SAND-STORMS AND THE ROAD TO JALO
I LEFT Jaghbub in accordance with the best tradition. It was a day of
sand-storm. The Bedouins say that to start a journey in a sand-storm
is good luck. I am not sure, though, that they are not making a
virtue of necessity. It is as though an Italian were to say that it
is good luck to set out when the sun is shining or a Scotsman when
it is raining! Sand-storms are a commonplace in the desert, but as
an experience there is nothing commonplace about them.
The day dawns with a clear sky and no hint of storm or wind. The
desert smiles upon our setting out, and the caravan moves forward
cheerfully. Before long a refreshing breeze comes up from nowhere and
goes whispering over the sands. Almost imperceptibly it strengthens,
but still there is nothing unpleasant in its blowing. Then one looks
down at one’s feet, and the surface of the desert is curiously
changed. It is as though the surface were underlaid with steam-pipes
with thousands of orifices through which tiny jets of steam are
puffing out. The sand leaps in little spurts and whirls. Inch by inch
the disturbance rises as the wind increases its force. It seems as
though the whole surface of the desert were rising in obedience to some
up-thrusting force beneath. Larger pebbles strike against the shins,
the knees, the thighs. The spray of dancing sand-grains climbs the body
till it strikes the face and goes over the head. The sky is shut out;
all but the nearest camels fade from view; the universe is filled with
hurtling, pelting, stinging, biting legions of torment. Well for the
traveler then if the wind is blowing at his back! The torture of the
driving sand against his face is bitter. He can scarcely keep his
eyes open, and yet he dare not let them close, for one thing worse
than the stinging of the sand-grains is to lose one’s way.
[Illustration: THE ZIEGHEN WELL
The first well reached in nine days’ trekking from Jalo on the way
to Kufra. The well, which is a water-hole, is only marked by a dim
patch of sand, which the caravans scrape as they go along. Water
is found at four or five feet deep. The fact that this well is so
indistinctly marked makes it easy to miss it entirely unless the
guide is a very good one.]
[Illustration: A HALT IN THE DESERT
The caravan on its way to Kufra from Jalo. Note change from sandy
ground to grass.]
Fortunately the wind comes in driving gusts, spaced in groups of three
or four, with a few seconds of blessed lull after each group. While
the gusts are making their assault, one turns one’s face away,
pulls one side of one’s _kufia_ forward like a screen, and almost
holds one’s breath. When the lull comes, one puts the _kufia_ back,
takes a quick look about to see that one has kept one’s bearings,
then swiftly prepares for the next attack.
It is as though some great monster of fabled size and unearthly power
were puffing out these hurtling blasts of sand upon the traveler’s
head. The sound is that of a giant hand drawing rough fingers in
regular rhythm across tightly stretched silk.
When the sand-storm comes there is nothing to do but to push doggedly
on. Around any stationary object, whether it might be a post, a
camel, or a man, the eager sands swiftly gather, piling up and up
until there remains only a smoothly rounded heap. If it is torture
to go on, it is death itself to halt.
A sand-storm is likely to be at its worst for five or six hours. While
it persists, a caravan can only keep going, with careful vigilance
that the direction be not missed. When the storm is at its fiercest,
the camels will be scarcely moving, but their instinct tells them
that it is death to halt. How instinctively wise they are is shown
by the fact that when it begins to rain they sense no such danger
and will immediately stand still and even lie down.
The storm drives the sand into everything one possesses. It fills
clothes, food, baggage, instruments, everything. It searches out
every weak spot in one’s armor. One feels it, breathes it, eats it,
drinks it—and hates it. The finest particles even penetrate the
pores of the skin, setting up a distressing irritation.
There are certain rules about the behavior of sand-storms which
every Bedouin knows and is quite ready to tell the stranger to the
desert. The wind that makes the storm will rise with the day or go to
sleep with the sun. There will be no sand-storm at night when there
is a moon. A sand-storm never joins the afternoon and evening. These
are excellent rules; but on our trek to Jalo every one of them was
broken! We had storms when the moon was shining and storms when the
night was dark. We had storms that began before dawn and storms that
did not pause till long after the sun was set. We had storms that not
only joined afternoon and evening but wiped out the line of demarcation
between them. We had little storms and great storms, the worst I had
yet seen; storms that were short and storms that were long; storms by
day and storms by night. But even under this interminable bombardment,
I did not lose the spell of the desert’s charm. Sometimes at evening,
when we had been battling doggedly against the flying squadrons of
the sand for hours, the wind would stop dead as if a master had put
up a peremptory finger. Then for an hour or so the fine dust would
settle slowly down like a falling mist. But afterward the moon would
rise, and under the pale magic of its flooding light the desert
would put on a new personality. Had there been a sand-storm? Who
could remember? Could this peaceful expanse of loveliness ever be
cruel? Who could believe it?
The trek to Jalo was therefore not an easy one. The sand-storms
were a constant annoyance and sometimes a menace. The latter part
of the way led through a country of sand-dunes, and the caravan had
to go winding about among them. To keep one’s course straight
to the proper point of the compass in spite of those wrigglings
and twistings takes all one’s skill and attention at the best of
times. When a sand-storm is torturing and blinding the whole caravan,
the task becomes a staggering one. Nevertheless we pushed steadily on,
making on the whole good time of it.
In spite of the viciousness of the attacking sands there were hours
of pleasure on this trek.
Memorable were the genial evenings when we were all gathered around
the fire of _hatab_ for our after-dinner glasses of tea. Then stories
would begin to go around. Old Moghaib, with the firelight playing
on the gray hairs of his shaggy beard, would begin by telling bits
of Zwaya history when his grandfather used to go to Wadai to fight
the black tribes and bring back camels and slaves. Saleh would follow
with a tale of the great profits that his cousin had made on his last
trip to Wadai, when he did not have to fight anybody but brought back
leather, ostrich-feathers, and ivory to sell in Barka, which is the
Arabic name for Cyrenaica.
[Illustration: THE ARMED MEN OF THE CARAVAN
Hassanein Bey is mounted on his Arab horse, Baraka]
Then I would turn to Ali and demand a love-song. He was a poet of sorts
and betrothed to Hussein’s sister. If the girl is anything like her
brother, the boy is not doing badly for himself. Ali would look to
his uncle for permission to comply with my request and find the old
man busy with his rosary and pretending to be oblivious of the turn
that matters had taken. It does not befit the dignity of a gray-haired
Bedouin to sit and hear love-songs from the younger generation. But
his respect for me keeps him from leaving the gathering.
Finally he mutters in his beard, “Sing to the bey, since he likes
to hear our Bedouin songs.” Ali’s pleasant voice rises on the
evening air, and the beads of old Moghaib’s rosary fall through
his fingers with the deliberate regularity characteristic of a man
who is conscious of nothing but his devotions.
So Ali sings:
“I went singing
And all men turned to hear me.
It is Khadra
Who draws the song from my soul.
Red is her cheek like spilt blood;
Slim and round she is like a reed.
None so young, none so old
Not to know her.
If I meet her in the way,
I will flaunt her—
Like a scarf upon my spear.”
As his voice dies away, is it my imagination, or are the rosary
beads in Moghaib’s fingers moving a little faster? After a pause
Ali sings again:
“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,
Thy mouth flows honey
Over teeth of ivory.
Thy waist is slender
Like the lion’s running in the chase.
Wilt thou have me?
Or thinkest thou of another?
Thy form is rounded like a whip—
To lie on thy breast
Were to be in Paradise.
Love cannot be hidden,
But Fate is in the hands of God.”
There is silence in the camp, except for the murmur of the dying
fire and the clicking of the rosary. But the rhythm of the beads is
significantly changed now. Toward the end of Ali’s song Moghaib’s
fingers had stopped dead for a moment and then hurried nervously on
as though to deny that they had halted. The old man had been a great
lover in his time, and the boy’s song had stirred his blood with
memories. Perhaps it was fortunate for others around that fire that
they had no clicking rosary-beads to betray them.
After Bu Salama Well, which is a day’s trek from Jaghbub, we were
going through a region where there were remains of a petrified
forest. At intervals we passed great blocks of stone erect like
guideposts along the way. Ages ago they had been living trees, but
now the forces of nature had transferred them from the vegetable
kingdom to the mineral. A few smaller bits of petrified wood were
scattered about, but most of those were hidden beneath the sand. The
larger tree sections had remained visible because the etiquette of
the desert demands that any one passing such a fallen landmark shall
set it erect again. It is also good form, on a newly traveled track,
to build little piles of stones at intervals as notice to later comers
that here lies the way. Sometimes one comes upon a tree or a shrub
on which hang shreds and patches of clothing, and there one is under
obligation to add a thread or a fragment from his own outfit. These
accumulating tokens confirm the tree as a landmark to later comers and
afford the encouragement of the thought that others have been this way
before. In the dead waste and monotony of the desert any evidence of
the passing of one’s fellow-man is a cheering incident. The sight
of camel-dung, of the bleached bones of a camel, or even the skeleton
of an unfortunate traveler are welcome to the eye, for at least they
show that a caravan had passed that way.
Shortly after leaving Jaghbub we came upon a different kind
of landmark. It consisted of a row of small sand hillocks like
ant-hills stretching across the track. It is called Alam Bu Zafar,
the Bu Zafar landmark, and it is the sign and symbol of a pleasant
Bedouin custom. On any trek, the new-comers to that particular route
are expected to slaughter a sheep for those in the caravan who have
come that way before. The custom is called Bu Zafar. If the novices
do not awaken promptly to their responsibilities, the veterans
give them a hint. One or two of them dash ahead of the caravan and
build a row of sand-piles across the way. When the caravan reaches
the significant landmark, they call out suggestively, “Bu Zafar,
Bu Zafar.” Invariably the hint is taken, a sheep is slaughtered,
and the ceremonial feast is held.
In our caravan there were several who had not gone over this route
before, including myself. I bought a sheep before leaving Jaghbub
so that we who were new to this route might give Bu Zafar to the
old-timers. The Alam Bu Zafar that we came upon, therefore, was not
of our making, but left by some other caravan.
[Illustration: HAPPY TEBUS AT KUFRA]
[Illustration: A BIDIYAT FAMILY]
We were fortunate in finding grazing for our camels almost every day
until we reached Jalo. Sometimes, it is true, we had to go out of our
way to reach the patches of green among the sand-dunes, but we always
found them. Three kinds of vegetation grow sparsely and in infrequent
spots in this part of the desert. _Belbal_ is a grayish green bush,
whose foliage is not good eating for the camels. It grows only in the
vicinity of a well. Ordinarily the camels will not touch it, but if
very hungry they will. Then unceasing vigilance is necessary to save
oneself from the annoyance of having a sick camel on one’s hands.
_Damran_ is a similar bush, but with darker foliage and with brown
stems which make good fuel when dried. This is excellent food for the
camels, and they eat it eagerly. The third variety of vegetation is
_nisha_, which grows in tufts of thin leaves up to a foot high. This
too makes good grazing. It is only in the winter months, however,
when the scanty rains come, that these plants are available. No
Bedouin would think of making a journey between Jalo and Jaghbub in
summer without carrying a supply of fodder for his camels.
On the tenth day from Jaghbub we reached the well of Hesaila, the first
water after Bu Salama. It was marked by a few trees and small green
bushes, and after we had scooped out the drifted sand with our hands,
the water seemed good. But the after-effects were not so pleasant.
Two days later we found ourselves on the outskirts of the Oasis
of Jalo. Before we could enter, a messenger came rushing to meet
us. He carried a letter from Sidi Mohammed El Zerwali, the _ikhwan_,
who had been directed by Sayed Idris to accompany us to Kufra,
asking me to camp outside until they could prepare to receive us
properly. Sayed Idris, before he had left Jalo two months before,
had told them that I was on the way and directed that I should be
shown all possible courtesy. They had expected us long before this,
and when we did not come they decided that I had changed my plans.
We withdrew a short distance from the town and camped. A few hours
later an impressive group of a score or more of Bedouins came out
and drew themselves up in a long line before the village of Lobba,
one of the two villages that make up Jalo. Dressed in our cleanest
and most ceremonial clothes, and my men provided with ammunition for
the complimentary salute, we went forward. I approached and shook
hands with Sidi Senussi Gader Bouh, the _kaimakam_ or governor
of the district, the members of the Council of Jalo, and other
prominent citizens. The _kaimakam_ made a speech of welcome, to
which I replied. My men fired their guns in salute, and we passed
into the town.
I went to the house which was put at my disposal, and received a
visit of ceremony from the Council of Jalo and from Sidi El Fadeel,
the uncle of Sayed Idris. After dinner with Senussi Gader Bouh,
I spent the evening in discussing plans for the trip with Sidi Zerwali.