A FAULTY GUIDE ON A WATERLESS WAY
On December 26 we made our actual start south. The day’s delay in the
sandstorm and the further delay with the sick camel had lost us four
feeds. We had allowed half a sack of dates night and morning, so now we
had only five sacks for the seven days. However, we bought the soldiers’
ration for sugar, threw in most of our own, and thus brought it up to
nearly the requisite amount of “alaf.” As for girbas, the utmost the
camels could carry was eight large ones, containing five gallons each,
and eight smaller, containing four gallons each. We warned our party of
sixteen that they must use only an eighth portion of the water each day.
We then commended ourselves to Allah and started south at 8:30 A.M., for
the weighing and exact distribution of goods, to say nothing of the
quarrels between blacks and Arabs, had occupied a couple of hours.
There is no route to Taiserbo, as no one ever goes there. In the whole
of Jalo we came across only two people who had visited the oasis. One
said he had gone due south and arrived at the palm trees on the evening
of the sixth day. The second was our own sergeant, Moraja, who had
passed through Taiserbo on his way north nine years ago and he had done
the journey in six very long marches. Abdullah, our keen-eyed guide,
with his dark wolf’s face lighted by flashes of brilliant white teeth,
announced that if we headed straight for Taiserbo in a south-westerly
direction we might go too far west and lose ourselves altogether. He
therefore proposed to go south for the first five days, within sight of
the faint landmarks on the Kufara route, and then turn west. All day
long we rode across a burning, desolate waste, flatter than it is
possible to imagine or describe. One could see but a few miles on either
side. The whole of our world had become a flat, yellow disk, reflecting
the scorching sun-rays in quivering mirage. The only break in the
monotony was an occasional camel skeleton. Once a great brown hillock
appeared on the edge of the disk and we thought it might be brushwood or
even a caravan, till the distorting waves of mirage danced away and
revealed it but a few huddled bones to which some dry, brown matter
still clung. We ate a hard-boiled egg and a few dates for lunch, but
clung to our rule of drinking only morning and evening. As we plodded
onwards, for we had agreed that no one should ride the camels unless
they were ill or dead beat, Moraja assured me that our journey could not
possibly be lucky, for we had failed to fulfil a time-honoured Arab
custom and slaughter a sheep at Buttafal. It appears that when any
member of a caravan visits an oasis for the first time a feast is made
in his honour. As none of our retinue had seen all the oases we proposed
to visit, we gathered it would be an expensive journey!
To our surprise the blacks walked all day without grumbling, even
stopping occasionally to dance and sing. The camel who had nearly died
the previous day carried her load gaily. “She was ridden by Shaitan,”
said Mohammed gravely, “but the spirit of Sidi Idris has cured her.” At
5 P.M. Yusuf pointed out the Kalb el Metemma, which he said was on the
left, but I could see absolutely nothing which looked like a hillock.
We saw the sun die in the flaming splendour which is the glory of the
Sahara, we marched for an hour or two by cool starlight and then a great
orange moon swung up in the east and transformed the desert into a
strange silver sea. Across the infinite pale loneliness plodded our
little caravan and, as I looked at the white speck which led us, I
realised why there could be no atheist in the desert. Man must put his
trust in something more powerful and far-reaching than himself. In
Europe, if there be no God to help, at least there is science and the
telephone, an express train or an aeroplane. In Libya, where the Beduin
cannot call for succour by wireless, where there are no signposts to
guide, no surgeon or mechanic to improve his means of locomotion, no
food to be bought or picked, no anæsthetic but death, the lonely
traveller must pin his faith to some power beyond the calm-faced guide
in whose hand apparently lies the fate of his caravan.
When Abdullah met me on the hill beside the clustered palms of Aujela, I
looked at his strong, keen face, lined and shrewd, with steady, self-
reliant eyes, and I felt that I could trust him to lead us safely across
the waterless sands to an oasis whose size varied according to the
imagination of the speaker. When I looked across the moonlit, speckless
waste, with never a blade or stone to break the even surface of the
disk, the tiny, plodding figure, trailing the end of his white jerd in
the dust as his energy waned after eleven hours’ march without a halt, I
felt how frail a thing I relied on for my life and seventeen lives
besides. When we sit in comfortable arm-chairs under our electric lights
and talk of the “Beduin instinct,” we acknowledge the working of a
greater power than radium or steam! Europe may count on a hundred
sciences, but for Libya there can be but one faith, one hope, “Allahu
Akhbar!”
[Illustration: HASSANEIN BEY AND MOJABRAS DRINKING TEA]
[Illustration: FLOCKS WATERING AT BIR RASSAM]
We pitched camp at 7.30 P.M., and an hour later our little cluster of
tents was as silent as the calm sands around us.
[Illustration: SHE-IB’S CARAVAN ON THE MARCH BETWEEN WADI FARIG AND
AUJELA]
[Illustration: OUR CARAVAN APPROACHING AUJELA]
On December 27 we rose at 6 A.M. and got away by 8, for we had decided
that the best way of doing the necessary 50-odd kilometres a day was an
unbroken march of eleven or twelve hours, with a solid meal before
starting and another in the evening. As the last groaning camel rose to
his feet Yusuf pointed out a group of low hillocks to the east. “Those
are the Hameimat on the road to Zieghen,” he said.
Our plump ally was in a reflective mood that day. In spite of
considerable heat, he wore the woolly lined mackintosh closely buttoned
and belted, with a white cloth wound over his cheeks. “What is Allah’s
greatest gift to man?” he propounded to me suddenly. I felt this was a
test of my faith in Islam, so I promptly replied, “The Koran.” He looked
at me scornfully. “The camel! If there were no camels here, there would
be no dates, no food, nothing!” He paused and added solemnly, “If there
were no camels here, there would be no men!”
It is curious how the desert brings out character. Hassanein became so
vague that he never finished a sentence or an action. I developed a
fatalism wholly at variance with my usual ideas. Yusuf showed signs of
pride and dignity beneath his plump laziness. Abdullah became reserved
and impressive as the dunes that guard the holy oasis, but Mohammed
showed the finest qualities. All the Arabs were courageous with an
enduring quiet heroism that we were to appreciate so a few days later,
but Mohammed was infinitely kind and his pride was a fine, clean thing,
bred of silence and religion. He made a vow never to ride, and kept it
through infinite pain. He smiled when certain death was but a few hours
away. He forgave without words a carelessness that nearly cost him his
life. He laboured unceasingly to make everyone else comfortable, and the
only time I ever saw him lose his calm, aloof patience was when his
follower, Omar, had been slighted by the soldiers. As for the “blacks,”
they were a mixture of children and animal. When they suffered, they
were sulky. When praised, they were immensely pleased. Their ideas
germinated simply and slowly and were impossible to dispute. They were
alternately brave and cowardly, but had no endurance until faced with
hopeless danger, on which occasion they showed a rather splendid and
wholly unexpected patience and fidelity.
We nicknamed the opposing camps “the black bears” and the “shepherd
kings” after their first bad dispute, which took place on the second
day. Little Abdul Rahim simply had not the physique to walk thirty or
thirty-eight miles a day, so we were not surprised when he silently
climbed on to a camel, but when the fat Moraja and various others
followed his example I made violent protest. Unfortunately, Yusuf joined
in, calling the soldiers “Slaves!” This fired the fuse, and for a few
minutes a fight seemed imminent. The corporal seized his rifle and
Mohammed pulled out his big wooden pistol. By this time, however, I was
an adept at pouring oil on troubled waters and after plentifully
applying praise to both parties, the atmosphere became calmer.
Thereafter, however, there was open hostility between the two camps.
We camped at 7 near a group of camel skeletons, the bones of which our
own camels reflectively sucked. It was the only moment in the day that
Zeinab and Hauwa were in evidence, for they cooked the Arabs’ evening
meal over a few twigs of wood brought from the neighbourhood of
Buttafal. All through the long march two little shrouded figures, wholly
enveloped in coarse, heavy blankets, huddled motionless, silent on the
camels. They never looked out of the folds. They never spoke, even to
each other. I wondered if they ever thought of anything in particular,
yet one of them, by the strange chance of a night’s phantasy, might be
the mother of the future all-powerful Sheikh es Senussi. In Islam only
paternity counts. Be the mother slave or princess, the eldest son
inherits.
On December 28 we got away at 7.40, and had to march for eleven and a
half hours before we had done 46 kilometres. The first day the camels
had made a good average of over 4 kilometres an hour, for there was no
temptation to wander in order to graze, but the second day everyone was
tired and cross, and it was difficult to make the men drive them in a
straight line. The third day the blacks’ feet began to blister. My own
foot was swollen again. It is very difficult to walk for any length of
time in the huge heel-less slippers. Hassanein and Yusuf were both
limping, and Moraja could not keep on his legs, for all the veins were
inflamed. I was so tired I could hardly smile, but, luckily, the
unexpected distribution of a bag of dates encouraged the retinue a
little. The mirage distorted two tiny heaps of stones into a couple of
hills, and Yusuf playfully built the last camel skeleton into an
original shape with one leg lifted high. It was not till I had laughed
at its fantastic kick that I noticed the human skull that crowned it!
One had to divide one’s attention evenly between the two camps. If one
walked for an hour with Abdullah, and heard how our opponent’s agent in
Jedabia had tried to bribe him not to accompany the caravan and how the
said agent had subsequently received the beating he deserved, one had to
devote the same amount of time to conversation with Moraja on the
glories of the Sudan and the prowess of her soldiers. It was no easy
task keeping everyone cheerful during an eleven hours’ walk on no food
or water. In the evening, after we had eaten our half-ration of meat and
a handful of dates—for we were carrying the least possible amount of
food—a pathetic procession used to rob us of much-needed sleep. We
treated blistered and swollen feet, headache from the sun, toothache
from dates, sores, fever and lots of other ailments before we were
allowed the peace of our flea-bags—very comparative peace, for by this
time we were suffering seriously from sand-rash!
December 29 saw us en route at 6.40, and by 10 o’clock Abdullah stated
that we had arrived at the Wadi Farig. Personally, looking at it from
every angle, I could not see the slightest depression of any kind, but
everyone said it was half-way, so spirits rose high. Nevertheless, it
was a trying day, for by this time nearly everyone was lame. Mohammed
could hardly keep on his feet, but he doggedly refused to ride. The
blacks used to walk on half a mile in front of the camels, then lie on
their faces while their companions stamped on their backs, an original
form of massage.
Abdullah picked up a piece of ostrich eggshell dropped by a passing
caravan from Wadai. “Seventy years ago there was ostriches here,” he
informed us with doubtful accuracy. “What did they eat?” I asked. “Oh,
food, much food!” he answered vaguely.
There was a short shower in the evening which interfered with the
cooking but provided a little extra water. We were very anxious about
our supply, for the first day one of our fanatis had leaked and the
blacks had availed themselves of the excuse to empty it during the
night. We used to arrange the girbas outside our tent and dole out the
water ourselves. Several of the new girbas leaked badly and in spite of
the utmost care we thought everyone would be extremely thirsty by the
seventh day. We ourselves drank one cup of hot coffee in the morning and
two cups of cold tea or water at night. We camped that day at 6.10 P.M.
December 30 we started at 7 A.M. and camped at 6.35 P.M. It was a
terribly hot day and the camels were nearly as crocked as the men. One
had cut a foot, and another had a raw shoulder. Two had bad sore backs,
so their loads had to be divided among the others. In spite of this some
of the soldiers had to be allowed to ride, for their feet were badly
swollen. The country had changed slightly, for faint waves of sand had
marked the neighbourhood of the Wadi Farig, but the flatness of the disk
was now unimpaired, though its yellow monotony was broken by patches of
dark gravel. This gave the mirage a chance to build ebony hills and
islands amidst its blue, shifting waves.
December 31 we started at 6.30 A.M. and walked till 7 P.M., doing 46
kilometres, because the situation had suddenly become very serious. The
previous day Abdullah had surprised us by insisting on a slightly south-
easterly course, as he had not yet seen a small landmark on the Zieghen
route. When we had talked the matter over in Jalo he had assured us
calmly and strongly that he had been to Taiserbo and knew the route. We
had cross-questioned him severely, and always he had been confident of
being able to guide us to any of the southern oases, though he had urged
us not to go to Buseima on account of the danger of being attacked.
Now according to our map it was 350 kilometres from Buttafal to
Taiserbo. It was generally stated by the Arabs to be a seven days’
journey, which was a daily march of eleven to twelve hours at an average
of four and a fraction kilometres an hour. Therefore, in spite of
Abdullah’s change of direction, according to the mileage we had done, we
should have been well within the oases that night. We had confidently
expected it the previous evening, when we noticed a certain vagueness
about our guide. “Don’t talk to him, or he will lose his head,” said
Mohammed on the sixth day. It is looked upon as a definite disease, like
fever, this losing the head on the part of the guides. It was
extraordinary to see the change in the Beduin’s face that day. The whole
outline of his features seemed to have become blurred, while his eyes
were restless and troubled. He stooped as he walked and kept asking if
we thought he was going straight, so that by the end of that day we had
to direct him by the map, which we had every reason to believe
inaccurate. It must be remembered that while we always knew roughly
where we were, we never knew where Taiserbo was. We started half-rations
for the camels on the 31st and tried to cut down the water ration still
more, though since the girbas had begun to leak we had dispensed with
the half-cupful for washing.
New Year’s Day dawned gloomily. We had two half-feeds for the camels and
barely enough water for two days at less than a pint per day per person.
We were, however, a little cheered up when, as we were loading the
camels, Abdullah pointed out a faint blur to the east and said it was
Mazeel, some hillocks he had hoped to see the previous day. On clear
mornings, about an hour after dawn, when the desert is very flat, a
mirage of the country about a day’s journey distant appears on the
horizon. For a few minutes one sees a picture of what is some 50
kilometres farther on. The Arabs call it “the country turning upside
down.” On January 1, the seventh day of our march, we saw this mirage
for the first time—brushwood and hillocks quite clearly to the south,
yet our guide turned deliberately west of it. My camel was ill after his
unaccustomed date-feeding. Hassanein was in great pain from his
blistered feet. A permanent north wind, warring for a week with a
burning sun, had implanted rheumatism in my right shoulder. The firewood
had given out, and there had been a sharp quarrel between the blacks and
the Beduins on this account, each accusing the other of using more than
their share.
Abdullah kept on his south-westerly course for a few hours, and then
began to wander slightly. The blacks wanted to beat him. Even Mohammed
was impatient with him. We steered almost due south. Hassanein had to
ride all day and Mohammed’s eyes were bloodshot with the pain of his
feet, yet he struggled on. That night there were no fires in the camp,
and I fully expected Abdullah would be murdered. However, when I woke
before the dawn on January 2, I heard him laughing, so hoped he had
recovered his head. We dared not start till “the country had turned
upside down” and revealed to us what lay in front, so we occupied
ourselves in finding our exact position. According to our map we were
now within the borders of Taiserbo! This raised the problem of whether
it were one consecutive oasis or whether it were possible to go between
two groups of palms without seeing either!
At 8 A.M. the mirage showed us one sharp dune very much to the west. I
wanted to go straight there, hoping by sunset to be able to climb it and
have a good view of what lay beyond, but both Abdullah and Moraja
insisted that no such dune lay anywhere near Taiserbo. “If we go as much
west as that we go straight to Hell,” said the guide decisively. With
the ever-present danger of going beyond Taiserbo into the uninhabited
western desert it was impossible to argue. With only one day’s water and
no fodder we dared not risk everything so boldly, but I there and then
made up my mind that Taiserbo was smaller and much farther west than is
generally supposed. I believe if we had gone to that dune we might have
reached it. At that moment a thick, icy mist came down and blotted out
everything, so I decided to go south for five hours, in which case,
according to Jalo information and our map, we should have gone right
through Taiserbo and possibly be able to recognise some landmarks near
Buseima.
It was a terrible walk. Everyone knew that, humanly speaking, they were
going to die of thirst within a day or two. Nearly everyone had
blistered feet, and no one had had enough to eat, yet everyone laughed.
“It is evidently the will of Allah that we die,” said Farraj politely,
“but no one will die before Sidi Abdullah.” I doubt if the guide heard.
He trailed along with a blank, dispirited stare, first edging west, then
east. Mohammed was tottering on swollen feet. “I think that I would
rather die beside my luggage,” he said placidly. “Doubtless Abdullah and
Yusuf would like to wander about to the end, but I do not know this
country, Hamdulillah it will be quick!” Thereafter everyone spoke of
death, and I was amazed at the way they calmly accepted its advent. The
only thing that stimulated them was the demise of the guide. “By Allah,
Sidi Abdullah shall go first and show us the way!” said the toothless
one. “When I am certain of death I shall shoot him,” said Shakri firmly.
“But he called you a fool yesterday,” reminded Farraj. This worried
Shakri for a moment. Then he cheered up. “I will call him a fool first,
and then I will shoot him,” he said. Amidst this cheerful conversation
the mist suddenly lifted and revealed nothing but the same flat, pale
sand devoid of faintest shadow of grass or brushwood to give hope of an
oasis.
It is amazing how desperation affects one. That morning Hassanein could
not put his foot on the ground, but when he realised that his end was
imminent he walked for eight hours without feeling pain. Mohammed also
forgot his ills and I found myself wondering how soon I should awake
from this realistic nightmare. When our southern course produced nothing
but fanciful blue lakes and pools—for a burning sun now added to our
woes—we took council and, ignoring Abdullah, decided to march east-
south-east till water and camels gave out. There were several chances of
salvation on this new bearing, we thought, for we might hit the most
easterly end of Taiserbo if it were anywhere near its mapped position,
or we might find ourselves in the recognisable country south of Zieghen
or among the dunes near Buseima. We supposed these places to be too far
away to reach with the camels, but if we could get anywhere near we
could send a messenger for help and lie down to await his return. We
knew there was a little water in the tins of vegetables, and hoped that
if we kept very still this would keep us all alive for an extra day.
It was a terrible afternoon of mirage. I do not know whether weariness
had affected our eyes, but on every side we saw hills, dunes, brushwood,
and always they were the same dark patches of gravel. “It is a simple
route to Taiserbo,” had said the kaimakaan at Jalo, “but one mistake
means destruction!” Had we really made the one mistake? Curiously
enough, I felt no anger against Abdullah, even when he suddenly
acknowledged he had not been to Taiserbo for twenty years. In fact, an
odd fatalism had absorbed us all. The Beduins began discussing other
disasters on these terrible southern routes.
One man had died within fifteen yards of the water he had failed to find
in time. Another, whose water had gone bad on the Kufara route, had been
found dead beside his camels, one of which he had killed for its blood.
The blacks took an impersonal interest in these gruesome tales while
they walked on with stolid calm. I gave them our last bag of dates, but
warned them it would probably make them very thirsty. They replied with
extreme cheerfulness that they did not want to drink in the least. They
were really splendid that afternoon. They sang and laughed and cheered
each other on. Little Abdul Rahim stalked on ahead with a grim smile,
his rifle over his shoulder, his weakness forgotten. The only really
dispirited member of the party was Abdullah, who trailed along at the
heels of the caravan with downcast head. Once, when a low rise appeared
to the south, he walked briskly towards it in hopes of a further view,
but returned an hour later more gloomy than ever. The hot midday hours
dragged along intolerably slowly. I did not feel very thirsty myself,
but we had all drunk so little lately that our skins had become
extraordinarily dry and parched. Our lips and gums were cracked and
sore. The camels had had only a half-ration of dates the previous day
and nothing that morning, so they were ravenous. They tried to eat the
stuffing of the baggage saddles, and ran to every dark patch of stones
in search of grass.
At 3 P.M. some faint dunes appeared on the south-east horizon. We
expected Abdullah to recognise them, but his demoralisation must have
been complete, for he showed no interest in them. Yusuf and Moraja began
speculating as to whether they could be the “hatia” which ran between
Zieghen and Taiserbo. If so, there might be vegetation on the farther
side and the mystery of our position be solved. Nearly everyone ran on
ahead, and only Abdul Hafiz and Omar were left to drive the camels, who
were stumbling badly. It was their ninth day without water, but this
mattered less than the scarcity of food. For an exhausting hour everyone
struggled along at their best pace, limping, wavering, with parched
mouths and bloodshot eyes, before which danced the tantalising sheets of
water and cool, dark mirage hills. Suddenly Yusuf, who was on ahead,
flung himself on his face and embraced the earth, afterwards executing a
wild, bareheaded dance, during which he waved his long kufiya on the end
of his stick. We rushed to join him and found him lovingly stroking a
little mound covered with dry, brittle sticks. “It is brushwood-hattah,”
he said simply. “Inshallah! There is more beyond.” Two other mounds
appeared shortly with a little coarse, green shrub, over which the
camels fought and struggled till the last scrap had disappeared. By this
time sunset was near and we had to force our unsteady, aching limbs into
a run to reach those elusive dunes in time to catch the clear, far view
devoid of mirage that always comes at sunset. It was a pathetic race of
the halt and the lame in which Hassanein and I were out-distanced. We
saw the others clamber up the dune—we saw them stand gazing eastwards—
and then we saw them sink motionless in silent groups. I think at that
moment I felt our death warrant was sealed. I turned hopelessly to my
plucky companion. “It is no good. They would have danced if it had been
the ‘hatia.’” “Yes, they would have made a noise,” he said dully.
We crawled up to the top of the ridge, a series of wavy, curling dunes
running north-west to south-east, expecting to see the same level,
monotonous country that lay behind us. Instead, we were amazed to look
down over a few lower dunes to an entirely changed tract. On every side
were uneven mounds and hillocks covered with decayed scrub, leafless and
brown, but a few hundred yards in front was a cluster of huge green
bushes. We could not understand the apathy of the soldiers, who were
dejectedly rolling pebbles down the slope. “Surely there is water
there,” I exclaimed impatiently. “Wallahi! But that Abdullah does not
know!” said Farraj. “He says only that it is not the Zeighen country.”
As I ran down the dune the camels literally rushed past me to the patch
of green. But they did not eat. Apparently the great feathery bushes
were not fodder, and the only other things among the mounds were a
couple of skeletons to which the hooves and chest pads still clung.
“This place is El Atash—the thirst,” said Abdullah suddenly. “There is
an old well here, but its water will kill you! It is salt and bad.”
At the time we were obliged to rely on his statement, but since then I
have discovered that he was entirely mistaken. The water at El Atash is
brackish, but quite wholesome and the well can be dug out at any time.
It is only filled up with sand because travellers never come there
unless they have lost their way and are driven to the disused well by
thirst—El Atash! There was plenty of brushwood, so we built enormous
fires to cheer ourselves up, but we could cook nothing without water.
The blacks ate macaroni dry and the Arabs tried flour, though we offered
them our tinned meats. The soldiers had a cupful of water each, but the
Beduins had none, so we had to share our last hoarded bottle with them.
We dared not eat our meat ration because of the salt, so we sucked
malted milk tablets and eagerly drank the water from some tinned carrots
which were cool and damp. Then we tore up the baggage saddles to give
the straw stuffing to the camels, for we thought we could manage one
more day’s march by riding.
The morning of January 3 was misty. Ripples of white fog blurred the
landscape, while we silently loaded the camels, using blankets, tents,
anything soft as pads to support the panniered luggage. We ate a tin of
spinach because it was wet, but it was a hollow-eyed procession that
started due east along the “hatia” in the hope of hitting one of the
wells in the neighbourhood of Zieghen. Abdullah had held out many hopes
the night before, but now all he would say was “Inshallah!” We left El
Atash at 7.30 and toiled laboriously round the small mounds which looked
so oddly like graves. Three green ones gave the camels a little respite,
but there was no sign of the “gherds” (dunes) that generally mark the
presence of water. The whole retinue spread out in a straggling line
across the horizon, marching east, and every faint rise was passionately
scanned and discussed. At last Mohammed said, “If you cut my throat now
you will not find one drop of blood,” referring to the Arab idea that
when a man is in fear of death all the blood in his body rushes to his
head. “It is time that Sidi Abdullah dies,” said Farraj firmly, his
finger on the trigger, and then, of course, the unexpected, the
impossible, happened, and a faint dark blur appeared on the horizon.
I have no recollection at all of the next two hours. Whether I walked or
rode or ran I do not know. What happened to the others I have no idea.
My whole being was concentrated on those green mounds, which continually
vanished and reappeared until at last they consolidated at 2.30 P.M.
into a few clustered palms and some “gherds” covered with stubble. I
remember tottering down a hollow and seeing some nude black figures
madly scooping up sand, and then a silent little group crouched
pitifully on the edge of the freshly dug pit that meant life or death.
The water came very slowly, for they had chosen a bad place in their
hurry, but it came. Oozing through damp sand, the first muddy pool
brought all the primitive emotions to our hearts—joy, relief, gratitude,
too deep for words! An hour or two later life had become normal again
and the deepening water brought us only the idea of a hearty meal and a
bath in the biggest receptacle in the canteen.
I wonder how many readers will understand the tale of those three days,
because being lost in Europe means merely an appeal to a map or a
passer-by, but in Libya there is often no well for several hundred
miles, and, perchance, two caravans a year or none at all! A few, just a
very few, will comprehend: quiet men with tired, keen eyes—an Italian
after whom a Tripolitanian “gebel” is named, half a dozen Frenchmen
scattered over the great white desert south of Insalah, any Australian
who has been bushed without water and certainly one or two Englishmen in
strange, sunburned corners of our ruthless Empire!
We camped near the largest clump of palms within sight of the blessed
well, and all afternoon I lay on my camp bed with my “zemzimaya” beside
me, drinking every few minutes and when I could not drink any more I
would shake it now and then to hear the delicious clutter of the water
inside. In spite of all this joy we were not really out of the wood yet,
for the “hatia” contained practically no forage. The camels were all
feeble after their long journey and the fast at the end of it. They had
to be driven here and there, from small bush to smaller tuft. It was a
laborious business for our tired men and I had to leave my water-bottle
once or twice to see how matters were progressing. Abdullah and Abdul
Hafiz were very anxious that night, for the camels would not drink
properly, so we tore up some straw mats, soaked them, and gave them to
the beasts. I wanted to try them with rice, but Abdul Hafiz said they
would die if they ate it.
Our guide had recovered some of his calm when he realised that we were
camping at El Atash in the Zieghen district, at least a day and a half
to two days’ journey east of the elusive Taiserbo. I was delighted when
I understood this, for fate was obviously giving me a chance of
accomplishing my old desire for travelling to Buseima by the uncharted
route which had tempted me at Jalo.
I explained this to the retinue, and was met with blank dismay. They
wanted to go to Zieghen and then safely by the caravan route to Kufara.
They assured me that Buseima was most dangerous, that a particularly
savage portion of the Zouia tribe dwelt there and attacked every strange
caravan at sight. I gathered that while Kufara is a large and imposing
group of oases round the belad of the holy qubba, a big desert market
and the centre of the whole Sahara trade, besides being the headquarters
of the Senussi Government and the sacred headquarters of its religion,
Buseima, although very sparsely inhabited, is also to a minor extent a
“business centre,” for caravans from Wadai and Jalo visit it. There is
no zawia there and no Government official. The Zouias fiercely assert
their independence and refuse to admit the complete authority of the
Sayeds in order to avoid paying taxes in money, although they pay great
respect to the Senussi family and to their wishes. They have never seen
a soldier within their boundaries, and on no account allow a stranger of
any race or sect to enter their country.
“If they do not kill us in the oasis,” said Yusuf dolefully, “they will
lie in wait for us outside among the dunes and murder us on our way to
Kufara.” I said that I thought we could massacre a few Zouias first, but
even Mohammed was frightened. “It is a bad country,” he remarked. “Why
did not Allah allow us to reach Taiserbo in safety? There is a zawia
there and I have heard of the sheikh, Sidi Mohammed. His brother was
with me at the Jaghabub zawia.”
I asked about the tribes in Taiserbo and was told that it was the second
largest oasis, but unimportant and sparsely inhabited, that many of the
date-trees belonged to the people in Buseima, that there were a few
Tebus and some Zouias, of whom the larger part were Senussi. “There are
different parties there,” said Moraja, “but they are all good people—
nahs taibeen. Beyond Taiserbo is a country of fighting. No stranger may
go there. There is much danger. If we escape the Buseima people we shall
fall into the hands of the Tebus of Ribiana or of wandering Tuareg
bands.”
In spite of these gloomy prognostications I pointed out that the camels
certainly could not go five days to Kufara without food and that I had
no intention whatsoever of trusting Abdullah’s ideas as to the location
of Taiserbo. Instead, I made the guide and Moraja each draw his idea of
the famous gebel at Buseima. They both outlined in the sand a long, low,
square-topped ridge. “Very well,” said I firmly. “At sunset we will
climb to the top of the largest gherd here and see if we cannot locate
that mountain!” Having once and for all put our decorative but useless
map out of our heads, we were able to reason out that Taiserbo lay to
the west, ran north-east and south-west and could not be more than 25 to
40 kilometres in length, while I pinned my faith to due south for
Buseima.
[Illustration: THE MOSQUE AT AUJELA, WHERE IS BURIED THE CLERK OF THE
PROPHET MOHAMMED]
[Illustration: DESERT WELL AT JALO]
The desert had nearly killed us in her most ruthless mood, but when we
mounted the sandy gherd and saw the red splendour fade into cold mauve
and grey of the sand, while the evening star blazed as if it were a drop
of liquid flame in a sapphire cup, we forgave her, especially as due
south, just exactly where “instinct” had suggested to us, a faint black
ridge rose, low and square, over the horizon. I took some bearings for
fear of mirage and ordered an early start next morning in spite of wild
protestations and appeals.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR WITH THE TWO SLAVES—ZEINAB AND HAUWA]
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT BUTTAFAL]
As a matter of fact, everyone was so tired that we did not get off till
7.30. The camels groaned plaintively and continuously, refusing to rise
from their knees. I had insisted on filling girbas enough for a four
days’ march, though Abdullah said it was only two, and with no saddles
it was difficult to balance the packs on rolled blankets and canvas. All
that day was a weary succession of changing loads. When one camel sank
wearily down and refused to move, we dragged off his load and placed it
on another. No one rode, however blistered were his feet. Some of the
blacks had raw toe joints, but we dared not risk the camels further.
After about three hours we left the little mounds and sparse sticks of
the “hatia” and the unbroken sands lay in great flat waves before us. We
stopped at the last moment to pick the brittle wood for our evenings
fires, and then marched on steadily till 6 P.M.
The “gara” of Buseima appeared suddenly at 12.30. It looked like a
solid, black ridge on the horizon, but we knew it was more than a day’s
journey away. The camels wandered and lagged and stumbled. I doubt if we
did more than 2 miles an hour. In the afternoon the sand waves developed
into hard dunes, low and round-backed. We could no longer make straight
for the black mark in the distance, but had to swerve eastward to avoid
the higher dunes. About four I thought the camels could not go another
step. Several of them lay down at the same time, but somehow we got them
to their feet again, chiefly by dint of song! The reiterated refrains of
the Sudanese had a great effect on the weary beasts, but never had the
barraking cry “Adaryayan!” “We have arrived at the house, oh sick ones!”
sounded more welcome. It was the cool, pale hour that precedes night
when we encamped in a great hollow among white dunes. The stars were
triumphing over the last glowing rays of the sunset and the mysterious
mountain that had fired my imagination for so long lay, violet-hued and
sombre, to the south.
Next morning, January 5, we again started at 7.30 and plunged
immediately into a maze of dunes, great, curved, hard-backed ones, with
a few soft patches in the hollows into which the camels sank,
protesting. They walked rather better than the previous day in spite of
a continual series of ascents and descents. Perhaps it was the sight of
the strange, sinister ridge in front, coal-black against the surrounding
white sand. Perhaps it was the very cold south wind which blistered our
faces as we moved into it. At any rate, at 12.30 we arrived at the
mysterious gebel which had first appeared as a solid, even ridge with a
flat top, had then added to itself a sort of squarish, sugar-loaf hill
at each end and now turned out not to be a ridge at all but a chain of
cliffs, some square, some roundish, but all of sombre dull black stone
with faint reddish patches. To my eyes, uninitiated into the by-ways of
geology, it looked like a vast volcanic eruption, for passing east of
the main body of the hills, we entered a veritable inferno of
desolation. Right in the middle of the white, curly sand dunes lay a
tract of about 8 kilometres of scattered black stones. Their brittle
sheets of ebony matter stood up in lines—it looked as if all the old
slates in the world had been flung in careless piles in this dreary
region. Experts later informed me that the black stone was Nubian
sandstone impregnated with iron and manganese, nothing volcanic at all.
The other stones were sandstones of lighter colour, fossilised wood, and
flints.
For two hours we stumbled and clattered over this blistered, black
waste, picking up specimens of as many kinds of stone as possible and
then, as we clambered up a rough bank between two of the sombre sheer-
cut hills, the long line of Buseima palms spread before us with the thin
silver strip of lake—real water, no mirage—that had seemed to be but a
fable of Jedabia imagination! Till we reached the stony track by the
gara we had marched in very businesslike formation—three soldiers ahead,
the camels in the middle, and scouts flung out on the highest dunes,
while everyone had rifle or revolver ready. Abdullah, himself a Zouia,
had mocked the blacks with “Look out, you soldiers, for now you are
coming to the land where men fight!” and therefore every slave was
athirst for battle and revenge!