are still formless in the brain of the plotter. The idea that a score of
camels and a dozen soldiers, with luggage, tents, stores, guides, etc.,
could start secretly from Jedabia was ludicrous. Already there was a
rumour in the suq that we were going to Kufara because of the
unfortunate suggestion that we should accompany the caravan for a day or
two! Therefore, even while we gazed at the gyrating circle of blacks,
who flung themselves into extravagant postures, chanting their
monotonous songs and clicking together short sticks, we had sent post
haste to rearrange matters. News was brought us that the delightful
cavalry officer from Zuetina had arrived, two days before he was
expected.
“I think I will go and have tea at the doctor’s,” I said firmly to
Hassanein. “I will stay with them there for two hours, which will give
you plenty of time to get the caravan postponed.”
The spies were as clinging as limpets that day. Mabruk leant over my
shoulder as I spoke, pointing to the wildest dancer with a forced smile.
However, I was determined to spoil his little effort and insisted that
he and Mustapha should accompany me on my walk. “I don’t like going
through all these people alone,” I said; and reluctantly they had to
come with me.
Our last game of cross purposes will always remain in my mind, for, with
one eye on the clock, I summoned every atom of intelligence to my aid. I
allowed myself to be reluctantly persuaded to return by camion to
Benghazi the following week. I asked reproachfully why no ekhwan could
be found to accompany me on a little caravan tour. They assured me that
none was willing to travel with a Christian, and that no one of that
faith could journey beyond Jedabia. I took up and emphasised this point
for some time, as it would eventually preclude their attempting to
follow us. I allowed my bitter disappointment to be seen, was comforted
and finally cheered up with a promise of visiting all the encampments on
the way back. We parted the best of friends and I shall always retain a
grateful memory of their kindness and care. So often we longed to
confide all our plans to them. We were sure of their sympathy, but their
very hospitality would have made it impossible for them to allow their
erstwhile guest to venture her life on such a wild and dangerous
journey.
Six months before I had talked to an Arabian Emir about my project.
“Heya magnuna!” he exclaimed to his wakils. “She is mad. If she could
get to Kufara, she could get to any place in heaven or earth!” Thus we
knew from the beginning that we must hide our object from our generous
Italian friends. If they hadn’t thought that at least Hassanein had some
political aim in coming to Jedabia, remorse would probably have added to
our mental troubles, but, luckily, the fact that they were obviously
watching us turned the affair into a game and justified us in having a
few secrets also.
If my charming hosts in Cyrenaica read this book, I think they will
forgive me for the part their own kindness and forethought forced me to
play most unwillingly. They are all sportsmen. They, too, are travellers
and lovers of the great desert. They laid the foundations of my journey
by their long years of work in North Africa. They will reap the benefit
when the friendship between European and Senussi is firmly cemented and
the Beduins welcome the influx of commerce and exploration from over the
sea.
I returned at 7 P.M. to our walled Arab house, but the fantasia was
still continuing. The gift of our last packet of cigarettes had
stimulated the performers to frenzy and they were prepared to spend the
night in an orgy of dance and song. Ordinarily, I should have loved
watching their barbaric vigour and I was exceedingly grateful to the
ever-thoughtful Sayed for giving this festa in our honour, but we had
still a good many preparations to make, so we regretfully thanked the
performers and despatched them to their homes. After a hasty meal,
Hassanein went off to make final preparations concerning changing our
Italian notes into heavy silver mejidies, the cumbersome coin of the
country, buying bread and eggs, collecting the native dress and a dozen
other things that had to be done at the very last moment for fear of
arousing suspicion. I wrote a note to our Italian interpreter, who had
also proved guide, philosopher and friend, explaining that I was not to
be entirely deprived of my desert journey after all, for at the last
moment I was able to accompany an ekhwan who was travelling to an
encampment a day or two away. I then made relays of green tea in an
inadequate kettle and filled both our thermos flasks, also the water
bottles.
It was then nearly 9 P.M., at which hour Hassanein had said he would
return, but the minutes dragged on and there was no sign of his coming.
At 10 I became anxious. I couldn’t lie still any more, and began walking
up and down the big room by the light of one candle guttering on the
window ledge. Ali came to me to ask if he and the servant, who was also
a spy, could go home. I said he must stay until Hassanein Bey returned,
for I did not want to give the boy an opportunity of inquiring into my
companion’s designs, but each hour that went by made our flight more and
more difficult, for we could not begin to pack beds, luggage, etc., till
the house was empty. At 11 I was nearly frantic. I don’t think I have
ever spent a worse two hours. I began to wonder whether the spies had
discovered our plot and, deciding to frustrate it at all costs, had
arranged to have my ally knocked senseless as he crossed the wide
expanse of white sandstone between our house and the scattered buildings
of Jedabia.
At 11.30, as I was preparing to set forth in search and was actually
winding myself into the intricacies of a jerd so as to pass unnoticed in
the dark, Hassanein arrived, staggering beneath the mejidies, for a very
moderate sum in that coinage weighs intolerably. He discharged eggs,
bread and clothing in a heap and explained that the usual Arab
dilatoriness had delayed him. The letters to sheikhs of zawias were not
ready, the eggs were not cooked, the clothes were not quite finished.
However, we didn’t wait for much talk. We sent off the servants with
minute instructions about to-morrow’s work. An Arab spy is clever in
some ways, but he never looks ahead, so it is generally fairly easy to
lull his suspicions.
The instant the door shut behind them we literally flung ourselves on
the luggage. We wrestled first with the beds and flea-bags, stuffing
them into old sacks to look like native bundles. The tent had to be
disposed of in the same way—its poles tied up in a red prayer-rug, its
canvas disguised in native wrappings. Not one single bit of European
luggage must be visible. My suit-case was already packed and it was but
a minute’s work to push it into a striped flour sack, but my heart sank
when I saw Hassanein’s room. It was still littered with what he called
necessities. We packed and pushed and tugged at his bundles, getting
frantically hot and tired, but always when we had, with superhuman
effort, triumphantly strapped up a bulging roll, a minute later he would
remember something he absolutely must put in and want the thing undone.
When but half an hour was left before our departure was due, I became
desperate and took matters into my own hands. I packed the food into one
knapsack. The necessities I divided into two others. I shut his suit-
case firmly on the most useful articles I could collect from the chaos.
I stood over him equally firmly while he put mackintoshes with fleece
linings, rugs and extra native dress into the bedding. I pulled the
straps to a tighter hole myself before scurrying off to dress.
Let no one think it is easy to get into Beduin feminine attire for the
first time. The tight white trousers presented difficulties over riding
breeches. The red tobh was too tight at the neck. The barracan needed
much adjustment. One end flaps loose over the head, which is already
swathed in a tight black handkerchief hiding all the hair, while the
other is wound twice round in the form of a skirt and comes up over the
left shoulder to make the front bit of the bodice. It is all held in
place by a thick red woollen “hezaam” at least twelve feet in length,
which is wound round and round till one’s waist resembles a mummy and is
tied one side with dangling ends. Under this I wore my revolver belt,
with two fully loaded Colts and a prismatic compass in a case.
Glancing round my room as I put on my huge yellow heel-less slippers, I
decided it looked a very realistic picture of the abode left temporarily
and in haste. My cherished blue tweed hung on one hook and a rose-red
sweater on another. A few books and papers, with a hot-water bottle and
some stockings, were scattered on convenient chairs. The cases and sacks
of stones stood formally round the walls. A bottle of complexion lotion
was prominent on a shelf and my European shoes were in their usual row!
With a sigh of relief I dragged the sack containing my suit-case to join
the disguised camp outfit by the main door and, blowing out the candle
in my room, closed the door for the last time.
My cheerfulness rapidly evaporated when I crossed the court to
Hassanein’s room. The litter was inconceivable. Everything that we had
shut twenty minutes ago was open. He himself, with ruffled wild hair,
was still in shirt and riding-breeches. To a casual observer he appeared
to be playing a game of leap frog with the various bundles, in which the
object seemed to be to upset as many things as possible. “You have
exactly six minutes in which to get ready,” I said in an awful voice. A
chair fell with a crash, breaking an eau de Cologne bottle and sending a
mass of little tubes, bottles and boxes rolling to my feet. Thereafter
followed ten minutes’ best American hustle. In spite of feeling like a
swathed Chinese infant in my cumbersome dress, I attacked that room with
a personal venom that surely had effect even on inanimate things, for
the suit-case shut almost unprotestingly on a huddled mass in which the
parcels of mejidies stuck out like Mount Everest. I don’t know what I
said. I imagined at the time it was quite unforgivable, but Hassanein is
the most good-tempered person in the world. He submitted to being pushed
and pulled into the white garments he had to wear over his European
riding-kit—voluminous white pantaloons, long flowing shirt and woollen
jerd. I believe I banged a white kufiya on his head and flung an agal at
him before rushing from the room to take up my position behind the main
door with a tiny dark lantern which revealed the piles of corpulent
sacks. When, a few minutes later, a stately white figure with flowing
lines unbroken save by the crossed revolver belts, true son of a sheikh
of the famous Azhar University, joined me, I could hardly recognise in
this solemn Arab the wild individual who was playing at hay-making a few
minutes before.
Of course our fellow-plotters were late! We waited nearly an hour
crouched on the sacks, while the only thing that broke the silence of a
desert night was the braying of a donkey near the suq. At about 1.45 we
heard the faint roar of protesting camels and our pulses quickened. Some
ten minutes later stealthy footsteps approached. There was a light
scratch on the door, and the operation of the previous night was
successfully repeated, only this time we had another quarter of an
hour’s suspense after the porters went forth with the first sacks before
they could return for the last. Our confidant leant against the door,
motionless and calm, looking at the starlit sky. “Bahi!” he murmured, as
the mysterious figures reappeared, the only word he had uttered the
whole time. Shouldering knapsack, water-bottle, thermos flask and kodak,
I stumbled out of the dark passage into the moonless night. A strong,
cold wind met me and I wondered, shivering, why a Beduin woman does not
freeze to death. I’ve never seen them wear anything but a cotton
barracan. Even while I limped across the open white sands, for the
camels were hidden some three hundred yards away, near the rough
cemetery that surrounds the deserted morabit of Sidi Hassan, I felt that
I wanted an overcoat even more than I wanted to go to Kufara!
Nevertheless, it was freedom at last and excitement thrilled us. There
was a moment’s pause on the part of our puzzled guide when absolute
blackness on all sides gave no hint of direction. Then a muffled roar
told us that a camel was on our left and the smothered sound of it
suggested that someone was probably sitting on its head. A moment more
and a dark mass loomed up beside a broken wall. Thankfully I subsided on
a heap of stones. It is not the slightest use arguing with a camel-
driver about a load. It is waste of energy to try to hurry him. He is
used to weighing burdens minutely, to arranging them slowly to his own
satisfaction. So I was prepared for an hour’s wait while our retinue cut
rope, made “corners” to the sacks with stones, discussed loads, lost
camels, caught them again and were generally inefficient. I was
genuinely surprised, therefore, when in only twenty minutes everything
was noiselessly packed and the camels ready to start. Yusuf el Hamri and
Mohammed Quemish, our two confidential servants, were introduced to me
in the dark and we exchanged a few florid sentences in which the words
“mabsut” and “mamnun” played a large part.
Then I hoisted myself on to my camel, a huge, blond beast, with no
proper saddle. A spike stuck up in front and behind and his hump was
painfully evident between the rolled straw of the baggage serg. On the
top were folded a couple of native mats and thereon I perched in my
uncomfortable, closely wound clothes, which made mounting a matter of
peril and difficulty. In spite of all this, when my great beast rose to
his stately height and moved off into the night, exhilaration rushed
over me. I hadn’t been on a camel for three months, and then on the
beautiful trotting “hajin” of the Sudan. This was only a fine baggage
“hamla,” but he was in keeping with the desert and the night and our
wild, impossible project. I was happy. Also, it was a wonderful start.
Sir Richard Burton wisely writes that the African traveller must always
be prepared for three starts—the long one, the short one and the real
one. Later we realised how right he was, but for the moment, as our
little line of camels swayed off into the darkness beyond the white
morabit, we only felt that we had escaped.
“How amazing that they can find their way in pitch darkness like this!”
I exclaimed, and only when Orion had appeared in four different
directions did I begin to wonder whether they could! We had started just
before three, striking a northerly course which surprised us, as we knew
that Aujela lay to the south. We comforted ourselves with the idea that
our guides were purposely avoiding the main track, and patiently we bore
the icy wind and constant change of direction. When, after an hour, we
turned completely round, we decided it was necessary to expostulate.
Yusuf, on being shown a luminous compass, refused to believe that the
north was where the needle directed. We pointed out the extraordinary
movement of the stars and he remained unconvinced. He looked
pathetically at the heavens and asked persistently for “Jedi,” the star
that had guided him apparently in many wanderings over half Africa.
Unfortunately we could not find her for him, though we pointed out most
of the constellations from the Great Bear to the Milky Way.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AT JEDABIA]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR ON CAMEL-BACK]
We continued our aimless progress for another hour. As we were merely
describing irregular circles we were not surprised when a little before
five a chorus of dogs barking proclaimed our nearness to Jedabia. “It is
an encampment,” said Yusuf. “I know where we are now!” and at that
moment the donkey in the suq brayed quite close to us! I couldn’t help
laughing. In a few minutes our desperate midnight flight would land us
before the doors of the house from which we had escaped so triumphantly
three hours earlier. The distressed Yusuf, inexplicably bereft of his
tame star, was all for camping there and then to await the dawn, but,
lest the rising sun should reveal to the astonished eyes of the early
astir a dishevelled party asleep on the space before the mosque, I
firmly took command. By the compass I marched them due south of the
donkey’s bray for half an hour. At least we should be out of sight at
dawn and could then start off on the right track.
[Illustration: BEDUIN WOMAN AT JEDABIA]
The wind seemed colder than ever as we “barraked” our camels on the
flat, sandy waste. We were frozen and shelterless. Excitement, suspense
and physical labour had all combined to wear us out. My foot was swollen
and inflamed after its unusual exercise. Hassanein had rheumatism in his
back. There was an hour to wait for the dawn. I doubt if a more
miserable couple existed than the two who rolled themselves into the
thin and dirty camel rugs and lay down on the hard sand, their heads on
tufts of spiky grass. I did not sleep. It was too cold. The wind
searched out every corner of my aching body. I began to feel the strain
of our sleepless nights and days of suspense. Even my sense of humour
had gone. It was five weeks since we had left England and we had got no
farther than a sand heap outside Jedabia! At six a flush of pale pink
appeared in the sky in a direction which amazed Yusuf. Shivering, with
chattering teeth, we rose to a windy dawn! Mohammed was already
murmuring, “Allahu Akhbar,” devoutly turning towards the kibla at Mecca.
We followed his example, abluting in the sand as is permissible when
there is no water. Luckily it is only necessary to go through the
“Fatha” and the requisite “Raqa-at.” The kneeling position hurt my foot
excruciatingly, and I could hardly get it into my huge yellow shoe
again.
The men bestirred themselves to some purpose. Five minutes after the
last “Salamu Aleikum wa Rahmat Allah” had saluted the angels who stand
on either side to record a man’s good and bad deeds, the camels were
loaded and we were moving away from the white qubba of Sidi Hassan and
the scattered mud houses which appeared but a stone’s throw distant.
There had been no time to eat. I tried to force a hard-boiled egg down
my throat as I swayed along, but I could not manage it. Hassanein was
doubled up with rheumatism and I tried every possible position to ease
my foot. My hands were numb as I clutched the gaudy barracan, red, blue
and orange, round me, and prayed for the sun to warm me.
Every few minutes we turned round to see if Jedabia had disappeared, but
it must stand on a slight rise as the morabit was visible for three
hours. Distance is illusive in the desert. Everything looks much nearer
than it really is. One sees the palms of an oasis early in the morning,
plans to arrive before midday, and is lucky if one reaches it by sunset.
However, by 10.30 every sign of human habitation had disappeared and
only a flat sandy plain, tufted with coarse grey brush a few inches to a
foot high, lay all around us. Thankfully we halted, turned the camels to
graze, spread the scarlet woven rugs in the sun, and prepared to eat.
Further troubles threatened when we discovered that our retinue, Yusuf,
Mohammed and two coal-black Sudanese soldiers, had brought no provisions
of any sort. They had trusted either to us or to joining the south-bound
caravan within a few hours. Consternation seized us. In order to travel
light we had brought what we considered the least possible amount of
food necessary for two people for a week—that is, one tin of meat per
day, with a very small ration of flour, rice, dates and tea. How were we
going to feed six people for perhaps a fortnight on it? At the moment we
were too tired to think. We doled out to the retinue rice, tea and most
of the hard-boiled eggs intended for ourselves and, after the frugal
meal, insisted on immediate departure. There was a great deal of
grumbling. They were all tired and they wanted to sleep there and then.
The blacks were openly rebellious. “We are not your slaves,” they said.
“We will not over-tire ourselves.” However, by force of sarcasm,
encouragement and laughter, we got them to load the camels.
In Libya they do not girth the baggage saddles at all. They merely
balance the bales evenly according to weight on either side of a straw
pad round the hump. Thus, if the camel stumbles badly or is frightened
and runs a few paces, the luggage over-balances and crashes to the
ground, generally terrifying the beast into a mad gallop. I suppose ours
were carelessly loaded, for the tent dropped off three times and tempers
grew sulky.
About one we came to a small cluster of camel’s-hair tents in the
shelter of a slight rise and the retinue clamoured to stop there for the
night. The Arab is greedy by nature, while the Sudanese is positively
voracious. At one meal he will devour what would support a European
family for a day. Having seen our meagre provisions, the retinue thought
they would get a better dinner in these Beduin tents. They protested and
argued violently, but we were ruthless. There was fear of pursuit and of
being recognised. Yusuf joined his hands in prayer. “We will say you are
the wife of an ekhwan,” he said, “and that we are taking you to Jalo,”
but he pleaded in vain. We moved on and they followed perforce, surly,
bronzed Beduins in coarse woolen jerds, rifles slung across their backs.
The impressions cherished since childhood are gradually disappearing
from my mind. One hears so often of the untiring endurance of the Beduin
and of his frugal fare. I used to believe that he could ride for days
without sleep and live on a few dates or locusts. He _may_ be able to do
the latter if he is absolutely obliged to, but normally his appetite is
large and his amiability depends on his food. With regard to his
endurance, I have met Tuaregs who had accomplished some amazingly swift
rides, but in the French Sahara, in Syria or in Libya, as in the Sudan,
I have never found an Arab who did not want to camp several hours before
I did. South of Touggurt I once had a delightful guide called Ali, a
blue-eyed, ruddy-haired Tuareg, who must have had Vandal blood in his
veins and he used to get positively haggard after a nine hours’ ride
without a pause.
After 2.30 we could not urge our retinue farther. It was obvious that
they were very tired, but it is doubtful if they were as exhausted as we
were, for we had worked very hard the preceding day and night, while
they were “fadhling” in the suq. However, Yusuf seized my camel rein.
“This is a good place. We must rest,” he said. It was no use
exasperating them. We had ridden for six hours. A camel does a regular
two and a half miles an hour, so we imagined ourselves about 15 miles
from Jedabia and safe from pursuit.
Almost before we had got the sacks off the camels Mohammed had rolled
himself in his jerd and was actually asleep. Yusuf helped us half-
heartedly while we struggled to put up the tent, but we unrolled
bedding, put down ground-sheet, doled out provisions, fitted the camp
beds together ourselves. The Sudanese collected brushwood, yawning
violently and infinitely wearily. We boiled tea and drank it sugarless,
for the retinue had the usual Arab passion for sugar. I looked at myself
once in a tiny hand-glass, and was thankful to put it down, for I hardly
recognised the begrimed and haggard visage, yellow, sunburnt and lined,
that peered out under the heavy black handkerchief between the folds of
the barracan. A gale rose suddenly and nearly swept our tent away, but
we did not mind. We slept fitfully, woke to cook rice on a brushwood
fire and went to bed about 6 P.M. with a thankfulness too deep for
words. Feather mattresses, frilled pillows, Chippendale or Louis XV beds
all have their charms, but I have never been so grateful for any as I
was that night for my flea-bag and my air cushion.
At 6 next morning Yusuf woke us with a cry of “El Fagr,” and after the
usual prayers we set to work to break camp. We informed the retinue that
we intended to reach Wadi Farig and its well that day and therefore they
must not count on a midday halt. Consequently they insisted on making a
fire and cooking half our week’s rations straight away! We started at 8
A.M. and continued a south-easterly-southerly course all day.
Wadi Farig is only 60 kilometres from Jedabia, but I imagine our first
day we must have made a detour in order to avoid the main route, for it
was not till 2 o’clock on the second day that a mirage on the horizon, a
sheet of silver water bordered with purple mountains, proclaimed the
position of the wadi. “It is bayid, bayid!” said Mohammed. “We cannot
reach it before sunset. Let us rest now!” This time, however, we would
not stop. We had shared our flasks of tea and our dates evenly with him
at noon and we felt that after a good night’s sleep, if we could ride
nine hours on end, they could too. It was an absolutely perfect day,
cloudless and still, but the sun was very hot at noon. It scorched
through the thin folds of my barracan and made one wonder why Europe and
not Africa invented parasols.
The character of the country remained unchanged. Always the same sandy
scrub stretched away as far as the eye could see. Occasional jerboas or
lizards scuttered into their holes as we approached. Once a dozen
gazelle fled swiftly across our path. Mohammed tried a shot at them, but
he was too slow. Another time we passed a large rabbit warren and a
couple of white scuts disappeared into the labyrinth of holes. We struck
a main track about noon and I noticed a sage bush covered with bits of
different coloured threads. It appears that every wayfarer adds a piece
of cotton or wool from his attire to show that this is a desert “road”
and that caravans pass that way. Yusuf contributed a white thread from
his girdle, and I a red one from my long hezaam.
All that day we met only two travellers. I discreetly covered my face
while they exchanged greetings with our retinue. The desert telephone
was at work again. They brought news from Jalo which they exchanged for
tales of Jedabia. They were not interested in us. Mrs. Forbes had
disappeared into space, and in her place was a Mohammedan woman called
Khadija, travelling with a kinsman, an Egyptian Bey, son of a Sheikh el-
Azhar. She wore Beduin clothes, followed their customs, prayed to their
God, lived their life. Her language was certainly different, but the
Arabic varies so immensely between Baghdad and Marrakesh that my
faltering conversation was attributed to my being accustomed only to the
classical language. Even Hassanein could hardly understand the dialect
used by the Libyan Beduins. It is not a case of accent or pronunciation.
Nearly all the words are different.
I cannot imagine why Wadi Farig is marked on the map as a vivid green
splash across the colourless desert. The slight depression running due
east and west between the two faint ridges about 15 metres high varies
in no respect from the surrounding country. No blade of grass or green
thing decorates it. Nothing breaks the monotonous sand and grey
brushwood except the one well of bitter brackish water. We arrived just
as the sun was setting and had difficulty in getting the camels past the
well in order to camp on the higher ground beyond. Hassanein was riding
a nervous “naga” (female), who never kept her head in one direction for
more than a minute or two. She now decided to race for the well while a
playful companion kicked off a bale or two, upset the balance of the
rest, caught her foot in a falling sack and tore wildly away, scattering
her load to the winds. My stately beast was in an amorous mood, so, with
guttural gurglings, he added himself to the general mêlée. I had to
dismount and limp up to the rise, dragging him forcibly after me, while
the men collected our belongings and reloaded them. It was a race with
the sun, but we just won it. As the last crimson glow faded in the
radiant west and the devout Mohammed lifted a sandy nose from his
ablutions, the last tent peg was driven in. Brush fires gleamed on the
rise opposite, for wherever there is a desert well there are a few
scattered tents of the nomads whose homes move with the season and the
pasture.
We made a flaming pyre and sat round it in a circle of pack-saddles.
Yusuf had found his beloved Jedi and he pointed her out to me
triumphantly—the Pole star! The silence of the desert encircled us and a
faint scent of thyme stole up from the cold sand. Farraj (both the black
Sudanese were called Farraj) began intoning verses of the Koran—a
melodious sound in the starlit night. Then, surprised by his own song,
he suddenly sprang to his feet and chanted loudly, triumphantly, the
muazzin’s call to prayer, “Allahu Akhbar. Allahu Akhbar. Ash hadu illa
Illaha illallah wa ash hadu inna Mohammedan rasul Allah!” The Shehada
rolled splendid, intolerant, from his lips and his voice rose higher on
the cry, “Haya alla sala! Haya alla fellah!” till we all took up the
chorus of “Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar!”
As I undressed in the “harem” portion of the tent, which had enormously
impressed our retinue, I pondered on the character of these men with
whom we were to live in familiar intercourse for months. Apart from
their fierce fanaticism, which made it a duty for them to kill the
infidel and the Nasrani as we kill dangerous and pestilential vermin,
they had the simplicity of children. I felt that our blacks would steal
all our food one day if they happened to be hungry and defend us most
gallantly the next. They are utterly unable to provide for the morrow.
Their trust in Allah is of the blind kind that does not try to help
itself, yet the Koran says, “Allah works with him who works.” Again and
again we told them about the scarcity of food. We showed them the
pathetic limit of our provisions. They said, “The caravan will come to-
morrow! Inshallah!”
Knowing the dilatory habits of the East, I had very little faith in the
arrival of that caravan for at least a week, but we agreed to their
persistent request to camp for two days at the wadi to give it a chance
of joining us. If it did not arrive on the evening of the 11th, bringing
with it all our provisions, we should have to send back the two blacks,
and continue post-haste to Aujela with Yusuf and Mohammed. With that
intent we put into one sack the smallest quantity of food for four
people for five days—that is, a tin of meat or sardines per person per
day, with coffee and dates. When this was done we were horrified at the
little that remained. The blacks wanted to bake great flat loaves of
unleavened bread morning and evening and we had so very little flour. I
began to realise that if the caravan did not arrive we should die of
exhaustion on the way to Aujela. Let us once lose the way, let a storm
delay us, let the retinue prove unreliable and insist on eating more
than the day’s meagre ration and we should be lost! Yet we were
determined on one thing only—not to go back.
“In any case we have the peace and quiet of the desert,” I thought, as I
went to sleep and woke a few hours later to pandemonium indescribable.
I’ve heard the roar of an uncaged lion in Rhodesia, but never before had
I heard such mad bellows of rage as made the night hideous. “The camels
have gone mad,” I gasped, as I flung myself out of the tent. Thunder of
sound broke from a heaving black mass only a few yards from our canvas
walls. Shouts came from Yusuf and Mohammed, who seemed to be aimlessly
dancing round the wildly excited beasts. Then the mass crashed roaring
to its feet and two camels dashed madly past me, missing the tent by a
foot. I found Hassanein only half awake at my elbow. “What are they
doing?” he said blankly. “In the spring the camels’ fancy lightly turns
to thoughts of love!” “But it isn’t the spring!” he objected drowsily.
“Never mind. God! They’re coming back!” We retreated hastily from the
tent. In Syria I had seen a maddened beast go right through a tent in
such a mood, and the vision of the crushed poles and canvas, intricately
mixed up with shattered baggage and an absolutely flattened camp bed,
flashed across me. I took up a strategic position in the open but the
bellowing brutes staggered away again, their roars mercifully fading in
the distance. “Is this likely to happen often?” I asked Yusuf. “Yes,
when it is cold,” he answered indifferently. “Two things increase in
winter, the camels and the sea!”
We enjoyed the rare luxury of sleeping late next morning and woke to
another gorgeous day. The water from the well was almost undrinkable—it
was so salt and muddy—but we washed in it triumphantly. Unfortunately,
Hassanein was tempted to wash his hair, with the odd result that it
thereafter stood up like a tuft of coarse ostrich feathers. Everything
dries appallingly in the desert. One’s skin is cracked and lined after a
few days. One’s nails break. One’s hair dries and becomes brittle. Yet
one does not mind. The desert has a subtle and a cruel charm. She
destroys while she enthralls. She is the siren from whom there is no
escape. Cynthia Stockley, whom I met years ago in Bulawayo, writes in
one of her vivid stories of African life that once the desert has stuck
her claw into a man, he must return to her, for only she can heal the
wound she has made.
The preceding night the wadi had been empty. That morning it was
crowded. Half-naked brown figures hauled water for a great herd of
camels who crushed round the low mud walls of the well. A flock of sheep
waited their turn at a short distance. More camels strayed slowly down
the rise, grazing as they walked. Some white figures came up to greet
us, rifles slung across their backs. They were the dwellers in the
nuggas whose fires we had seen the night before. The desert wires had
informed them of our imminent arrival before we had left Jedabia! They
sat round our brushwood fire and drank tea sweetened with crushed dates,
as the sugar had run out. Hassanein and I left them to “fadhl” with our
retinue and went and sat on a sandhill and dreamed visions of the
caravan, that would end all our troubles, coming over the rise opposite.
Instead, we saw only Farraj go down the wadi to buy bitter camel’s milk
and date pulp, highly flavoured with sand, from the nugga men. When the
sunset dyed the land to crimson glory we returned to our camp
frantically hungry, for we had eaten nothing since 8 A.M., and then only
rice and tinned vegetables, because the latter were disliked by our
retinue. The two blacks were playing draughts on the sands with white
shells and camel dung. “Fadhl!” urged Mohammed, smiling. “Fadhl!” “Do
not live always alone,” said Yusuf. “Mix with us a little. We shall not
forget who is master.” From this I knew that Hassanein had won another
of his personal victories. He had a wonderful way of gaining the
confidence and sympathy of Arabs, from the Sayeds down to the fanatical
Beduin.
The mental atmosphere of our retinue had been most unpropitious during
the first two days. We realised that our journey would be almost an
impossibility unless it changed, but, wisely, Hassanein would not hurry
matters. A word dropped here and there, swift rebuke or warm praise,
hinted sympathy with the Senussi aims, tales of old friendship with the
Sayeds, little councils of war in the outer tent, had all borne fruit.
We felt the effect that night as we toasted ourselves before the fire,
watching Farraj knead his heavy bread and cook it in the ashes. When it
was baked, he pressed some upon us with a broad, toothless smile. It was
hot, heavy and indigestible, but wholly delicious with our corned beef.
Only the cocoa was a failure, as the water was terribly salt.
I settled myself into the double woollen flaps of my flea-bag that night
with a great sense of peace. The thermometer had soared up at midday,
but the nights were always chilly, and we were extremely grateful for
our rainproof sleeping-sacks, sprinkled with insect powder, which, by
the way, had no effect whatever on the fleas. The third morning in
Jedabia I had spent a happy half-hour chasing agile insects round my
bedding. Hassanein entered with breakfast at my most heated moment, when
I thought I had cornered the largest. A sweet smile spread over his
face. “There are dozens and dozens in my room,” he said; “but it doesn’t
matter. At last I have found a use for my target pistol. Don’t ever
laugh at me again for useless baggage!” I thought of this as I heard a
bed upset on the other side of the partition, but this time it was only
a delicious little field mouse scurrying wildly round in search of her
hole, which was probably somewhere under our ground-sheet.
A little later I heard the Koran intoned verse by verse and to its
monotonous murmur I fell asleep wondering at the desert spell which had
changed the Oxford “Blue” into a typical Beduin, devout as the fanatic
whose prayers rose five times a day to Allah, aloof as the nomad whose
wistful eyes are ever on a desert horizon, impenetrable as the jerd
which muffled him from head to foot.
December 7 provided us with a “gibli,” a strong south wind laden with
sand, which nearly tore up our tent pegs and covered everything with a
thick yellow coating. It was a most unpleasant day. Hair, eyes and skin
were full of sand. Everything we ate was flavoured with it. The dust
sheet was three inches deep in it. It oozed from the pillows and from
every article of clothing. It penetrated every box and bag. The noise of
flapping canvas and cracking pegs was a continual strain, and in the
middle of it arrived a messenger from Jedabia, bearing a letter from
Benghazi which our opponents had sent on with an amused message written
on the back:
“_Nous vous envoyons notre sincère admiration pour l’aptitude que vous
avez pour des décisions très rapides, avec nos meilleurs souhaits d’un
bon et très long voyage désertique!_”
I think the French emanated from the cavalry officer with a sense of
humour. From the beginning he may have suspected our whole project, but,
a noted fencer, he was as clever with words as with the foils. However,
we knew that a messenger who confessed that he had been told to follow
us even unto Jalo would not be sent merely to bring us an unimportant
letter. He was intended to find out our destination for certain, so we
thought he had better wait with us until the caravan arrived or until we
ourselves left for Jalo. Farraj amused us immensely, for, having got it
into his head that the man was a spy, he wanted to shoot him at once. It
took a good deal of persuasion on our part to prevent this bloodthirsty
deed. “The Sayed told me to protect you. If I do not kill this man, the
Sayed will surely kill me,” he said morosely. We comforted him by
telling him to watch that the man did not escape, but not to hurt him,
yet when Hassanein was asleep that afternoon, and I heard the click of a
rifle lock, I rushed frantically to see that the man was safe. He, too,
had come without any food. The improvidence of the race had begun to
anger me. Should manna fall from heaven, I believe they would eat their
fill and pick up none for the morrow!
We broke the news to the retinue that we should have to leave the blacks
at the nuggas to wait for the caravan and to hurry it up when it finally
arrived, and ourselves go on to Aujela by forced marches. We told them
we would start early and ride ten or eleven hours a day, pitch no tent
to save labour, share our food evenly with them, but that they must
expect to be very hungry for four or five days. There was a good deal of
protest, because they looked with simple faith to the caravan and they
could not realise that if we waited four days and it had not arrived,
starvation would drive us back to Jedabia. The form of protest showed,
however, how well things were going. They now looked upon us as their
friends. The arrival of the spy had made a bond between us. “We knew
that you were hurt by the coming of that man,” they said, “but you are
safe with us. It is our honour, too.” We tried to explain the difficulty
about food, and Mohammed suddenly showed the fine clay he was made of.
“I have felt ashamed,” he said, “that we have taken your food for three
days, that we have asked you for sugar when you have none. I would have
liked to share my food with you, as is our habit, but we were ordered to
come with you at the last moment. We asked if we might visit our homes.
‘No,’ we were told. ‘The caravan will follow with all things needful.’
It is not our fault, but we feel it deeply that you are depriving
yourselves for us.”
This is the loyal spirit that lies at the heart of every Beduin. Greedy
for food he may be and the stranger with gold is not safe with him, but
once you are his friend he will never betray you. These men were
beginning to realise our sympathy for their race, our love for their
customs and country. They had eaten our bread and salt. We had shared
all we had with them and we had taken them wholly into our confidence.
We were guests of their lord, the holy one, the blessed of Allah. We
were friends of their blood and religion. The Italians should not get us
back. They swore to protect us as their own families. We had won another
fight. “We will find food somehow in the nuggas!” said Yusuf. “No Arab
starves in the desert.” We showed them a simple letter of greeting from
Sidi Idris. They almost prostrated themselves to kiss the sacred
writing. This was the same ungrudging loyalty that we had witnessed
among the humble Auwaghir whose tents we had visited between Soluk and
Ghemines. Their lives belonged to the Sayed. Therefore they were at our
disposal. Their courage and faith were undaunted because they were the
essence of simplicity.
Surely the glories of a race which can give its all so ungrudgingly
cannot be entirely in the past. The great history of Omar, of Ibn Nebu
Musa, of Harun-er-Rashid and Saladin may yet be repeated. There are
leaders who understand the heart of their people, but perchance they
only know that they have power, without knowing how they can use it. It
has ever been the policy of European nations to break up the Arab races,
to create discord among their princes, to induce their chiefs to oppose
one another. Is it not a short-sighted policy in view of the widespread
unrest in Europe to-day? Our Western empires and kingdoms are large
enough. Concentration and not expansion should be our programme. In the
days of Mohammed Ben Ali a caravan under his protection could pass
safely from Tripoli to Wadai. All the great caravan routes were open for
commerce and trade. How many are open to-day? Strengthen the hand of the
native ruler with all the prestige of European support and he will be
responsible for the opening up of his country for the safe conduct of
travellers, for the friendly intercourse that will allow grain and
hides, dates and tea to cross the age-old desert routes!