TRIUMPHANT ARRIVAL AT JALO
We crossed the wadi at 12.30, our faces stinging and burning in the
cruel wind. The air was full of sand and the heat was excessive. The
body of the long winding oasis is composed merely of palm gardens, each
with its separate well or wells, known as Sawani, but the village of
Aujela lies in the farthest western curl. In Sawani there are only a few
broken-down buildings with crumbling walls, where perhaps a tattered
blue tobh shows for an instant beside huge feathery foliaged trees with
coarse-grained bark, something between a spruce and a mimosa, but, of
course, nameless.
For three hours we plodded south-west along the line of Sawani’s palms.
An ancient square tower appeared on a sandhill to our left—the morabit
of Sidi Saleh—but we left it behind us before the top of another long
swelling rise brought the longed-for Aujela into view. The sun was
blurred behind the flying sand, but we gazed eagerly at the mass of
palms broken only by the low white dunes which stretched south for
nearly a mile. At the farther end lay the clustered mud houses, all
heaped together under the shadow of the palms, with here and there a
square of small clay cupolas on the roof of a mosque. It was very
different from the isolated houses of Jedabia, widely scattered over a
white sandstone plain. Aujela gives a first impression of a ruined town,
because of its small roofless mud courts, its irregular doorways and
unfinished walls; but it is exceedingly picturesque seen against a red
setting sun.
We camped just before four in a hollow beyond the last fence made of
plaited palm leaves. We were so hungry that we could hardly wait to put
up our tent. Visions of milk and eggs and fresh crisp “hubz” danced
before our eyes. We sent the fat Yusuf to inquire. Meanwhile, Omar had
departed to his home in the town, to return a little later with a basket
of fine dates. It was a resplendent being who found us flat on our camp
beds, too tired to care any more about food. We had discovered a small
stick of chocolate in a knapsack. Hassanein wanted me to eat the whole
of it, but the desert teaches only two laws. The European code of morals
disappears altogether. One becomes a simple savage being who may commit
most crimes with impunity. In opposition, however, one gradually
realises that two or three actions, considered natural and justifiable
in London, are unforgivable sins in the Sahara. The laws all true
wanderers obey are these: “Thou shalt not eat nor drink more than thy
share,” “Thou shalt not lie about the places thou hast visited or the
distances thou hast traversed.”
Omar had changed his dirty, torn white chemise, with his ragged jerd,
for a blue, braided jubba and a new striped jerd. We thanked him
earnestly for the dates and listened indifferently to the stern fact
that absolutely nothing could be bought in Aujela. Doubtless, as we were
the Sayed’s guests, he said, the important people of the town would send
us gifts of food on the morrow, but for the moment, short of begging,
nothing could be done. It was beneath our dignity as important Egyptians
travelling on the Sayed’s business to explain the state of our
commissariat, so we made up our minds to a supper of milk tablets and
dates. At the last moment, however, one of our guardian angels, Musa
She-ib, appeared smiling, with his scarlet mandil full of fresh eggs!
Our joy was unspeakable. I don’t know how many we ate. I remember
kneeling in the sand for ages under a calm, starlit sky, half blinded by
the smoke of a brushwood fire, poaching those blessed eggs one by one.
“I like your particular sauce,” said Hassanein. “I shall miss the taste
of sand in Cairo!”
We managed to wash a little afterwards, the joy of which was diluted by
the fact that we were suffering from a violent rash all over us. We
politely called it heat, but I think it was dirt! Just as we had
finished our eggs, Mohammed came with excitement to tell us that the
sheikh of the zawia, Abdul Kasim, with the ekhwan and the important
people of the belad, were coming to visit us, as they had heard we had
letters from Sayed Rida. We had no clothes to wear. We could not even
offer them the usual sweet tea. She-ib came to the rescue, as usual, and
it was agreed that the meeting should take place in his tent. Hassanein
was hurriedly rigged up in my beautiful silk jerd, with an hereditary
brocaded white kufiya which he had brought from Egypt on his head, the
gorgeous one the generous Sayed had given me wound gracefully round his
neck. The meeting was most impressive. The dignified sheikhs sat round
the narrow tent on dyed camel’s-hair rugs, their rifles stacked against
the centre pole. With the utmost solemnity the letters of Sayed Idris
and Sayed Rida were read. With one voice the ekhwan murmured: “The
orders of the Sayed are upon our heads.”
Then details were discussed. The matter of distance was again very
difficult. “As far as a man may go on one girba,” is a favourite
expression. A “girba” is a dried goatskin used for carrying water. It
holds from four to seven gallons. The Beduins say a man may travel on a
small one for five or six days in winter and for three in summer. After
much argument we were told that it was actually thirteen days from Jalo
to Kufara by the direct caravan route which goes on to Wadai. There are
two wells, one at Buttafal, a day’s march from Jalo, and another at
Zieghen, seven days farther on. This well, which stands alone in the
desert, is wrongly marked as an oasis, Sirhen, on the map. There is
another so-called route from Jalo to Kufara, that chosen by Rohlfs. It
runs in a more westerly direction to the oasis of Taiserbo, erroneously
supposed to be one of the Kufara group. This oasis contains several
villages, the biggest being Kseba, Mabus, el Kasr and el Wadi, inhabited
by Zouias and Tebus, the latter being the original dwellers in Kufara,
from which they have been gradually driven by the conquering Senussi.
Beyond Taiserbo there are various savage tribal bands, who delight in
sacking caravans and murdering their escorts. They are sworn foes to the
merchant and Zieghen is, occasionally, a dangerous halting place,
because the Tebus sweep east from their Ribiana stronghold, or the
lawless Zouias from Buseima fall upon the caravan and have vanished into
the desert before the news has reached Kufara. From Taiserbo a six or
seven days’ route runs via Buseima to Kufara, but, besides the fear of
attack, it is dangerous owing to sand dunes.
It is also possible to go direct from Jalo to Buseima, a route unmarked
on our map. One passes through the “hatia” between Zieghen and Taiserbo,
in the bed of which there is water, and sees the dark strange mountain
two days before one reaches the oasis in its shadow. Buseima always
appealed to me fatally because of its lovely black mountain and its
lake! A lake in a Libyan desert! Surely that is sufficient to make up
for any number of robbers! I tried hard to persuade Abdullah to ignore
Taiserbo, apparently much akin to any other flat desert oasis, and go
straight to the country of dark mountains, but about this he was
adamant. He would not risk this dangerous route and so we each
_privately_ made up our minds to outwit the other. He would take me to
Taiserbo with the secret intention of then going to Zieghen and by the
main caravan route to Kufara. I agreed to the Taiserbo route, but with
the equally firm determination of continuing to our goal by way of
Buseima.
Two other possible ways to the sacred city were mentioned. One due south
from Jaghabub, and one west from Farafra in Egypt, but both necessitated
twelve or thirteen days without water. Nobody seemed to know much about
the latter, but the casualties on the former had been appalling. The
last Arab who attempted it had died on the way because his water went
bad. Sayed Ahmed, traversing it with an army, had been forced to leave
his luggage, stores and horses behind. Another party had lost their way
and, after half their number had died, the remainder arrived at Siwa by
mistake. “The guides lost their heads,” said Abdul Kasim. “One mistake
is sufficient and you must die!” We were very anxious to return by this
route, but they all dissuaded us. “Return to Jalo,” they said. “It is
only seven days from there to Jaghabub, but it is all without water. The
wells were closed in the War.”
We asked more definitely about the position of Kufara. Five days from
Zieghen and seven from Taiserbo, the oasis generally called Kebabo is
really Kufara. It is not one of a group. It lies entirely alone, and it
contains five villages.
All this was told by grey-bearded sheikhs by the light of two guttering
candles in She-ib’s humble tent. The atmosphere was very friendly. They
sympathised and wanted to help. “Only good can come out of your
journey,” they said. “You have the Sayed’s blessing. Therefore, your
coming is an honour to us. Stay with us a day and let us see you again.”
The air was full of warm enthusiasm and we felt we were among friends.
In the morning, of course, it had all changed. It is difficult in Europe
to understand the mentality of these children of nature. They are simple
and emotional. Such a little way below their impulsive kindness and
generosity lies the almost maniacal fanaticism of their tradition. We
were playing a difficult part and the threads were apt to get
complicated. We had to pretend to be poor for fear of attack by robber
bands, yet we had to be able to bribe when necessary. I had to be a
Moslem woman, yet I had to talk to ekhwan and sheikhs. We had to be
important Egyptians to be worth protecting, yet we had no clothes or
stores. We were travelling on a secret mission for the Sayed, yet we
wanted to go to places where there could be no chance of work. It was no
wonder that suspicion constantly followed us. Tales of a Christian woman
and her secretary came from Jedabia. It was possible that they would
cling to us all the way.
Apparently a morose Beduin had come to She-ib’s tent the previous night
and protested violently against the arrival of these strangers from
Egypt. “They are not of us,” he said. “We must put them through the
usual searching questions. Then we shall know who they are and what is
their business.” “They have letters from the Sayed. Is that not enough
for you?” said our friend. “They must learn that it is difficult to
travel in this country,” insisted the Beduin. “No strangers may come
here.” Apparently one of the important people of the town was of like
opinion, for next day the ekhwan were divided into two camps. One party
was for literally obeying the gracious letter of Sayed Rida and giving a
feast in our honour. The other, led by an unruly Arab, head of a section
of the Zouia tribe, who always made a habit of opposing the Sayed’s
wishes, wanted to ignore us. The result was a compromise. They showed us
no hospitality, but they met in the zawia in the afternoon and received
us with friendliness. They signed their names to a curious document
stating that, in accordance with the Sayed’s order, they had hospitably
received Hassanein Bey and the Sitt Khadija, and I think they were
ashamed as they did so, for one, Ahmed Effendi, who came from Jalo to
collect the Government taxes, said boldly, “I will sign that when I meet
you in my town in a few days.” We learned afterwards that he had made a
loyal speech in the morning, saying that they must all do honour to the
Sayed’s guests, and the formal reception in the zawia was probably due
to him.
There are between thirty and forty ekhwan in Aujela. The sheikh of the
zawia is Abdul Kasim. The zawia stands on a low rise in the centre of
the town. It is a square mud building with heavily barred windows,
looking more like a fortress than a college. Below are gardens of bisset
and onions with a few pumpkins. Barley is grown under the belad’s broken
walls, and in broad shallow depressions one sees rows of sand bricks
baking in the sun. In the morning we wandered through the town, followed
by a crowd of amazed children who had probably never seen a stranger
before. Women peeped at us from low doorways. They were muffled in folds
of long indigo tobhs which were delightful in the brilliant sunshine.
Occasionally one made a vivid splash of colour in orange or scarlet.
They wore gold ear-rings and all had tattoo marks on forehead and chin.
Most of the people of Aujela speak a dialect similar to that of the
Tuaregs and of some of the Siwa people, but it is not understood in
Jalo.
We went through the narrow winding paths bordered by high mud walls,
with here and there a palm drooping over a grey feathery bush, till we
came to the biggest mosque, with its square roof covered with clay
cupolas. Here we met some of the ekhwan, who greeted us kindly and took
us to the zawia to see the qubba of Abdullahi Sahabi, the supposed clerk
of Mohammed, who is buried there. By a narrow passage one passes into a
square sandy court, with a narrow roof running along three sides, under
which the ekhwan sit on mats. A door leads into a further smaller court,
and from there one passes through a carpeted antechamber into the
mosque. The tomb stands in the centre, covered with gaudy cotton stuff,
and the walls are hung with cheap mirrors and ostrich eggs, the latter
the gift of pilgrims from Wadai. We walked round the tomb, chanting the
Koran, after which we kissed it and solemnly repeated the “Fatha.” The
ekhwan spend whole days reading and studying the Koran round this tomb.
We asked them about Rohlfs’ caravan, but they knew nothing except that
Mannismann had been there before he started on his doomed journey west,
having already signed his death-warrant by writing that he did so at his
own risk. They told us the zawia had been founded by Mohammed el Mahdi
in 1872. Near by is the old Turkish Kasr, residence of the Ottoman
“kaimakaan,” now used as an office by the clerks of the Senussi
Government.
We had just finished a mighty lunch suddenly provided by the generous
Omar, masses of hot flat “hubz,” eggs and a chicken cooked in a bowl of
savoury juice and red pepper, and were trying to cool our smarting
mouths and watering eyes after burning “fil-fil,” when the great event
of many days happened simply and unexpectedly. We had searched the far
horizon for so many weary hours. We had magnified so many grazing herds
into our longed-for caravan that when Yusuf, standing on the rise above
us, said, “There is a caravan coming,” we took no notice. We had eaten
our first good meal for eleven days. Our souls were full of gratitude to
Omar and our only worry was how we could reward him for his generosity.
(In parenthesis it may be said that the only thing he coveted was some
imaginary scent he had smelled on me. We traced it eventually to some
Coti face powder which I was carefully treasuring against my arrival in
Cairo and he departed happily with a quarter of the box.) When, however,
Yusuf raced down the hill screaming, “Our caravan, Hamdulillah! Our
caravan at last!” lethargy departed and we all rushed up the rise with
more speed than dignity.
[Illustration: UNLOADING ON THE SECOND DAY FROM JEDABIA]
[Illustration: WADI FARIG: CAMELS AT THE WELL]
It was quite true. Twelve camels and a dozen men were within a hundred
yards of us. First came a stately figure in white burnus, Abdullah, a
famous guide, who knew all the Libyan routes, of whom the Beduins said,
“He has a great heart,” and next the neat, brisk little commandant, with
his thin, humorous face and quiet, dry manner, the ebony Abdul Rahim. He
was followed by a sergeant, Moraja, whose home was in Kufara, and six
men. Somewhere in the background lurked a cook, but we did not see him
that evening, for he was immediately sent to prepare a banquet for our
friends the She-ibs. After the first rush of joy, in which everyone
shook everyone else’s hand a score of times, and “Mabsut” and “Taiyib”
and “Hamdulillah!” filled the air, we watched the barraking of the
camels with blank amazement. Used to the indolence of the two Farrajes,
we could hardly believe our eyes when, literally in five minutes, under
the shrewd eyes of Abdul Rahim, the camels were freed, the luggage and
rifles stacked, and the men rapidly putting up the tents. We could only
rub our eyes and gasp, while my eyes wandered over the baggage in search
of the sacks which had been mysteriously taken from our Jedabia dwelling
at dead of night. I recognised them one by one and peace visited my
soul, even though, when I looked down, I saw the striped legs of my
pyjama trousers appearing beneath my red tobh, for the ill-used cotton
pantaloons had given way altogether the previous evening.
[Illustration: A HALT FOR THE NIGHT]
[Illustration: CAMP OF MOJABRA MERCHANTS AT BIR RASSAM]
We asked for news of Jedabia. “They say in the suq that you escaped in
an aeroplane sent by Allah,” said Abdullah gravely, but Abdul Rahim
smiled his wise little smile. “They asked me where I was going with my
big caravan,” he said, “and I told them I was travelling to punish some
Beduins who had not paid their taxes to the Sayed.” We learned through a
letter from our ebony confidant that it was the second messenger who had
discovered us by the Wadi Farig. The first had searched in vain and
returned without news. The ekhwan and the party who had opposed our
going were furious at our escape, which had been quite unsuspected. So
apparently were certain robber bands upon the road, for near Bir Rassam
the caravan, marching day and night to overtake us (it had done the 220
kilometres in four and a half days), were accosted by some armed Beduins
who asked where they were going, while two or three others who gathered
in the vicinity said, “Where is the rich Nasrani woman who is going to
travel south with large stores of food?” “I know nothing about her,”
said Abdul Rahim. “There is no woman with us, but if you want to fight
us we shall be delighted!” The disappointed Arabs retired hastily.
We did not go to bed without further evidence of the Sayed’s generosity.
A huge sack of dates was brought to my tent. “From Sayed Rida’s gardens.
We received a message to give them to you.”
There was much “fadhling” in the various tents that night, exchanging
congratulations and good wishes. The She-ibs and our Beduins were
feasting in one and the soldiers in a second. Several little fires
burned merrily. We went from one to another, making coffee from our
newly arrived stores in true Arab fashion, tasting it and pouring it
back into the pot if it were not sweet enough. Then we went up on to the
rise above the sleeping town, and talked about all that we had done,
which was so little in comparison with what remained to be done. Yet we
had won the first trick in the game and we felt we now had a fighting
chance of success! But even while peace enveloped us and the calm of the
desert might impregnate our souls, the first seed of a strife that was
very nearly to wreck all our plans was being sown in the camp below. The
blacks had got the idea firmly fixed in their heads that they were to
guard us. They posted a sentinel. Musa She-ib, returning late, was
challenged as he stood beside his bales. “I am the owner of the tent,”
he replied. “Then go inside or go away altogether!” came the order. Both
ruffled plumages had to be smoothed down in the morning. The soldier was
only doing his duty, but the She-ib’s caravan had rescued us from defeat
or starvation!
We started at 9.30 A.M. on December 19 for the six hours’ ride to Jalo
over a flat country of fine gravel, brownish-yellow, without a speck of
vegetation, but it was a divided party. The blacks, always lazy when
there was no necessity for a spurt, rode the camels, perching
precariously above sacks and bales. Yusuf was furious, chiefly because
he wanted to ride himself. “The camels will never reach Kufara if they
are ridden,” he said. “We shall all die on the way. There will be a
fight and we will kill these black slaves.” He went away to join
Mohammed, and the two kept away from the caravan the whole day.
Abdullah, the most famous tracker in Libya, who had recovered four of
She-ib’s camels which had strayed the previous night, following their
footprints among many thousands on the soft sand, led the caravan. I
kept the compass on him for an hour and he did not vary his direction by
one point. We made an absolutely straight line between the two oases. At
11.30 A.M. we saw a blot of palms on the horizon—Sharruf, the northern
end of the big oasis. Two hours later we entered the wide semicircle,
stretching south-south-east. The palms were thickly clustered at the
Sharruf end. A thinner belt swept round to another cluster at Manshia.
She-ib got off his camel and started walking briskly. Mighrib smiled.
“The feisha,” he said. “It is the feisha.” When a man goes on a journey
his wife sometimes places a hollow gourd or pot in a certain position on
the house-top so that it catches the wind. As long as it thrums with the
sound of the breeze her husband’s heart will throb for her and he will
return to her as quickly as possible.
At 2.30 we entered the thin belt in the middle. Here the palms were
dotted over thick white sand rolling up to low dunes. There was no sign
of a belad, though a thousand camel tracks went in the same direction. A
chill wind had risen, so I tried to go to sleep behind my shrouding
barracan. When I looked out an hour later the scattered palms had grown
rarer and we had swung round a broad dune, so that we faced another rise
on which stood a formidable row of walled buildings. The desert cities
of Libya each have their own special character.
There are two separate villages at Jalo—El Erg and Lebba. The former
looks like a fortress at first sight. Its long, solid mud houses with
their strong-walled courts line the brow of the rise. Behind are the
quaint curly streets, the mysterious low arches, the huddled dwellings
of sun-baked bricks; but as we drove our camels upwards we saw only the
bigger houses, with scattered groups of women and children wrapped in
black and indigo robes. To the left of the buildings stretched what
appeared to be a long, low, white wall, solid and even, which continued
indefinitely. Mohammed, seeing it, rushed forward excitedly. “It is a
royal reception in your honour,” he shouted. “En nahs tayibin hena. Ana
Mabsut! Oh, they are good people here! I am happy! They love the Sayed!
They wish to honour him and his guests!”
Bewildered, I looked again at the long, white wall. It was a solid mass
of white-clad Arabs. Line upon line of Beduins stretched in rigid order
from the corner of the last house along the whole length of the rise, at
the end of which the splendid wall of humanity dwindled away into groups
of women and children. Thrills of emotion warmed us all. It was so
spontaneously generous and kindly. I could have cried from sheer
gratitude and Mohammed’s dazzling smile was reflected on all our faces.
The camels were driven with shouts into more regular order. Abdul Rahim
ordered his men into line. Mighrib, wild with excitement, seized my
camel and almost dragged me off it. “Are you happy? Are you happy?” he
kept asking. Yusuf was dancing with delight. We tried to collect our
scattered wits and march up the rise in dignified fashion. The Sudanese
achieved it, led by their sergeant, but now that my foot was less
swollen both my great yellow shoes fell off at every second step, while
Hassanein’s jerd described odd, wind-blown antics on its own.
I shall never forget the mass of tall, grave figures in snowy jerd and
burnus, drawn up in military formation. The setting sun blazed red
behind them, and from below came the wild “Ullula-een!” of the women. We
came as strangers, as pilgrims to the land of the Senussi. We had no
claim on their hospitality. We had no right to enter the most closely
guarded country in the world. Beggar or prince, Beduin or sheikh, must
prove good reason ere he is made free of the south-bound tracks to the
sacred city. Our only passport was our love of the Arab race, our
sympathy with their customs and their Faith. We dared offer no other
plea. We asked but the right of the nomad to travel with his camels
wherever the desert called him. Sidi Idris, with a mystic’s vision,
responded to our desire. “The Beduins sense those who love them, and
they answer to the bond,” he said. “You will go unharmed.” We had
received a blessing and we might wander south by desert city and guarded
well to the mysterious, secret oasis. Little did we realise that we had
been marked as the honoured guests for whom no generosity was too great!
“The hospitality that you show them will be as if you had shown it to
us,” had written Sayed Rida and, by his will, we shared his lordship of
the desert.
As we approached the white ranks bowed with dignity, and a chorus of
grave “Aselamu aleikum, Marhaba, Marhaba!” “Bisilama” welcomed us, but
the lines never wavered. We shook hands with the kaimakaan, Hameida Bey
Zeitun, with the sheikh of the zawia, Sidi Mohammed es Senussi, and with
many ekhwan, following their example by afterwards kissing our hands and
touching our foreheads. We murmured gratitude unbounded for the honour
they did us. “All that we have is yours,” they said. “We belong to the
Sayed.” A house had already been prepared for us. The white mass parted
to let us through. Surrounded by the dignitaries of the town, amidst a
swelling murmur of welcome and blessing, we followed the hospitable
kaimakaan into the narrow sand streets.
It was a strange, muddled phantasy seen through a gap in the folds of
the barracan—dark-robed women peeping from low doorways, shouts of
flying children as the thonged whip of the commissaire swept them from
our path, thick sand, pale walls and the white crowd of kindly smiling
elders pressing round us. We stumbled through an arched door into a dark
anteroom, on by odd little yards and passages, into a small court. “This
house is all yours,” said the kaimakaan, “and the government is at your
service. Food will be brought you and all that you ask for we will
gladly give.”
The last scene remains in my mind. We stood in the doorway of the
largest room, a mud-walled chamber twelve feet square, with a central
pine trunk holding up the flat roof made of plaited leaves, the floor of
the desert’s own sand, thick and unmatted. The most reverend ekhwan
gathered in the court, and the Sayed’s letters were formally read.
“Good! Very good!” came a contented murmur, and then the kisses and the
formula, “The Sayed’s orders are on our heads,” as they touched turban
and jerd and ma-araka!
By this time it was 5 P.M. and dark, so we thought it was time for the
day’s second meal. The first had been eaten at 7 A.M. at Aujela.
Mohammed would not hear of it. “They will come back. They will bring
everything. We must make ready.” From somewhere he produced mats and a
carpet, his own I believe, which he spread on the sand. It is difficult
to arrange bulging sacks of tinned food and cereals artistically, but he
did his best, while I made a royal illumination by sticking a lighted
candle on the top of every sack. Just as we finished the ekhwan trooped
back, all bearing gifts—one brought dates, another bitter native butter,
a third great bowls of camel’s or goat’s milk. A white fluttering hen
was pressed into my hands, and a huge horned sheep dragged to our feet.
Bread enough for a regiment was piled in a plaited basket. Eggs and tea
and sugar followed. We stumbled over our thanks in sheer amazement at
their hospitality. “At least not the sheep,” I said frantically,
probably in English, as no notice was taken.
When the clamour had died away and the rejoicing Mohammed had piled our
rich gifts in every available corner, a small council of war gathered,
sitting cross-legged on the largest mat. I was offered the place of
honour, but I felt that refreshment was needed, so Farraj and I made a
tiny brush fire in a corner of the court and laboured to make strong
sweet coffee. Our baggage was wildly mixed, but the black rose to the
occasion. He produced a tin of coffee from somewhere and I broke one of
the great square slabs of sugar with a stone. We puffed and blew at the
wavering fire till our faces scorched and the water boiled. Mohammed
jumped excitedly round, upsetting things and offering impossible
suggestions, but the coffee, bought at my pet London grocer’s, was good,
and though there was a deficit of glasses, the guests appreciated it
warmly. As I brought in a second relay of cups on a tin plate they
formed a favourable impression of the Sitt Khadija and decided that
perhaps her mixture of blood was a pity but not a crime!
The grave Abdullah joined us, his keen, pointed face with small dark
beard, lean and weather-beaten, burnt almost black in contrast to his
thick white burnus. We talked of routes. The fat Yusuf naturally wanted
to go straight to Kufara by the Wadai caravan route and return the same
way. The kaimakaan and two sheikhs, Ibrahim Bishari and Mohammed
Maghruf, wished to uphold the honour of the Senussi. Therefore, they
assured us that all routes were safe. Abdullah was anxious not to go to
Buseima. He said, entirely incorrectly, that a band of Tuaregs dwelt in
Ribiana and their whole business in life consisted in robbing any chance
travellers between Buseima and Kufara. He said that caravans cannot
cross the steep dunes. The camels slip and cast their loads or break
their legs. “Our camels are not strong,” he urged, “and they are not
used to deep sand. While we are labouring in the dunes, the Tuaregs will
attack us and take the caravan.” “Is there no way of avoiding them?” I
asked, determined to see Buseima. “None. They will know where we are
passing, and they will lie in wait to surprise us. One man might escape
them, but how can a caravan pass unseen?” He told a gruesome story of a
caravan passing that way from Wadai a few weeks ago and of a successful
Tuareg attack which seized the camels and put to flight those of the
escort whom they did not kill. I could believe it, because in the French
Sahara I had known the masked Tuaregs, and their swift-trotting camels,
date-fed. They never remove the cloths which hide their mouths, but they
are the salt of the Beduin race—tireless, fearless and cruel!
Ibrahim Bishari proffered the fact that there was a route between
Taiserbo and Zieghen, one day’s journey or a day and a half at most, so
if, after reaching Taiserbo, we did not wish to face the dunes or the
Tuaregs, we could go to the lonely well on the caravan route, and thence
in five days to Kufara. Only Yusuf protested. “In Buseima are enemies of
the Arabs,” he said. “There is always danger there.” But I sternly
insisted. “The honour of the Sayed is in your hands. You must prove to
the Ferangi that his influence is strong enough to protect his people
anywhere.” This phrase spiked his guns for the moment. It was
enthusiastically received by the others. After deciding that we would
stay in Jalo for two or three days to procure girbas to carry sufficient
water for our large party, food for the men, information about the route
and generally to reorganise the caravan, and that we would then go to
Taiserbo, the party broke up with many “Aselamu akeikum’s” and “Rahmat
Allah!”
At last we could devote our whole attention to food! First, however, I
was taken by Moraja to see the sheep, which had already been
slaughtered, skinned, and cut up into bits. “Choose which piece you
want, and we will eat the rest,” said the sergeant. I picked out a leg
and departed hastily, but the blacks were amazed at my frugality. Two
rushed after me with strange-looking fragments, which I had never seen
on a dinner-table, and pressed them upon me. “They are very good,” they
said. “You will be happy.”
December 20 and 21 we passed in the little sand house with the maze of
odd courts and antechambers. After forty-eight hours within its
hospitable walls I still lost my way coming from the main door to my
room, so intricate were the twists and turns. It does not sound a very
lengthy affair to procure and issue food and girbas sufficient for
seventeen people for a fortnight or three weeks, when the Government’s
stores are at one’s disposal and the kaimakaan is as capable and
energetic as Hameida Bey Zeitun. Yet we worked about eighteen hours out
of each twenty-four. Flour rations for the caravan! Yes, the grain is in
the village, but it must be ground, and for this purpose a little must
be doled out to each house in Jalo, for no family possesses more than
one primitive handmill worked by two blue-robed women, who slowly turn
the great stones one above the other. Sixteen girbas for water! Yes, but
some of them leak, and there is no tar to repair them.
So it is with everything. The soldiers would not travel without a large
supply of “zeit” (oil) in which to cook their cereals. Mohammed wanted
to have a change of raiment made and was only comforted by hearing that
the prices were much cheaper in Kufara. The dark Abdullah would not move
an inch without being satisfied that the caravan carried sufficient
water. The full army allowance for washing, cooking and drinking is a
gallon per day per man. There were seventeen people in our party, so for
seven days we should have had to carry 133 gallons. The largest girbas
hold seven gallons, and a camel carries four of them. Therefore, five
loads would have had to be devoted to water only. This was impossible,
as we had also to carry dates for our animals at an allowance of one
sack per head per day, and we had only eight camels.
Every moment that was not devoted to the consideration of these
practical details or to settling the grievances of the men—Yusuf had
several new ones each day, and even Hassanein was aggrieved because the
solemn tailor did not finish his new white chemise and trousers in time—
we spent in the delightful practice of “fadhling.” It is not an easy
thing to gain information among the Senussi. The simplest question
generates suspicion. A remark about the price of cotton stuff or the
position of a well arouses the darkest forebodings. The sight of pencil
and note-book seals their lips. One needs infinite patience and
understanding before one can penetrate their reserve. They are a silent
race with rare bursts of loquaciousness. At an Arab gathering it is not
necessary to talk. After the oft-repeated “Keif halak” and “Taiyib,” the
men sit gravely silent, staring into space and sipping their strong
green tea. The desert breeds reserve. If a man travels alone for many
days or weeks without sight of a human being, without exchanging a word,
he learns to commune with himself and his god, and he shuts his heart
away in a sealed chamber.
The Senussi are particularly difficult of approach, as they are a
closely knitted religious fraternity imbued with a distrust of strangers
that almost amounts to hatred! Not only does the Nasrani not cross their
border, but practically no Arab outside their brotherhood travels by
their routes. Hence the advent of any stranger, even protected by the
“Sayeds,” gives birth to a storm of conjecture, criticism and suspicion.
When this is satisfied and allayed, their loyal friendliness appears,
and they welcome one literally as one of themselves. “All that we have
is yours,” is not a form of speech in Libya. It is true so long as the
friendly atmosphere exists, but one may have worked for hours or days to
create the right impression, and a chance word may destroy it. I think
utter simplicity and little speech are the best methods of approach.
Flowery words impress them, and they say, “Thy conversation is like
honey. Allow me to return that I may drink of it.” But to themselves
they murmur, “He is a juggler of words. Let us be careful lest he bemuse
us!”
They always suspect an ulterior motive and it is best, therefore, to
satisfy their love of mystery and let them gradually decipher a suitable
one. The basis of their life is their faith and, like every ascetic
sect, their strict practice isolates them from the rest of humanity.
Outside the distrust engendered by their lives, aloof and remote from
any code but their own, they are as simple as the shepherd patriarchs of
old. The mentality of Abraham exists to-day in Libya. Also they are as
easily impressed, offended or hurt as children. The poorer people show
the amused, expectant curiosity of children, with the same eagerness to
question and to learn. Once they have admitted one to their friendship,
the sheikhs ask intelligently about politics in the Middle East, and for
hours one may discuss the Ottoman Empire, the Hejaz and Egypt. Before,
however, one can even attempt to joke, much time must have been spent
“fadhling.”
One by one the important merchants and sheikhs came to visit us.
Gradually the circle seated upon our one carpet under the palm leaf roof
widened. Grave, bearded faces peered from the hoods of dark blue
burnuses, braided, lined with red. Sunburnt hands flicked away the
myriad flies with whisks of palm fronds. There was the plump kaimakaan,
with pallid, intelligent face and stubble of black beard round thick,
smiling lips, and Garboah Effendi, with humorous expression on a face
which might hail from Europe—firm lips, square jaw, pale skin, wide,
quizzical smile. I think stray Vandal blood must run in his veins. His
mother lived in Benghazi, and he was interested in the ways of Europe.
There was the white-faced sheikh el zawia, Mohammed es Senussi, with
dreamy eyes and dropping jaw, and dear, fat, old Sheikh Mohammed
Maghruf, with round, lineless face as brown as a nut, a succession of
circles from his little pursed mouth to his round brown eyes, and Sheikh
Ibrahim Bishari, the traveller, who had taken his laden caravan from
Wadai to Egypt, from Kufara to Lake Chad.
We discovered, after much sweet tea had been drunk with loud sucking
noises and our best coffee was perfuming the air, that Jalo is a
community of merchants. The date palms are a minor thing. The village
lives by its trade, for it is on the main caravan route between the
Sudan and the Cyrenaican ports. Sidi Mohammed, the Mahdi, founded this
great desert highway through Kufara. Before his day all caravans passed
by way of Tripoli and the Fezzan. We learned that ivory was bought at
Wadai for five or ten francs the pound and that when the expenses of the
long journey were deducted, the Beduins counted on making a profit of
fifty per cent. in Benghazi. Southbound caravans took needles, soap,
scent, sandal, cotton stuffs, sugar and tea. They returned with ivory,
feathers and smuggled slave boys and girls of eight to ten years. Some
of these latter were adorable—solemn little beings, with chubby black
faces peering out of the pointed hood of minute camel’s-hair burnuses.
They were sent by their masters to bring us gifts of eggs and milk and
they regarded us with aloof scorn till we propitiated them with handfuls
of dates.
The friendly circles discussed every Sahara route, marked or unmarked,
upon the maps. We learned the position of every well and the taste of
the water therein. We also learned that in winter a camel may actually
go fifteen days without water, if lightly loaded and carefully driven.
Therefore, Siwa, Jaghabub and Farafra are all possible outlets from
Kufara, though a single mistake or mishap means destruction. As the
hours lengthened and the coffee grew sweeter, we passed from business to
politics. The eyes of all were turned to Egypt’s struggle for freedom as
an earnest of the future of Libya. To my surprise, Britain was regarded
with respect and affection. The destruction of the Senussi zawias in
Egypt was put down to the result of Sayed Ahmed’s mistaken policy.
Apparently the whole country had realised Britain’s disinterestedness
with regard to Libya and, therefore, had entered but half-heartedly into
the projects of Mannismann and Nouri. Sayed Ahmed is regarded with
respect and reverence as a devout Moslem, but his politics are
regretted. Sayed Idris is looked upon as the saviour of his country. He
came forward at a moment when the Senussi saw a prospect of the whole
land slipping into European hands. By his tactful policy he preserved
the power of his people, who respect him for his friendship with Britain
and for his intelligent and amicable attitude towards Italy. They look
to him to preserve Libya for the Senussi, while realising that Italy
will always have a hold in Cyrenaica. It is too early yet for the new
constitution to be appreciated in Libya. The terms of the accord at
Regima have not yet been transmitted to the desert oases. Therefore,
there was still much doubt in the minds of our visitors as to the future
of their country.
When the broad-minded policy of Italy is fully known, there should be an
excellent understanding between the Senussi and their Latin allies. The
whole prosperity of the country will depend upon that good
understanding. Two men are responsible for its initiation. The Beduins
owe their present peace entirely to the straightforward, progressive
spirit of Sidi Idris. Italy owes hers to the Governor of Cyrenaica,
Senator de Martino, who appears to be the first European statesman of
this era to realise that in dealing with Arab races it pays to keep
one’s pledged word. “_C’est une mauvaise politique de promettre et de ne
pas tenir bon_,” His Excellency said to me while I was staying with him
at Benghazi. “_C’est l’erreur qu’a fait l’Angleterre. Ici on à confiance
en moi parcequ’on sait que je tiendrai ma parole!_”
When the candles were lit and mint leaves put in the tea our guests grew
confidential. They told us of their love of freedom and of their desire
for a quiet life without political intrigue. The war had done them much
harm, for it had raised prices and closed routes. The trade of the
country was almost at a standstill. The export of hides had stopped
altogether.
Bitter feeling had to a large extent died down, but it could be
rekindled by any act of aggression. The Arabs hoped at the moment that
Italy would come no farther inland, but I imagine that their merchants
will be anxious to avail themselves of the increased facilities for
trade which Italian protection will give to Cyrenaica. Sheikh Ibrahim
asked about the Hejaz kingdom. There is a famous Senussi zawia near
Mecca and the bonds between Libya and the Hejaz must always be close
because of the pilgrimage to the “Beit Ullah!” It is to the interests of
every devout Moslem, especially to these ascetic fanatics, that there
should be peace in the territory of King Hussein. All were interested in
the career of the Emir Faisul and they asked when he would return to
Damascus. To this embarrassing question we were obliged to give evasive
replies, but the point was pressed with more decision than usual. “Is
not England going to help him?” asked the kaimakaan indignantly. We
tried to explain the complicated policy of my country, but the oldest
sheikh shook his head impatiently. “Are not the English strong enough to
protect their allies?” he said. “We were sorry when Sayed Ahmed made war
upon England, because we thought she was strong and powerful. Has she
become weak now?” We changed the conversation lightly, but the little
sting rankled.
Once more it was brought home to us how British prestige among the Arabs
had dwindled during the last years. We have won the war, but we have
lost the peace! Maybe we have lost an even greater thing! As I listened
to the words of censure of our Beduin guests I remembered the last
speech I had heard on the subject. It came from the lips of a great
statesman at an Asiatic Society dinner in London and, delineating
Britain’s future policy in the Middle East, it left its hearers
bewildered by rhetoric but ignorant of fact!