THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS
Loading the camels on January 25 was something of a difficulty. The
whole male population of Hawari came out to help or to hinder, while
various shrouded female forms lurked in the shadows of palm clumps
hoping to exchange a few eggs for green tea, but we had left our last
stores at Kufara, so could do no bartering. A young merchant from Wadai
offered us crimson-dyed leather at three and a half mejidies for a whole
goatskin. He would easily make his fortune among London boot shops! That
morning was another revelation of Zouia character, for if we left
anything out of sight for a minute it disappeared. I lost my pet woolly
scarf which I used to roll round underneath my thin cotton garments, my
only protection against the north winds. Mohammed politely spread his
rug for two venerable ekhwan to sit upon. A few moments later they and
it vanished altogether. Yusuf’s bright-coloured blanket followed suit,
with Hassanein’s sleeping-helmet. It is not to be wondered at,
therefore, that our farewells were somewhat chilly. Amar was venomous
because some thrifty housewife had appropriated the grid on which he
made his almost uneatable bread. We shuddered to think what it would be
like without it!
By 8 A.M. we had received the last mixed blessings and warnings, the
chorus of “Marhabas” and “Ma Salamas!” had died among the palms and an
amazing sense of peace had descended on us. For the first time in three
months we were a completely friendly party, united to achieve a common
object by dint of hard work and endurance. It was a wonderful feeling!
Everybody was happy and nobody shirked. Even the plump Yusuf forgot his
plaintive whine, and with a fat smile gathered hattab and urged on the
camels. Unfortunately, our great grey Tebu beast was suffering badly
from his first heavy date meal, just as the rest of the caravan had done
at Buttafal a month previously. At the last moment, however, Sidi
Mohammed el-Jeddawi, seeing that the necessary dates for fodder took up
three complete loads, lent us one of Sayed Rida’s foaling nagas. We had
no baggage saddle (“hawia”) for her, so we doubled across her back our
thin, single fly-tent which we had meant to leave behind. At the last
moment Yusuf, ever economical, stuck the three light poles in somewhere.
We therefore started with a caravan of nine, but they were distinctly
overloaded, for we had to carry water for six or seven days, since
Suleiman, the guide, was uncertain as to how long it would take to dig
out the Zakar well. That day we marched ten hours, with a hot sun and a
cold north-north-west wind. We left the Hawari Gara a dark block to the
west, with the great indigo cliffs of the Gebel Neri far beyond it.
Gradually we drew away from the hot, red sands of Kufara with their
patches of strange black stones. In the afternoon we emerged on to the
pale, flattish country sweeping up to the foot of the Hawaish mountains.
These, however, were still invisible when we camped at sunset, because
the two smallest camels refused to go any farther. We missed the blacks
while struggling to unload our unruly beasts, two of whom were three-
year-olds and never could be barraked without a prolonged fight. We
built our zaribas with their backs to the persistent north wind, but
nature played us a trick, for the temperature descended unpleasantly. We
sat comfortably inside our flea-bags, however, cooking rice and coffee
and watched a fading moon slowly dim our solitary candle.
Next morning Mohammed roused us long before the dawn and we were away by
7 A.M., but we were very under-staffed, for Amar and old Suleiman were
both too feeble to lift the immense fodder loads and Hassanein and I
were exceedingly inefficient! Nevertheless, complete cheerfulness still
reigned. The Beduins invented and sang lustily doggerel rhymes of
personal tendencies, such as,
“If Sidi Yusuf won’t walk to-day,
A new little wife won’t come his way.”
We saw the Hawaish mountains, a long line of round peaks on the horizon,
about 8 A.M., and at the same moment discovered that our new guide had
deficient sight. He was a little, old, wizened Beduin, very poor but
very shrewd for all his apparent simplicity. He was clad only in worn
sandals, an ancient leather skull cap and a pathetically tattered grey
jerd. He was quite illiterate and his rare speech was in a dialect which
even Mohammed found some difficulty in following. He shuffled along all
day, bent over his palm stick, untiring and unresponsive, though
occasionally his cracked, hoarse voice joined in the lilting refrains of
the retinue. Only when he failed to pick out a certain hill with a cleft
top did he tell us that he had once rashly interfered in a private
battle between two black soldiers and received a blow on the head which
had permanently damaged his eyesight. After this admission I think we
all expected to lose the way, but one becomes terribly fatalistic in the
desert. “Allah alone knows” is repeated with complete simplicity by
every traveller in the great wilderness.
By this time I could well understand the carelessness of the Beduins,
their lack of forethought and their childlike trust in Providence. After
all, what does it really matter on a twelve days’ waterless route
whether one overloads one’s camel with a couple of extra girbas and a
spare jarfa of fodder in order to ensure a day or two more of life? A
few strong giblis may dry up all the water. It may go bad, or the skins
may leak, or a load may be thrown on to sharp stones so that the girbas
burst. On the other hand, the guide may lose his memory or his
“instinct.” Day after day without a landmark, with the ever-present
knowledge that one slight mistake means destruction, is surely enough to
trouble the most experienced. One day’s bad march, owing to a mere
trifle such as irregularly balanced loads, sore backs or unaccustomed
date feeding, will endanger the whole issue, for the Zakar–Jaghabub or
the Zakar–Siwa routes are the longest known stretches without water. The
Boema-Farafra route is twelve days without water. The camels arrive
completely exhausted and if an extra day be added to the march they
probably do not arrive at all. The men may get sore feet or fever, but
they cannot ride the heavily burdened beasts. The terrible north wind
may blow day and night, making every step laborious, yet the daily
average has got to be kept up. Therefore, the Beduins smile when one
makes pitiful little attempts to arm oneself against nature, to
forestall or prevent her rigours. “If Allah wills, we shall arrive,”
they say gravely and turn the conversation to lighter matter.
Fired by the example of Mohammed and Moraja, Yusuf began to wonder
whether a wife or two would not satisfy his affectionate heart more than
a camel. “A woman is so much cheaper,” he sighed, and told us that among
the ekhwan no dowry is paid to the bride’s father. A small gift of silk
or gold is given to the mother and sisters, perhaps a necklace or
bracelet to the girl herself and there the expense ends. “Twenty-five
mejidies are enough,” said Yusuf; “but if one wants to take the daughter
of a Beduin sheikh one must pay many camels.” “How many?” I asked. “Oh,
ten, twenty, fifty and one must give the girl silk and cloth for her
clothes besides!” He dropped into meditative silence.
One by one we saw the landmarks of the Zieghen track to the west and
learned that the north-westerly course we were following had been the
original Zieghen route till one Mohammed Sherif established the present
more direct way. First we saw the Gardia, a square block of dark cliff,
then the Garet es Sherif, called after a traveller who shortened by a
day the Kufara-Jalo journey, and late in the afternoon a conical hill
called The Kheima (tent) by Mojabras and The Mohgen (funnel) by Zouias.
One great advantage we had over our previous journey. This time the sun
was behind us all the time. The difference was enormous. Riding or
walking for twelve hours day after day straight into a blazing sun,
without hat brim or umbrella, had been very trying to one’s eyes and
head. Altogether the absence of glare, the feeling that the larger part
of our work was done, with no necessity to placate a constantly
irritated retinue or to weld together the most inharmonious human
elements, caused us to regard the dreary kilometres that lay before us
as the most peaceful part of our journey.
“I want to see the white sands again,” I said and urged my little
expedition on into the rose-purple hills. The Hawaish are not really
mountains. They are an irregular mass of round, rocky hills, cliffs and
cones and their direction would baffle even an experienced geographer.
We spent any spare moments at dawn and at sunset sitting on the top of
some abrupt hillock with binoculars, compass and a note-book, studying
the complicated positions of the local mountains, but hair grew grey and
tempers short in the task. Always there was a new wall of hills in the
distance generally running at an unexpected angle and when we asked the
retinue for explanations, all they could say was, “Allah alone knows!”
I wanted to camp within the first line of the Hawaish, for by now I was
just as anxious to leave the mysterious, enchanted land as I had been to
enter it. The circling horizon of strange hills seemed to shut us in
with the hot coloured sands, but the cool white dunes beyond called us
back to the open deserts of the north.
[Illustration: OUR HOST AT JAGHABUB]
Just as Suleiman wavered as to whether we should turn right or left of a
large cliff, sudden news brought by Yusuf and Amar, who had climbed a
gherd we had just left, abruptly shattered our peace. Our fat retainer
was actually running, a swift uneven little trot, which made him pant as
he shouted, “There is a caravan behind us!” The idea was startling to
say the least, for no one had travelled by this route for nearly four
years and we knew that nobody was prepared to start when we left Kufara.
At first we told Yusuf that he had dreamed his caravan. We were two
days’ march from Hawari, from where all travellers start, and when we
left the oasis there had been no question of anybody else going north by
any route. Amar, however, was equally positive. “We looked through the
glasses,” he said. “There are four or six camels and nearly a dozen men
with them. They are travelling fast, about three hours behind us!” This
was so definite that we had to believe it and Mohammed dotted the i’s.
“We shall be attacked to-night. It is a habit of the Zouias. They wait
till a caravan is outside their country so that they cannot be blamed
and then they eat it up!” “It is not the Zouias!” indignantly refuted
the guide. “They have great respect for the Sayeds. It is the Tebus.
They have swift camels. They attack in the mountains, where no
travellers ever go and then they fly south to the French country before
anything is discovered.”
[Illustration: SIDI IDRIS’S HOUSE AT JAGHABUB]
[Illustration: MOSQUE AND QUBRA OF SIDI BEN ALI AT JAGHABUB]
Intense gloom descended on the little party. Sunset light was fading and
the one break in the purple stones ahead was a patch of vivid sand
dotted with five camel skeletons. We had only three rifles and our
revolvers!
Discretion in this case was certainly the better part of valour, so we
decided on ignominious flight. We left the neighbourhood of the wide
pass leading to Zakar and, in darkness, felt our way west, through
curling defiles and over steep ridges, always driving the camels across
the stony patches to avoid leaving footprints in the sand. When Suleiman
thought we had gone far enough from our course to baffle any pursuers,
we barracked in a convenient hollow out of sight of anyone who was not
standing on the hills immediately surrounding us. “No fires,” said
Mohammed sternly. “No light at all! And we will put the camels a little
way in front of us. They will move if anyone comes.” “What shall we
eat?” moaned Yusuf plaintively. “We must have a fire to cook,” I agreed,
thinking I should be much braver after some hot coffee, for it was very
cold that night, but Mohammed was adamantine. He hung his revolver round
Suleiman’s neck, with strict injunctions to the guide to “Shoot straight
and may Allah direct the bullet!” He then suggested making a fortified
zariba on the hill-side. Yusuf and I, after furtive glances at the
enormous loads, with the very long march fresh in our minds, thought it
would be much better to perish comfortably in the hollow. “It will only
prolong the fight if we defend the hill,” said I plaintively. “I want to
go to sleep on that nice soft patch of sand.” But, unfortunately,
Hassanein and Amar were also against me. Therefore, we were forced to
drag the large fodder sacks laboriously up the first ridge of the hill
and push them into a serried wall on a ledge. I have never been crosser
in my whole life, but it was a beautiful little fort when it was
finished. I felt that only a very energetic bullet would get through
those immense date sacks and the position would certainly be impregnable
so long as any of the defenders were alive. The girbas were arranged in
front of us protected by stones, so, sure of food and water, we could
even stand a siege. The camels were below us in the hollow. Yusuf and I
again suggested a very tiny fire, but Mohammed refused and we contented
ourselves with four-day-old bread and tinned corned beef. After that I
silently unrolled my flea-bag preparatory to placing my revolvers, the
aneroid and the thermometer beside my pillow. “I shall not go to bed,”
said Hassanein sternly. “We must take turns to watch.” “The right is
with you,” replied Mohammed with alacrity. “Is your rifle loaded, Amar,
my son? We will all watch.” This, however, was too much. Yusuf and I
merely ignored the remark, but, as I gave a last comforting wriggle to
feel the thick, woolly end of my flea-bag with my toes, I heard
Hassanein’s voice somewhere above me, alert and strained, “If anyone
comes into sight shall I speak to them first or fire at once? What is
your custom here?” Two simultaneous answers blended with my sleep.
“Speak first!” came drowsily from Yusuf. “Shoot quickly and shoot
straight!” from Mohammed, “or you will never speak again!”
The only thing that disturbed my slumbers that night was a little yellow
sand mouse. I woke up feeling something fluffy on my cheek and the
absurd little beast was sitting on my nose. He scuttled to the other
side of the zariba when I moved and Amar, bloodthirsty after a long,
useless vigil, promptly killed and ate him! No Tebu warriors broke our
peace, but unfortunately the fear of them made Mohammed wake me while
the golden moon was still high and brilliant. I would not move without
breakfast, so we hurriedly cooked rice and sweet tea in the unreal light
almost as clear as noon and laboriously pulled to pieces our beautiful
zariba of the night before. We rolled the heavy date sacks down the hill
because the men were too tired after their hard twenty-four hours to
carry them. One burst and scattered dates right and left. Thrift and
fear mingled in the minds of the retinue, but caution for the long road
before us was uppermost in my mind! We picked them up in silence and
dumped the load on to the protesting camels with almost personal
dislike. Then we took to the trail again and, still in moonlight, began
picking our devious way round the irregular hills. When Suleiman finally
led us back to the main pass we thought any pursuing caravan must be far
ahead, for it was two hours after sunrise.
By this time we were all inclined to think that the four or six camels
and the dozen men existed only in the imagination of Yusuf and Amar, but
we had hardly turned into the wide sweep of sand that led north to the
open spaces beyond the first range of Hawaish when we came upon fresh
camels’ tracks ahead of us. The plump one was delighted. “I was right! I
was right!” he exclaimed, “and now we are safe, for, when they do not
catch us, they will think we have been warned and gone to Zieghen to
avoid them.” Perhaps his surmise was correct. We never knew. We found no
more traces of the mysterious caravan. Its origin and destination
remained a secret. It had travelled two days and a half on the route to
Zakar far beyond the point where, long ago, travellers turned west to
Zieghen. Then it vanished as completely as a mirage, but a mirage does not
leave footprints and camel dung!
In spite of the sleepless night the Beduins marched well that day. “If
we reach those mountains to-night,” had said Suleiman at 11 A.M., when
we saw the second range of Hawaish, blue and mauve, beyond a wide
expanse of pale sand waves and low dunes, “we shall say our Asr prayers
to-morrow at Zakar.” So we plodded on cheerfully. It was cool and
cloudy, with the usual north wind and an incessant mirage that made
pools and lakes in every hollow. The old camel I had ridden when we left
Jedabia seemed to know the way. He made a bee-line for a certain cleft
in the hills. Yusuf noticed this also and asked if I knew the story of
the sand grouse and the camel. “They were arguing one day as to which
was the cleverer,” said the plump one, smiling. “I lay my eggs at random
in the trackless desert,” urged the sand grouse, “and then I fly far and
wide in search of food, but I can always come straight back to hatch
them.” The camel sniffed scornfully. “If I drink at a well as a tiny
foal trotting beside my mother, though I never see it again, I can find
my way back to it even when I am very old and blind!” “No, no, he is
cleverer than that!” interrupted Mohammed. “If a naga has tasted the
water of a well when she is in foal, the camel she gives birth to can
return to it surely.” “Let us hope this particular camel has drunk of
the well at Jaghabub,” I suggested. “Insha-allah!” replied Yusuf
devoutly.
We found a delightfully sheltered spot between two hills that night, so
did not trouble to build a zariba. The thermometer registered a frost,
but I think it had been affected by the mental atmosphere of the
previous night because we did not feel very cold. I remember I drank so
much coffee that I could not sleep, so I did not mind when the Beduins
insisted on making a fire three hours before dawn and cooking their
“asida,” a sticky mass of damp flour flavoured with onions and zeit
(oil). We must have been particularly inexpert with the loading for, in
spite of this early breakfast, we started only just before sunrise. The
new grey camel lay down almost at once, for he had not recovered from
his greed. We had to divide his girbas among the others, for water is
needed to harden the sand when digging the Zakar well. We watched the
caravan anxiously as, leaving the second mass of the Hawaish hills, it
crossed a rolling expanse of great flat slabs of stone, broken and
slippery. However, it toiled slowly but safely across them and about 10
A.M. we were moving in sparkling white sand, blinding, dazzlingly clean
in the hot sun. There was practically no wind for once, and Yusuf
actually discarded his overcoat after he had climbed a mound to point
out a square, solid, black gara among surrounding stony gherds. “Near
that is the well,” he announced. “We shall be there in one hour or
perhaps four.” As a matter of fact we saw the two tufts of palm scrub
that mark the Zakar well at noon and they looked scarcely a stone’s
throw away among sands white as snow, but we only reached them two hours
later.
The last caravan that passed must have suffered severely _en route_, for
there were bits of broken baggage among scattered camel skeletons. Yusuf
wished to ignore several legs complete with pads in building a zariba,
but I hankered after ground less gruesomely reminiscent, so we
compromised by turning our backs on the well and its immediate
surroundings. “The animals always die at the end of this journey,” said
Suleiman calmly, “unless they are very strong. Then they drink so much
water that one must travel very slowly, taking five days or even more to
go from here to Hawari.” The well, when we arrived, was a big mound of
sand, but the guide told us it was properly made with stone walls, so it
was only a case of digging. It is necessary to arrive at this well with
a reserve of water as, before beginning to dig, one must carefully soak
the surrounding sand to make it hold the stones like mortar. Otherwise
they all fall in on top of anyone digging and it is most dangerous work.
Apparently the Zakar well was used in ancient days by Tebus, long before
the Jaghabub-Kufara route was opened by the Mahdi. The latter never
travelled over it himself, but he sent an exploring party to discover
its possibilities and, later, his brother, Sayed Ahmed es Sherif, took a
caravan across it. Since then it has been practically reserved for the
use of the Senussi family, who make the journey with immense caravans
with anything over fifty camels. They carry very large stores of fodder,
casting several loads on the way if necessary. Sidi Idris and Sayed Rida
have so far avoided the route, but Sayed Ahmed es Sherif used it several
times. On one occasion some of his water went bad going south and his
horse died of thirst four days out. He had to leave most of his stores
and luggage behind and return hastily to Jaghabub with as many camels as
possible. Three years later his luggage was recovered just as he had
left it, which shows how little frequented is the route.
All afternoon the Beduins laboured at the well. It was very narrow,
about two and a half feet across, so only old Suleiman, thin and
wizened, could get down to dig. It must have been a most uncomfortable
task, for the water lay at a depth of 15 feet, but before he slept that
night he had felt damp sand beneath his fingers. Next morning, January
29, the work was completed and our 14 girbas filled and ranged in two
nice, fat rows ready for loading, but we could not start that day for a
very bad sandstorm raged till 4 P.M. We could not light a fire or even
go out to collect hattab for our journey. The camels moaned as they
huddled in a miserable circle and we crouched under blankets and ate
sand mixed with dates and stale bread. Hassanein devoted much labour to
mending his primrose and scarlet boots with brass wire and was bitterly
disappointed because he could not cut the latter with his saw!
In the evening the wind abated a little, but it was a gloomy sunset. The
sun was a livid disk in a pale green sky seen through a drab blur of
sand above grey desert. We sealed up our three precious fanatis with
seccotine round the stoppers so that no one should be tempted to use
them till the last possible moment. Then we recovered the well with the
old matting and skins we had found under the miniature dome which
covered it. In four years the sand had filtered through them as if they
were not there, but should any traveller be rash enough to follow
shortly in our footsteps, our precaution might save him a repetition of
old Suleiman’s task.
On January 30 we began the long trek, leaving the well at 7 A.M. after a
most careful adjustment of the loads. It was cold with a faint north
wind which strengthened as we mounted the stony gherd north-east of the
well. As we turned for a last look at the lonely clump of palms, a
minute spot of green in a boundless stretch of undulating sand, a
muffled voice came viciously from the many-coloured kufiya which
Hassanein had wound over his nose and mouth. “The one comfort is that we
shall either be in Jaghabub in twelve days or we shall be dead!” it
said. “Are your boots very painful with all that brass stuck in them?” I
asked sweetly!
For an hour we drove the camels slowly over rough, stony ground with
large loose slabs lying about. Then the hills gave place to the white
sands and we looked down on to dunes like the turbulent breakers of a
stormy sea. Yusuf glanced solemnly at the last dark stones behind us.
“We are lucky to leave the red country without exchanging gunpowder,” he
announced, “but the friends of the Sayeds are always blessed. You have
been especially protected by Allah, for the Zouias are a bad people.” It
was rare that the plump one was really serious except when his food or
sleep were threatened, so we guessed that he knew more than he would
even tell us. The rising north wind, however, prevented much
conversation and before we had reached the first line of dunes it had
developed into something resembling the sandstorm of the previous day.
It was bitterly cold. If one rode, the wind pierced through every
blanket that could be wound round one and one was nearly blown off the
camel. If we walked with a jerd muffled over our heads, the sand poured
through the woollen stuff into eyes, mouth and nose and we literally
staggered as we mounted each succeeding ridge and met the full force of
the gale at the top. I used to struggle on for a mile or two and then
half bury myself under the lee of a gherd till the stumbling, half-
blinded caravan caught up.
A weary day was passed in repeating this process, until everyone looked
upon the unfaltering guide as his personal enemy who would never stop
his slow, interminable crawl over dune and hollow, which always kept him
just out of reach of our protests. Every time he paused to look for the
best place to cross a ridge we hoped to hear the barraking cry, but
always he shuffled on in broken sandals, monotonously, untiringly. The
wind dropped at sunset, but we marched through the sickly, grey light,
with a faint lemon glow in the west and only when the full twelve hours
were completed did Suleiman allow us to crawl into our flea-bags, half-
frozen, half-starved; for everyone was too tired to cook.
I believe I took off my boots, but certainly nothing else, for I
remember how bulky my red hezaam felt in the narrow space; but I slept
for nine blissful hours and ate far more than my share of sardines and
dates in the morning. The rice was a strange, blackish grey colour, due
to the girba water. The colour and smell of this water after a few days
are a great preventive of thirst. We had gone back to the old ration of
three cups of water per day, with a fourth for cooking. We soon found
that hot coffee made us too thirsty, but that cold, strong, sugarless
tea produced rather the opposite effect. A much worse discovery greeted
us that exceedingly cold morning of January 31. Three of the girbas had
either dried in the sand-filled wind or leaked away. There was scarcely
the morning ration left in them. We spoke to the retinue seriously when
we found them drinking copiously, but were baffled by their fatalism. We
still had a girba a day and two fanatis to spare, so they refused to
consider the infinite possibilities of delay, illness, loss, leakage, or
a camel needing water by the way. “What is written is written,” said
Yusuf. “You cannot run away from fate. That is what the eagle said to
Suleiman.” “What eagle?” I demanded suspiciously.
“The prophet Suleiman was sitting on a hill, from which he could see
many cities, when an eagle came to him and said, ‘You think you are wise
because you know the wisdom of all these people, but I will take you all
over the world and show you the wisdom of countries you have never heard
of.’ With that he took the prophet’s girdle in his beak and flew north,
south, east and west with him, showing him many marvels. When they had
travelled far and wide the bird flew back to the prophet’s own country
and dropped his pupil in a field where a ploughman was setting snares.
Before Suleiman could express his thanks he saw that the great bird was
caught in one of the traps and was battering helplessly against the
bars. ‘Oh, thou who would’st teach me wisdom, where is thine own that
thou who knowest all the world could not avoid one small trap?’ ‘What is
written is written,’ said the eagle resignedly. ‘One cannot run away
from one’s fate.’” Yusuf looked at me expectantly. “The eagle might have
looked where he was going,” I said firmly, “and you will most certainly
look at what you are drinking, my son.”
Our start that morning was delayed because Suleiman’s ear had to be
doctored. A half-deaf, as well as a half-blind, guide was certainly a
thing to be avoided, so we gave him all our spare under-garments, his
ailment being entirely due to the fact that, with a temperature of zero,
he slept on the cold sand in a ragged cotton shirt and a jerd
transparently thin and tattered. He had started to walk more than a
thousand miles (including his return journey after he had taken the
camels back to Jedabia) with no other possessions than these and not one
nickel of money! “Allah is great. He will provide,” he said simply as he
wound my knitted spencer on his head and tied a pair of Hassanein’s
breeches round his chest under his grimy shirt. The Arabs’ one desire is
to muffle every possible garment—no matter for what portion of the
anatomy it is designed—round their heads and shoulders—the rest they
leave to chance and the winds of heaven!
Nature was evidently determined to show us everything she was capable of
in the way of climate, for that day not a breath of wind stirred and a
torrid, aching sun beat down on us till our necks felt bruised and our
heads heavy and unwieldy. We prayed for the night, almost as fervently
as the day before, especially as a completely new range of the
exasperating Hawaish mountains appeared to the east. “After a day you
will see them no more,” said Mohammed consolingly. “But they say the
dunes go west all the way to Misurata—Allah alone knows!” After a three
hours’ march, about 60 kilometres from Zakar, the dunes stopped
altogether and we crossed uneven, stony ground till, an hour before
sunset, we came to a single long line of huge, heavy dunes running west
to east. They rose suddenly, like clear golden flour, out of the dark
stones which went right up to their base and though we followed them
east for 14 kilometres that night and 24 the next morning, we never saw
them merge into the rocky waste. Always they stood apart, immense,
curly, ridged, like waves of a sunlit sea, a beautiful landmark which
can be seen half a day’s journey ahead.
It was warmer that night and we “fadhled” round a fire and ate Yusuf’s
“asida,” the only thing he liked better than camels, he told us, and
listened to Suleiman’s tales of past journeys. As they contained every
form of disaster that can assail humanity in the clutches of remorseless
nature, we turned the conversation till he spoke of people living on
this desolate stony ground “long, very long, ago!” “There used to be
wood here and forage and there are stones stuck together with mortar and
sometimes one picks up prepared milling stones, which have been used for
crushing grain.” I doubted his facts because in the afternoon he had
pointed out traces of what he thought were walls constructed with
mortar, but I thought they were merely a natural formation of the
sandstone which takes so many odd shapes. I think his milling stones
were due to the hand of nature in fantastic mood, for there could never
have been water in the stony ground.
February 1 we started at 7.15 A.M. and barraked at 2.30 P.M. at the
Mehemsa, a feeding ground, where it is customary to allow the camels a
few hours’ rest and a good meal before starting to cross the four days’
waste in front without blade of grass or twig of firewood. A few camel
skeletons mark the way below the towering dunes and, here and there, one
comes across large stones set on end, by preceding travellers. These
impromptu landmarks are of great value and we religiously made them
ourselves whenever possible. The Beduins are very good about this
labour. I have seen Mohammed toil to the top of some hillock with a
heavy slab of rock, after a long day’s journey, to make a mark that
might cheer and guide a chance caravan years hence perhaps.
We crossed the dunes where a wide channel of stony ground ran into a
low, curly ridge and, immediately on the other side, found great shrubs
and masses of dry grey brush, excellent fodder and firewood, but burning
hot at midday. The dunes circled round west and north of an open space
of some 4 kilometres. Beyond this again there was another track of
hattab. Among this we camped and turned the camels loose to graze. They
were disappointingly indifferent. “Inshallah, we shall arrive at
Jaghabub, but we shall leave two or three camels on the way,” said
Yusuf. We were very anxious about our animals. The two young nagas were
terribly thin, the big blond camel was obviously ill and two of the
others were feeble and overworked. They should all have been rested and
fed up at Kufara for at least another fortnight. We knew this at Taj,
but the complicated politics of the place necessitated our precipitate
departure. Yusuf told us that generally when a caravan travels the
Kufara-Jaghabub route it spends a month at least in preparation. Forty
or fifty camels are taken and these are all fed up for weeks beforehand,
till they are very fat and strong. During that time they do no work, but
are gradually trained to last thirteen days without drinking by ever-
increasing waterless periods. When our camels arrived at Kufara they had
done a hard 800 miles of journey, including one stretch of ten days
without water and twelve without sufficient food, during the last three
of which they were practically starving. After nine days’ rest they had
to start to cross one of the hardest routes in North Africa, overloaded
and at a bad period of the year, when the climate is at its worst. We
had, therefore, reason for our fears, and when the animals turned away
from the plentiful fodder of the Mehemsa our little party lost something
of its high spirits.