THE FLIGHT FROM TAJ
Thereafter we settled down for a day or two to the reserved and placid
life of Taj. We got up shortly after sunrise and while there was yet no
sign of movement among the dark, discreet walls we wandered miles along
the cliffs, trying to get the exact positions of the various oases and
villages. The latter are almost invisible in some lights, as they are
made of the sand and stones amidst which they stand. We found that the
wadi narrowed to a strip to the north-east beyond Boema, while to the
west it widened out into a wide expanse of hattab, high mounds covered
with sticks and leafless bushes. To the south-west these hillocks rose
from twelve to twenty feet and then beyond Tolab, which was too far away
to be seen from our cliffs, the hattab gradually merged into the flat
desert.
One morning we explored the whole of the salt marsh, from whose hard,
grey, stony matter the Tebus had built their houses. We found the
remains of a whole village, though some of the houses were but broken
circles on the ground. The main fort had one chamber sixteen feet in
diameter and the highest bit of wall existing measured eleven feet, but
round it was a crumbled mass of walls and smaller rooms, or separate
buildings perhaps, as each was neatly finished off with perfectly
rounded surface, like the damp clay pots one sees made on a rotary
wheel. I think the Tebus must have found the salt, hard sand especially
good for their very enduring mortar, for their ruined villages are to be
found only on marshes, as at Buseima, Buma and Jof. When we heard that
there were Tebu remains in Taiserbo and actual Tebus in Ribiana, we
instantly concluded that there were marshes in these two oases and the
idea proved correct.
When we returned from our matutinal walks we had enough appetite to cope
with Sidi Saleh’s prodigious hospitality. Every morning on the stroke of
nine a light tap came on my green and yellow door and there was Durur,
with smiling ebony face, ready to lead us by sandy path and intricate
court and passage to the wide, carpeted loggia, where waited our kindly
host to wave us into the long, dark chamber redolent of roses and
cinnamon. After we had gravely washed our hands in the Damascus basin,
we crouched cross-legged beside the immense brass tray and there was a
moment of thrilled expectation while another slave lifted the lids of a
dozen dishes. Sometimes there was a small carved tray, inlaid with
silver, on which stood half a score of bowls of sweetmeats, stiff
blancmanges of all colours adorned with almonds, very sweet pastes
something like Yorkshire pudding, junket made of the milk of a newly
lambing sheep, all sorts of date concoctions, couss-couss made with
raisins and sugar, a white, sticky cream flavoured with mint. Always
there were bowls of sweet hot milk and piles of thin, crisp, heavy bread
fried with butter and eaten hot with sugar, called in Egypt “bread of
the judge.” Arab custom ordains that a guest must be entertained for
three days and three nights, but the generous kaimakaan would not hear
of our getting anything for ourselves. The story of Jedabia was repeated
over again. Once we protested about the mighty meals provided in the
house of Sidi el Abed and the next day, as a reminder that the
hospitality of the East is unbounded and must be accepted with the
simplicity with which it is offered, the number of dishes was doubled
and there were no fewer than twenty loaves ranged round the tray, while
the centre _plat_ was no longer a bowl, it was literally a bath of
mellow, golden rice in which lay the buttery fragments of a whole sheep.
Two hours each morning were spent in that quiet room going through the
various ceremonies dependent on “breakfasting.” When the highly spiced
and peppered coffee was finished, there were always the three glasses of
green tea, hot and strong, with dignified slow conversation, punctuated
by many pauses, while the brazier smoke made little hypnotic spirals,
and through the open door a splash of sunlight crept over the
castellated wall and lingered on the purple and rose of the carpets
between the great arches of the loggia.
[Illustration: A TEBU AT AWARDEL IN KUFARA]
About eleven o’clock, scented and very replete, we took ceremonious
leave of our host and departed slowly, but the instant the doors of Sidi
Idris’s house closed on the last “Aleikum salaam” of the departing
slave, we dropped the ponderous and reflective gait suited to our
exalted position and ran across the great court to shut ourselves up in
the “harem,” the only really private bit of the house, with pencils and
paper. How we regretted, as we struggled with angles and degrees, the
perverse distrust with which the Zouias regard even a compass. We used
to have the most frantic arguments about our primitive maps, but
Hassanein was nearly always right as to direction and I as to distance,
fruit of so many long journeys in the desert, where all landmarks appear
three times as near as they really are. We worked solidly till four or
five, though there were nearly always interruptions—Mohammed, to say
that we should have to buy a camel-man for twenty pounds and sell him
again at Jaghabub, Yusuf, to say the girbas still leaked after all his
cunning treatment, little Sidi Omar, resplendent in a wonderful yellow
jubba, to hint about the scarcity of pocket-knives in Kufara, Sheikh
Musa, from Hawari, to tell us that the men of his village were too over-
awed to visit us in the house of the Sayeds, but were exceedingly
regretful concerning their reception of us.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT AWARDEL]
[Illustration: LOADING AT AWARDEL]
So the hot hours wore away and about five we wandered out to see the
amazing sunsets over the wadi, when for a few minutes the whole oasis
was dyed in rainbow flames. Generally, before the crimson disk had sunk
beyond the western sands, Surur was anxiously scanning the landscape to
announce the dinner hour. We had long ago lost count of European time.
We used vaguely to calculate that the sun rose at 6 A.M. and set at 6
P.M., but for all practical purposes we followed the Arab day, which
begins an hour after sunset. We set our watches each evening to solar
time and found ourselves counting the changing months by the lunar year
of Islam. I never knew what day of the week it was till Friday came,
when, if we were in a town, we joined the stream of worshippers, clad in
their best clothes, who wended their way to the mosque. In the desert
the most learned would recite the Koran and read a simple form of
prayer. While the muezzin was crying the melodious call to prayer, “La
Illaha ill’Allah! Haya alla Salah! Haya alla Fallah!” from the round
tower at the end of the zawia wall, we passed between the shuttered
houses, gravely greeting the few white shrouded forms who crossed our
path. As the last appealing yet triumphant “Allahu Akhbar!” rang out to
the evening star we entered the first low door, and the oppressive
secrecy of the house shut us in. How many cloistered lives were hidden
behind the little wooden shutters that never opened for dark-fringed
eyes to peer shyly at the passing strangers! Sometimes little Sidi Omar
ran out to kiss my hand and say, “On my head and my eyes, I love you!”
Sometimes we saw a long row of red leather slippers before one of the
smaller porches and caught a glimpse of white figures bent over a huge
platter from which, with the right thumb and two fingers—it is very bad
form to dirty more of the hand than this—they ate rapidly. Otherwise the
house kept its secrets well and we never knew who lived in it or how!
After the evening meal the atmosphere mellowed with the candle-light and
mint tea. Our host talked to us of the Sayeds he served, of their great
history and their great influence. We learned that Sidi Ahmed es Sherif
was respected and revered as the supporter of the old régime. He stood
for the stern, unbending laws of the first Senussi. His judgments were
ruthlessly severe and rapidly executed, as in the case of the
unfortunate Mukhtar. The malefactor saw only a stately white figure,
completely veiled, and from behind the snowy cloth came the immutable
words of judgment. Sayed Ahmed broke men. He never bent them. Yet the
older ekhwan, serious and simple, venerated him because to them he
represents the power of tradition, the inviolate Islam, fanatically
opposed to European progress. On the other hand, Sidi Idris is loved. As
the son of the Mahdi, the Senussi saint, the wonder of whose works and
words is rapidly becoming legendary, he inherits a great power. The
Beduin likes to worship something tangible under Allah. He must feel
convinced that there is one being on earth who blends spiritual and
temporal power so that he can himself dwell in a sort of mystic
security. “Inshallah, and if our lord Idris wills it!” is an oft-
repeated phrase. The Emir has a reputation for justice and patience. The
former is as stringent and as merciless as that of his predecessor, but
it is tempered with the infinite patience always taken to ensure the
whole of the case being examined before judgment is given. This is
essential in a land where the justice of the Koran is the only code. “An
eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.” Drunkenness is punished by
flogging. The thief loses his right hand. Treachery means death. Sidi
Idris is too good a Moslem and too great a mystic not to have secured
the whole-hearted devotion of his father’s followers, while his broad-
minded and intelligent foreign policy has secured him the respect of the
modern element. The accord at Regima was one of his greatest triumphs.
It showed his power in Cyrenaica. The tribal sheikhs of the coast,
almost without exception, announced, “The word of Idris is ours!”
The closing scene of our day will always be connected in my mind with
the chanting of the Koran in the zawia and the most brilliant clear
starlight, as we returned to our house in silence, only broken by the
soft shuffling of our heel-less slippers in the sand. While the cold
white light warred with our candles and the melodious words of “The
Book” were still humming in our ears, visitors would gradually make
their appearance: the judge, Osman Quadi, Mahmud el-Jeddawi, the wakil,
a few of the more advanced ekhwan, among whom was Mohammed Tawati,
“close friend of the Mahdi.” The last-named is partially paralysed, and
the Senussi mind, always alert for signs and miracles, explains that, in
defiance of the direct orders of Sidi el Riffi, the unfortunate man
started to journey north. Before he reached Hawari his camel died and he
himself was stricken with paralysis.
In those dim evenings, while I made scented tea, the talk was a little
less formal. We learned how much the Mahdi had done for Kufara, for
besides giving it flowers, fruit and vegetables, he introduced pigeons
and duck and the cultivation of grain. He built the fortress sanctuary
of Taj, where the wells are ninety feet deep, so that water is always
scarce and a girba full is a gift, since two hefty slaves have to wind
up the heavy buckets foot by foot. The site is well chosen, but the town
depends for its life on an army of slaves, for every vegetable or
flower, every date and piece of firewood, must be carried up from the
wadi below. The fuel is dry hattab and huge palm leaves. There is also
charcoal made in the valley. The Mahdi instituted the regular caravan
route to Wadai and encouraged a very extensive trade between the Sudan
and Cyrenaica. He “miraculously” discovered wells on the southern route
and old Sheikh Suleiman Bu Matar told how his father had been with the
saint when water failed the caravan at Sarra, on the way to Wadai. The
Senussi leader pointed to a spot which appeared to be solid rock and
bade the men dig. Hour after hour they laboured till the well had sunk
beyond the sight of the watchers up above. Only their faith in the Mahdi
could have made possible so gigantic a task, for the water did not
appear till the almost inconceivable depth of 120 “kamas” (the length of
a man’s forearm and hand from elbow to first knuckles). “Only a man with
amazing eyesight can see the water and the rope is unending,” said
Sheikh Suleiman.
We learned a list of the prices in Kufara from a ponderous merchant
whose striped brown and yellow jerd reminded one of Biblical pictures.
Hejin (trotting camels), all of which belonged to the Tebus, cost
seventeen to eighteen pounds in gold. Sheep were five mejidies, goats
four and a half, fowls half a mejidie, and pigeons four and a half
qurush. Eggs were very cheap—a hundred for a mejidie (two a penny), but
sugar was two mejidies an oke (eight shillings for two pounds) and tea
three mejidies an oke. Butter fetched two mejidies for three rotls (one
pound). Practically no other produce is sold. The owners of the gardens
keep their vegetables for themselves. Mahmud el-Jeddawi volunteered much
information about dates. “This year the grazing is good in Barca, so you
may buy several camel-loads for a mejidie, but when there is no grass in
the north the Zouias come here with large caravans and buy all our
dates, so that for a mejidie you can purchase but a few rotls!”[4] He
added that many tons of the Sayeds’ dates were even now rotting, as
there were no camels to take them away.
Footnote 4:
The usual exchange for paper money is six mejidies for one pound, but
for gold one receives seven. No paper money of any country is valid
beyond Jedabia. Ten qurush make one mejidie.
“I have noticed that there are very few camels in Kufara,” I said.
“There are very few men also,” he replied. “The Zouias have all taken
their camels to Barca this year to feed them on the good grass. They do
this every winter when the nagas are foaling, as there is no fodder
here. They leave their families in Kufara and come back to them in the
summer.”
I used to get very sleepy before the last visitor departed, having
generally urgently urged us not to do the Jaghabub route. They are the
most depressing of Job’s comforters with regard to journeys, for they
always remember terrible stories of death from thirst or loss of
direction, which they relate with infinite detail. Thus we learned that
the Gebel Fadil, on the east of the Zieghen route, was so called because
some twenty years ago one Jebail Fadil had missed the well at Zieghen on
his way from Jalo and had perished in the mountains with all his family.
Concerning the Jaghabub route, the most encouraging sentence was
generally, “If you miss it, you go either to Siwa or to hell!” uttered
in a tone that left no doubt as to which was the more probable!
We had secured the only guide in the place, Suleiman, and we had
ascertained that he really had done the journey four years before and
that previous to that he had done it with Yusuf. He was a little, quiet
old man, bent and grey, of few words. When we asked him the length of
the journey, he said, “Wallahi! I cannot tell. My walk is twelve days
from Zakar, but I do not know your walk.” We assured him with the utmost
fervour that our walk would most certainly be twin brother to his own,
but personally I thought the whole caravan would probably sit down and
die of complete inanition. Hassanein and I had never yet managed to walk
a whole twelve hours on end. Mohammed had nearly died in the attempt.
Yusuf had grown fat and soft again on the rich fare of Taj, while
Suleiman looked much too ancient and frail for such a stupendous march.
Our weakness was equalled only by that of the animals, for the best had
all foaled and only the young, unreliable nagas, three years old, and a
couple of ancient camels were left, beside the caricature and various
halt and lame, who looked as if they were dancing all the time, because
they had cut feet! However, we had become completely fatalistic. We
proposed to take vast stores of water and put the rest of our trust in
Allah.
We also proposed to leave Kufara as soon as possible. Firstly, because
our hosts were so prodigious in their hospitality that we could not bear
to take advantage of it longer than was absolutely necessary for our
work. Secondly, because, though what may be called the party directly
responsible to the Government were very kindly disposed towards the
guests of their rulers, the ancient and old-fashioned ekhwan held aloof.
They would not believe that any strangers could have been given
permission to penetrate their guarded privacy. They were torn between
their desire to do honour to the Sayeds and their horror of diverging a
hair’s breadth from immemorial custom. Among the Zouias there were now
two factions. Many had been infected by the stories of the Bazama family
and Abdullah, but a small party had gradually formed in our favour under
the leadership of Suleiman Bu Matar.
There were always, however, currents and cross-currents under the
surface which sometimes rippled into open suspicion. Also there had been
many very persistent inquiries on the part of the most lawless elements
as to the exact date of our departure and our proposed route. It was
known that the soldiers would not be travelling with us, so we should be
an easy prey if the tribesmen wanted to play their last card. We
therefore spread the rumour that we should remain at least a fortnight
longer at Taj and privately began to make preparations for another
flight, this time aided and abetted by the kaimakaan, who planned to
send our little caravan a day’s march ahead while we were still openly
in Taj. Under the guidance of a trusted sheikh we could overtake it on
fast-trotting camels.
Meanwhile it was necessary that we should investigate the western end of
the oasis. For this purpose Sheikh Suleiman offered himself as guide and
host combined. “I will arrange everything,” he said quietly. “Do not
trouble yourselves. You shall travel in comfort.” We rather wondered
what represented his idea of comfort when he announced that we would
start two hours before dawn, as it was a very long way. However, we duly
rose at 9 o’clock by night Arabic (3 A.M.), and shortly afterwards a
muffled thudding on the door warned us that our escort had arrived. We
hurried out, clutching all available blankets, for it was extremely
cold. The moon had set, so at first I thought two immense towers had
sprung up in the night outside the house. A second glance revealed them
as very tall hejin. They were barraked with difficulty and I mounted the
most uncomfortable saddle I have ever met. It must have had the
advantage from the camel’s point of view of being exceedingly light, for
it consisted merely of two bars about ten inches apart, across which was
doubled a carpet, with an upright spoke in front and behind, but it had
every possible disadvantage for the aching bones of the rider. Little
did I guess that I was destined, with a few short pauses, to spend no
less than seventeen hours upon that seat of torture. The commandant,
Saleh Effendi, with his gold and green cloak thrown across his thickest
jerd, and Hassanein mounted donkeys, which looked microscopic from my
towering height. Two soldiers perched themselves, one behind the other,
on the second hejin, and down into the wadi we swung, picking our way
slowly till we came to the massed palms, when the party settled down to
ride.
The silvery stone of the marsh was a frozen grey in the starlight and
the houses of Jof but a blur on the low ridge. The leaf hedges were
rustling fingers stretched out to bar our way, and the great beams of
the “shadouks” (wells) ghostly gibbets in the shadow of the palms.
Outside one of Jof’s blind walls we barraked, when, after prolonged
knocking, a sleepy slave announced that Sheikh Suleiman was not yet
ready. Arab life is very adaptable. Within a few minutes of receiving
the news the saddle carpets had been spread in the shelter of the wall,
a fire of palm leaves (sent out by our host) lighted, dates produced
from the same hospitable source and we had all settled down for a
prolonged wait under the still brilliant stars. I think I slept for a
few moments, my head on a stone, for when I was roused by a soft “Salaam
Aleikum!” the stars were less brilliant and a third slender-limbed hejin
was outlined against the grey sky. We set forth briskly to the south,
and soon the long block of Jof’s houses and the neatly fenced gardens of
the Sayeds lay behind us. The donkeys kept up a sort of short amble,
while the camels slipped into the tireless swinging stride, half swift
walk, half trot, the most comfortable pace in the world. As the light
grew clearer I saw that mine was a big Tebesti beast, palest grey, long-
haired and stately, but not as finely bred as the other two. They were
the fast Tuareg breed of piebald grey and white, with blue eyes, very
thin, like greyhounds in their lean slenderness. They ought to be able
to do the racing trot which covers 10 kilometres an hour.
Through the dawn we rode and till the sun grew hot, always west with a
hint of south. The large sweep of Jof palms disappeared on our right.
Zuruk was left on the other side. Then, as we came into the open space
beyond, where the large mounds of hattab begin, we saw that we were
leaving the enchanted wadi behind us. We skirted the long strip of palms
which forms Tolelib. There is no proper village in the oasis, but,
scattered through the green, one catches sight of a few houses of the
slaves who tend the palms. As we went farther west the mounds grew to
hillocks and the red sand was tufted here and there with high grass,
while masses of grey bushes climbed over the miniature gherds. Four
hours after sunrise, while yet Tolab was far ahead, Sheikh Suleiman
called a halt. A cold north wind had arisen and was finding the old
tender spot in my shoulder, so I was glad when he chose the largest
sandhill for our picnic breakfast. Bright scarlet rugs were spread on
the lee side for the men and a faded rose-red carpet in the shelter of a
smaller mound for me, as a woman could not eat with the soldiers. I
fancy it would have hurt the Zouia’s susceptibilities if he had been
obliged to encounter feminine fingers in the common bowl.
After that meal we had an idea of what the Beduin means by travelling
comfortably. A complete portable kitchen must have been hidden in the
capacious brightly striped khoorgs that hung on either side of the blue-
eyed camel. The most delicious odours were soon wafted from a pot
stewing on a brushwood fire. A soldier brought me a long-necked brass
ewer and a towel before my breakfast was shyly handed me by an ancient
and dignified servitor of the sheikh, by name Mohammed, who had run
beside his chief the whole way from Jof without protest, though he
carried a heavy rifle. I had been given a brass tray of dates to eat and
I was contemplating writing a monograph on the various uses of the date
in Kufara. It is used for all sweetening purposes in cooking. Mixed with
some other local ingredient it makes a sticky sort of glue. A soft date,
slightly squashed, takes the place of a cork and every tin of oil is
sealed that way. The stones apparently make studs for the nostrils of
Tebu girls. I feel sure there are other uses, but the appearance of food
prevented my thinking of them that morning among the bristling mounds of
hattab.
I lifted a plaited cover of palm leaves embroidered in red and there
were nearly a dozen hard-boiled eggs surrounding a mound of crisp, flat
bread. Another layer of palm leaf disclosed enough cold lamb, cooked in
red pepper and onions, to feed all the party liberally, while the whole
was balanced upon a bowl of delicious thick soup full of vermicelli,
carrots and other unknown vegetables. All was hot with scarlet strips of
fil-fil. Greed and fear struggled in my mind, but the former won and all
the cold north wind could not cool my fevered tongue after I had
partaken of that highly spiced dish.
When a row of little tin tea-pots were heating on separate piles of
ashes, I joined the party under the larger mound and we drank hot sweet
tea, which tasted strongly of the inside of the girba which had been
hidden underneath the saddle-bags. Afterwards there was half an hour’s
amiable silence, punctuated by rare remarks chiefly concerning the flora
and fauna of the wadi, this being the least suspicious subject of
conversation we could think of and Mohammed being visibly eager to
distrust. It could not be lengthened out interminably because there are
no wild animals in Kufara and I never saw a bird, though I was told that
several species, chief among them the wagtail-like “abu fasada,” make
their appearance in March at the harvest time—the grain is a winter
crop. Of insects there is a large variety, chiefly distinguished by
their voracious appetites! Cleopatra’s asp, a small, fawn-coloured
snake, lurks among the sand and in the oasis there are several kinds of
serpents, large and small, most of them poisonous. We were assured that
one large dark snake measures at least 6 feet and is particularly feared
by the natives. Perhaps this is the legendary beast of Hawaish!
After our excellent meal Tolab appeared much nearer and the wind much
less strong. We rode on for another couple of hours and verified our
suspicions that the wadi had no definite end; we had a bitter argument
as to degrees, for we had not dared to bring even a compass, which for
once was later decided in my favour by the setting sun. Then we turned
to the scattered gardens of Tolab, where I saw roses, verbena and tiny
lemon trees, all neatly tied up in fibre matting after the fashion of
English gardeners. There is absolutely nothing to see in this last oasis
of Kufara, whose sand-brick houses are scattered round the cultivated
plots without regular order. We noticed a number of shadouks worked by
small, grey donkeys and were hurried away by our host to get a glimpse
of the far-distant Gebel Neri, as he had become quite interested in our
exploration. These mountains are wonderful landmarks for at least two
days south and north, but when we passed them on the way from Buseima we
had no means of judging their height. We thought they might rise 150 to
200 metres above the surrounding country, which would make them 750 to
800 above sea level, but this was only a guess.
Two and a half days’ journey north-west of Tolab lies Ribiana, behind a
gara twice as big as that of Buseima. We were told that the population
consists of about a hundred Zouias and Tebus. There is an old zawia
founded by the four original ekhwan sent by Sidi Ben Ali. The sheikh is
Abu Bakr. There is a salt marsh between the mountain and the strip of
palms some 18 kilometres long, at the southern end of which is the
zawia, while at the northern end is a village of about ten houses. This
information we gathered from Sheikh Suleiman as we rode round the
western end of Tolab and turned homewards through the waste of low
hattab towards Tolelib. Thereafter the hours seemed interminable.
Nothing ever got any nearer, while the saddle bars felt like knife
blades. The only break was when we dismounted for the Asr prayers.
Eventually we entered the northern edge of Tolelib’s palms and were only
too thankful when, just before sunset, the tireless Zouia called a halt
beside an immense sandbank and the morning meal was repeated.
“We will take a glass of tea to refresh us,” said our host modestly, but
very soon another savoury mess was being stewed in the capacious pot,
while Saleh Effendi produced fresh mint leaves which had been given him
at Tolab. This time everyone ate swiftly, plunging great chunks of bread
into the basin of stewed vegetables and meat, but once again I was
provided with a separate meal tastefully arranged on wicker plates. In
half an hour we were in the saddle again, but the animals were tired and
the sunset blazed behind us before we drew near the dark shadow of
Zuruk. A three-quarter moon mingled her silver light with the red of the
flaming west and the amber sands reflected the most extraordinary
colours, which changed in the unreal light like the transformation scene
in the pantomime. The pace was just too quick to walk in the soft, deep
sand, so I had to cling to my painful saddle for another three hours. In
starlight we had left Jof. In starlight we returned to it, steering by a
blazing fire set to guide us to the gardens of Sayed Rida, from where
Mahmud el-Jeddawi had asked us to bring some sacks of dates, probably
for our own journey. The scene of the early morning was repeated, for
the Sayed’s black slaves, fantastic figures in tattered sacking or
shreds of cotton, brought bundles of palm leaves for a fire and poured a
great pile of hard golden dates on to a huge woven platter. We crunched
these as we rested our aching bones on hastily spread carpets, while
more and more ebony figures joined the group and just the heads of the
camels solemnly chewing the cud came into the circle of wavering
firelight under the stars.
The last hour’s ride was very slow, for the hejin were unaccustomed to
carrying loads, but it was done to the accompaniment of marriage music
from the town and wild “ulla-la-een” of women, mixed with firing of guns
and beating of drums. “He is taking a very little girl. She is only
thirteen,” said Saleh Effendi of the bridegroom. I thought of the woman-
child in her stiff, heavy draperies, clinging shyly and desperately to
the veil which she would so soon have to raise for an unknown man, the
stranger to whom her parents had given her!
Yusuf and Mohammed were waiting for us at the top of the cliff—two
unrecognisable figures entirely muffled in immense woollen jerds. With
the usual Arab cheerfulness they had come to the conclusion that we had
already been murdered by the Zouias!
The attitude of the two men had been very characteristic during our stay
at Taj. Both knew by this time that the object of the expedition was to
write a book about the country. Both believed it must be for the good of
the Senussi since we travelled under the Sayeds’ protection, but after
this they differed. Yusuf felt that he had accomplished his duty when we
arrived safely in Kufara. He was delighted that we were well received
and hospitably entertained by the Government, for he thought that we
should be impressed by the generosity of the Sayeds. Mohammed felt
instinctively that we did not need impressing and all he wanted was that
the work of Sidi Idris should be successfully achieved. Both were
conscious of the undercurrent of unrest. Yusuf, treating us as strangers
and himself as one of the people of Kufara, explained to us with perfect
justice that the position was largely due to our own mistakes. Often we
had trusted the wrong people. Often I, alas, had forgotten the nice
shades of Moslem feminine behaviour in my thirst for knowledge. Mohammed
swept aside all these points. He counted that Sidi Idris and he and we
were all pitted for the moment against those who hampered, consciously
or unconsciously, the work of the Sayed. Therefore he used to encourage
us in friendly fashion, gather news for us, explain exactly how we
should treat such and such a rumour and urge us to persevere. Yusuf
always laboured to vindicate the honour of the Sayeds. Mohammed, knowing
that no vindication was necessary, laboured to accomplish through us the
task he had been given so many weeks before in Jedabia. The one thought
in terms of couss-couss and padded camel-saddles, the other in something
he vaguely termed work, but which, of course, should logically have been
the pencils and note-books he distrusted!
The day after our long expedition to Tolab was El Gumma, so, luckily,
breakfast—a mighty bowl of pigeons, eggs and carrots—was sent to our
house and we stayed indoors till it was time for the noon prayers,
announced by the muezzin and by a runner who knocked at the outer door
of each house with his cry of invitation ever repeated. Hassanein
clothed himself in the cleanest jerd and departed to the zawia with the
devout Mohammed. I slipped into an outer room beyond the mosque, for
there was no place in the latter for women, and watched the impressive
scene, discreetly hidden behind a pillar. All the ekhwan were present in
their most resplendent silk jubbas, with snowy veils above their many-
coloured kufiyas. They made splashes of vivid red, orange and green
among the coarse white jerds of the Beduins. After the last “Azzan,”
with sound of fife and drum, escorted by a guard of soldier slaves in
their gala attire, khaki with sundry embroideries, the kaimakaan arrived
in state with Sidi Mohi ed Din and Sidi Ibrahim the sons of Sayed Ahmed
Sherif and Sidi Senussi, son of Sidi el Abed. His usual grave dignity
was accentuated as he mounted the “mimbar,” a massive figure in striped
rose and purple silk, with embroidered blue jacket underneath a
gorgeous, many-tasselled kufiya, stiff with gold thread, over his
spotless white turban, from which depended the finest silk and wool
veil. In delivering the usual Friday speech he asked the prayers and
benediction of Allah for the four earliest Caliphs, Abu Bekr, Omar,
Othman and Ali, and for twelve other sainted followers and friends of
the Prophet. After the prayer a solemn procession, headed by the sons of
the Senussi Sayeds, passed in ponderous silence save for the rustling of
bare feet on palm mats to the dim inner chamber to salute the qubba of
the Mahdi.
If it be possible for Taj to be more dignified and impressive than
usual, it achieves that effect on El Gumma, for all day one catches
glimpses between the dark walls of the richly garbed ekhwan moving
slowly, silk jerds carefully raised above the sand. After the Asr
prayers the deputation of four who had received us, the Judge, Sidi
Saleh, Sidi Ahmed es Senussi and Sidi Omar, came to bid us the city’s
formal farewell, though we were not expected really to leave for several
days. The visit was meant tactfully to imply that we were now free of
official receptions and banquets, though Arab hospitality could only be
satisfied by privately sending large meals to our house while we
remained in Taj. We lured the judge and the portly dignitaries into our
sunlit court, but they were terrified at being photographed. We had to
treat them like children at the dentist’s and keep up a flow of laughing
conversation about the painlessness of the operation, while they huddled
pathetically together for comfort and support!
[Illustration: CAMP AT MEHEMSA: YUSUF, MOHAMMED AND AMAR]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR ASLEEP ON A CAMEL]
Later in the day we were visited by Hasan and Husein Bazama from
Ribiana. Relations of the men who had spread so many false reports about
us, they doubtless came to Taj in the first place to discover how much
of their kinsmen’s tale was true. Finding us the guests of Sidi Idris,
they decided the larger part must be incorrect. Hasan was dark and lean
and altogether too reminiscent of Abdullah to please me, but his brother
was a nice little plump person, kindly disposed towards the world in
general and most unusually truthful for a Beduin, for when his elder
brother tried to sell us a camel he remarked, in a small, plaintive
voice, “He is a _very_ old camel.”
[Illustration: JAGHABUB]
[Illustration: WELL IN ZAWIA AT JAGHABUB]
By this time we had learned how to make Arab tea. It must have been a
good brew that day, for the brothers verified all Sheikh Suleiman’s
information about Ribiana and urgently invited us to visit it. We
politely refused, having seen quite enough of these lonely strips of
palms with a few deserted, dark red houses. They seemed slightly hurt,
so we explained that our camels really could not be expected to do an
extra week’s travelling before the long Jaghabub trip. As a matter of
fact, we were very much troubled about our caravan. Five of the nagas
had foaled and could not be taken away from their offspring. We had
given the soldiers six camels for their homeward journey via Zieghen and
Jalo and they complained bitterly about the inadequacy of the number.
Moraja had married the pale, dark-eyed woman who had travelled with us
from Buseima and he wanted to take his wife back to Jedabia with him.
Abdul Rahim very naturally refused, as already they had insufficient
transport. The sergeant was furious and threatened to stay behind, but
we were no longer interested in their troubles, having quite enough of
our own.
The girbas we bought in the suq were too new to be safe and we were
desperately afraid of losing our water. Suleiman, the guide, suddenly
announced that only the Asayed ever went to Jaghabub and that, as nobody
had travelled that way for more than three years, the one well at Zakar
would not only be filled up, but probably covered by a dune! As the
water was very far away it might take three days to dig down to it.
Worst of all, we had only seven camels. Four of these must carry water
and two fodder. This left only one for food for six persons, their
luggage and tents!
We tried to hire Tebu camels at an exorbitant price, but found that
nobody would let their beasts go north in mid-winter, for the camels
have very thin coats in Kufara and generally die when they reach a
colder climate. I explained that there had been no difference in the
temperature of Aujela and Taj, but was told that the Jaghabub route
would be bitterly cold and the winds almost intolerable. With this
pleasant thought in mind we suggested buying a couple of camels, but
there was none to be sold except the ancient Bazama beast, already
shivering. “He will die on the way,” said Yusuf, hating to make a bad
bargain. “I don’t mind if he does, providing he will last four or five
days beyond the Zakar well. We shall have drunk his load by then and
shall not need him any more,” I said. “Do you think he will break down
before then?” Yusuf would not commit himself. “One could see it in his
eye if he meant to die in two days,” was all he vouchsafed.
Our friend Mahmud el-Jeddawi bestirred himself energetically on our
account and, after searching most of Jof, he triumphantly produced the
most amazing camel I have even seen. It looked as if a portion of it had
been left out in the making. We all walked round it in mystified silence
to discover what was missing. It had the self-satisfied expression of a
short, plump, curry-loving Indian colonel and most certainly there was
something odd about its shape. I looked at Yusuf appealingly. “It is
very woolly.” “Yes, it has much wool,” he said with polite despair. We
decided not to purchase it and were rewarded at the last moment by the
production by a Tebu of a really magnificent camel, half hejin and half
beast of burden. Its price was very high, two hundred mejidies, but we
did not even wait to bargain. It was too necessary to us. We hated
letting it go out of our sight for a moment, but its master insisted
that we could not have it till the following day and we were obliged to
let the caravan start without it.
This time the flight was well arranged, though it was precipitated by
another of Abdullah’s darts. We learned that he had been spreading far
and wide a story that the venerated Sidi Ahmed el Rifi, teacher and
adviser of the Mahdi, had prophesied disaster to any stranger who
travelled on the Jaghabub route. “It is a sacred road between our two
holy places,” he had said. “It is for the Sayeds and their followers
only. Nobody else may go safely by it!” Whether the saying had other
origin than the twisted brain of Abdullah we did not know, but it might
have a distressing effect on the easily roused fanaticism of the
retinue. We therefore hurried the small caravan off early one morning
with the nominal destination of Hawari, because there was a certain
amount of grazing in the neighbourhood and it would be natural for the
camels to rest there for a week or ten days before starting for
Jaghabub. As a matter of fact they skirted the village and main oasis
and camped in an isolated palm grove some miles farther on where their
presence was little likely to be suspected.
Next day we made obvious preparations for a tour in the wadi and then,
just after sunset, while all the devout inhabitants of Taj were occupied
with their prayers, we slipped out of our discreet little door, wandered
carelessly round a projecting wall and found two camels ready saddled in
charge of a plaintive Yusuf, who hated the idea of travelling in a
strong north wind, bitterly cold. Muffled in coarse jerds, only our new
primrose leather boots with crimson uppers laced with scarlet thongs
apparent to the public gaze, we plodded out of the little town followed
by Yusuf, Suleiman and a fortnight-old foal! The wind was so strong that
we hardly cast a backward glance at the oasis which had shown us so much
in so short a time.
It was a complete chapter of life we left behind. We felt that we had
studied its pages thoroughly, but we knew that we had not read all that
lay between the lines! Through a glass darkly we had been allowed a
glimpse of an unsuspected civilisation aloof from our own and utterly
different. For a few days we had moved amidst the friendship and enmity
of a rigidly isolated religious fraternity, feeling something of their
remote fanaticism, much of their warm generosity, a little of the almost
pathetic simplicity which underlay their plots and counterplots. Yet we
were ever strangers in a strange land, welcome to their dignified
hospitality, but never admitted for a minute to the inner workings of
their minds. Some glimpses we caught behind the scenes. Some threads to
unravel the unspoken mysteries were put into our hands later by a
suddenly talkative Yusuf, but the secrets of Taj are still safe with us!
Each one must unravel them for himself, for no traveller may tell when
he has once crossed the threshold, not only of the great house on the
cliff, but of the life of these people where each man’s brain is an
island in itself whose secrets are as jealously guarded as the oasis is
by nature. The desert had paid us her debt. We had conquered her
waterless desolation and her perilous dunes. We had won the right to her
secret and generously she showed it, yet we knew she grudged us our
triumph. As the dark stone houses disappeared swiftly into the red sand
and black rocks, so that, looking back after a few minutes one might
believe one had dreamed of the wadi and its people, I wondered what
price we should pay for our knowledge.
Behind the first ledge of rocks a gnome-like figure, green-hooded and
cloaked, rose suddenly beside a microscopic grey donkey, while another,
unrecognisably disguised by a scarlet handkerchief which left but an eye
visible, appeared with a most unwilling sheep. They were the commandant,
Saleh Effendi, sent to accompany us to our first camp, and a soldier to
slaughter the sheep in our honour. Subdued greetings were hardly
finished when a portly, panting figure, white jerd blowing wildly over a
dark blue jubba, turban and spectacles slightly awry, hurried over the
rocks. It was Sayed Ahmed es Senussi come to give us a last blessing
with many injunctions to the guide to look after us well. After the
“Fatha” had been gravely repeated, he clutched Yusuf’s sleeve and
murmured mysteriously, “Will you not halt your caravan round the next
gherd, as I wish to send out to you food for your journey—meat, bread
and rice!” In a still lower voice he explained that many of the friendly
ekhwan had wished to feast us, but had been afraid of hurting the
feelings of the kaimakaan, who looked upon us as his guests. Arab custom
ordains that when a stranger comes to a town, any man who visits him
afterwards sends food to him or feasts him in his house. Therefore, the
ekhwan had been in some difficulty. Either they broke their laws of
hospitality or they ran counter to the generous wishes of the kaimakaan,
or they failed in respect to the Sayed by not visiting the guests in his
house! We remembered that the sons of Sayed Ahmed Sherif and Sayed el
Abed, boys between fourteen and seventeen, had often waited to greet us
as we left the house of Sidi Saleh. “We wanted to see if the Sitt
Khadija wears the same clothes as our ladies,” one had said shyly, but
they were frightened of being photographed, the idea being that if one
possesses a picture of a person one possesses also his soul, or at least
a certain hypnotic power over him.
We were obliged regretfully to decline the delightful offer of Sidi
Ahmed, as speed was necessary. Therefore, we hurried north as fast as
our odd little procession—camels, donkey, sheep and foal—would go. The
wind dropped after the first three hours and a feeble moon rose in a
clear, translucent sky. It was a night of colour so marvellous that it
was unreal. I knew the strange tricks moonlight could play in the
desert, but only once before had I seen such startling effects and that
was in _Chu Chin Chow_! White moonlight on white sand makes an
iridescent silvery sea, cold, almost cruel in its pale intangibility.
But this was a golden light on an amber-red world and, except that one
could not see so far, it was as clear as the day. The palm trees were
shades of sapphire, silvered at the edge, and their shadows hot, clear-
cut purple. We rode through a world so wonderful that when we had
skirted the dreaming village of Hawari and completely lost our way in
the oasis beyond—the infallibility of guides is a very brittle myth in
Libya—we hardly minded, but with jerds flung back we revelled in
unutterable stillness and colour inconceivable. Even after we had turned
two complete circles and, with a waning moon, unexpectedly discovered
our camp discreetly hidden in a hollow between great clumps of palms and
what looked like mimosa trees, we could not go into the tent, though it
was one of the coldest nights we had had. We sat outside amidst the
violet and amber and, in spite of dates and cinnamon bread, wondered how
soon we should wake up!
Our desire for a swift and secret departure from the palm grove near
Hawari was frustrated by the non-arrival of our new camel till the
afternoon of the following day. By this time, of course, most of the
population of the neighbouring village of Awardel was in our camp. The
Zouias were most friendly and terribly curious. Their shrewd, suspicious
eyes and pale, mean faces encircled my tent all day, hoping to catch a
glimpse to satisfy their curiosity, but, out of sheer perversity, I
smothered my face in the barracan and then snapshotted them when they
were not looking!
Unfortunately, I had left behind something of a reputation as a doctor,
nature presumably having taken my patients in hand after my departure,
so all day long my tent was thronged, by women with the most mysterious
maladies. The poorer ones crouched outside, their scarlet woollen
barracans an effective contrast to their black tobhs, the most
picturesque combination I had yet seen. The wives of important sheikhs
were ushered into my tent and the flaps closed after them by jealous
male relatives. If they were young they would not uncover their faces
even to me, but, mute, huddled bundles of voluminous draperies, with at
least three barracans of rich dark weaving one over the other, they sat
on my camp bed while an ancient crony translated their needs. They
wanted me to _feel_ skin diseases through layers of garments, prescribe
for invisible eyes and generally guess at their ailments from the
descriptions of their elderly relatives, who urged them at intervals,
entirely without effect, not to be afraid. Their jewellery interested
me, for they wore bracelets like gauntlets of thin beaten silver,
reaching half-way from wrist to elbow, and odd flat rings, big and thin
as a five-shilling piece.
The day ended with a violent quarrel between Mohammed and Abdullah, who
was to return with the soldiers to Jedabia, because the kaimakaan
thought Sidi Idris would punish him more severely than he had power to
do. The guide had told Mohammed he would beat his nose flat, apparently
an appalling insult, for the uproar was prodigious and, in the middle of
it, while everyone was shouting at the top of their voices, our trusted
retainer wept like an infant! He was only comforted by permission to buy
a slave-girl he coveted. “She has walked all the way from Darfur,” he
said, “so she can walk to Jaghabub with us.” But we persuaded him to
send her to Jalo later on. The caravan was already overloaded without
the ebony maiden’s food and water, though we were horribly tempted to
take her when we heard she was a good cook. As camel-men were scarce at
the moment in Kufara and fetched very high prices, we had taken
Mohammed’s follower, Amar, instead. He was a plucky and willing boy, a
pupil from the Jaghabub zawia, but, alas, no cook! The way he ruined our
treasured rice was little short of a tragedy.
The evening of January 24 was spent in a pursuit that was becoming
habitual, that of sorting our rapidly diminishing baggage to see what
could be left behind. This time the tent and camp beds had to go. There
would be no time to put up a tent on the Jaghabub route. With our small
and somewhat feeble retinue, after walking twelve hours a day, probably
against a strong wind, by the time the camels were attended to and the
rice or flour cooked, one would have no energy left to struggle with
tent pegs. The most one could hope for would be a flea-bag on the ground
sheet in the inadequate shelter of a zariba made of our food and fodder
sacks. We now had one suit-case, a sack of provisions and two rolls of
bedding. “We might put the ground sheets in the bedding,” I said
casually, looking round the pathetically small pile of our belongings to
see if we could possibly do without anything else. “Your flea-bag is the
thinnest. We had better put it in between the flaps.” I thought there
was a certain nervousness in Hassanein’s eyes as we undid the bulky
roll, but I did not quite understand it, even when a bottle of amber
eau-de-Cologne and an immense attaché case fell out, scattering a
complete manicure set in the sand. I was quite used to this sort of
thing by now, but I was mildly surprised when a violent protest followed
my efforts to insert the waterproof sheet. “Take care! Take care! You
will hurt yourself!” “What on earth do you mean? Woollen flea-bags don’t
bite!” The thought struck us both instantaneously that this was hardly
correct at the moment and we were both laughing when suddenly a pain
that could hardly have been inflicted by even the largest Libyan bug
shot through my hand. “What is that?” I gasped, and pulled out a very
large, sharp saw! For one horrible moment I thought my companion had
developed tendencies to homicidal mania as I stood open-mouthed with the
tool in my hand. “I’ve hidden that damned thing in my bedding for three
months and whenever I turned over it ran into my shoulder and I’ve cut
myself on it three times!” he said viciously. “But why, why, why?” I
could only stutter. “I thought it would be so useful,” was the reply.
Visions of the treeless desert, with no tuft of moss or blade of grass,
must have crossed both our minds simultaneously, for almost before I
could ask feebly, “What did you mean to cut?” he said, “I don’t know. I
just felt it would come in useful—to make things with,” he added hastily
under my baleful eye. “But I didn’t want you to see it. I knew you would
laugh.” “Laugh!” I exclaimed scornfully, sucking my fingertips. “After
all, you needn’t make such a fuss! It’s no worse than your bread!” and I
remembered the days on the way to Taiserbo when I had insisted on
treasuring a piece of ten-day-old bread in my knapsack with much the
same sort of feeling that “it might come in useful.” My companion,
unlawfully in search of matches—the only things we refused to share were
matches and soap, though we never used the latter—cut his hand badly on
the rough, sharp edge of my precious loaf and thereafter spoke of food
as the most dangerous element in the desert!