TO FURAWIA ON SHORT RATIONS
THE valley of Enebah was covered with soft sand, dotted with shrubs
both green and dry and with trees.
I had a good night’s rest and was awakened by the hubbub of
the Bidiyat women bargaining with the men of my caravan for empty
tins. They offered a kind of dry shrub that they called tobacco and
milk in return. Five more sheep were brought as _diafa_, and more
presents were distributed.
Encouraged by a cool southeast wind, we started at 3:15 P.M., but the
wind soon dropped and we made slow progress in the heat. The evening
was cooler, however, and we made up a little for lost time. The night
was cold.
On _Friday, May 25_, we were up at four and started an hour and a
quarter later. The country was very undulating and broken, and Herri
was not sure of the way. We moved slowly because of the difficulty
of the going and the uncertainty of the guide. Shortly after nine we
dropped into a valley and camped an hour later.
Senussi Bu Hassan, who was walking beside me, gave expression to his
opinion of the guide and his Bedouin pride.
“Those Goran wabble about like camels,” he said. “They do not
walk like Bedouins, who fly straight to their goal like birds.”
When we took the road again in the afternoon the sun was still very
hot. The camels moved slowly, and the men’s singing sounded like
broken bagpipes. It was perhaps as well that we were compelled to
move slowly, for Herri was more uncertain of the way than ever. Some
of the time we followed the track left by a flock of sheep going
presumably toward Bao, but at intervals it was lost in the tracts of
broken stones.
A little after five we dropped into a big valley whose name we
discovered later to be Koni-Mina, running east and west and filled
with fine trees. Just before reaching it we met a Goran with a few
sheep. He came up to me, dropped his sword and spears on the ground,
and took off his sandals. We shook hands with many ejaculations of
“_Keif-halak, tayibeen_” (“How are you? Very well.”). It was
all the Arabic he knew. Mohammed and Herri then talked with him and
learned that there was a Goran camp in the valley before us. A cattle
merchant had also just arrived from Fada in Wadai with sheep and cows
on his way to El Fasher. Mohammed and Herri left us and approached
the few straw-thatched huts that constituted the Goran camp. We went
across the valley and camped on its farther rim.
Soon a man came running to ask us to return to the camp and start
again the next day. I appreciated the hospitable suggestion but felt
that we could not afford to retrace our steps even for two or three
kilometers. I thanked him for the invitation and told him that we
were in a great hurry. We should camp near-by to wait for our two
guides. An hour later Mohammed appeared, full of news from Fada and
El Fasher, obtained from the merchant.
We were busy that evening overhauling our baggage and repairing
damages. All the ropes were getting worn, and the Bedouin woolen
bags too. We had been losing much time on the way with reloading and
shifting things about. But it was a consolation to know that in a
fortnight we should be in El Fasher.
We had the most beautiful sunrise on May 26 that I have seen. The
brilliant white light on the red and black stones near-by and the
distant hills made everything wonderfully clear and distinct. Soon
it changed to a warm red glow, and then the golden rays of the sun
broke through the thin clouds and flooded everything. The long shadows
cast by rocks and shrubs on the ground looked like black stenciling
on the yellow sand. The shadows of the slowly moving caravan made a
fantastic pattern.
It soon proved to be an oppressively close morning.
Herri joined us later in the forenoon with a slaughtered sheep slung
on each side of his camel, the _diafa_ from the Goran camp.
We followed sheep and camel tracks and marched from one valley into
another until we camped in one of the largest of them, which had many
shady trees.
It is always a problem whether to stop under the shade of a tree and
suffer the attacks of white ants and all sorts of sinister-looking
insects or pitch tent in the broiling sun. In future, I shall be
inclined to take my chance in the open, as the insects are always
with you, while the sun’s heat is over by five or six in the
afternoon. The valley in which we camped is called Kap-Terku.
We started again at four, with a southeast breeze that made walking
not so tedious. There were also a few clouds which tempered the heat
of the sun. The camels walked better. In the late afternoon we passed
a Goran family, a man, wife, and naked child, and later we found a
well. It was seven meters deep and had good water, though the roots
of a near-by tree had rotted in it, giving it an unpleasant odor.
[Illustration: WELL ON THE FRONTIER OF DARFUR]
We camped at eight fortunately in a clear space free from shrubs and
stones. At one in the morning a hyena visited the camp, and had it
not been for the vigilance of Hamid, the camelman, it might have
got Baraka, who was tied at night and therefore unable to defend
himself. Hamid fired at it impulsively, and with my glasses I saw a
dark object running far away in the brilliant moonlight.
_Sunday, May 27._ Start at 5:15 A.M., halt at 9:15 A.M. start again at
3:45 P.M., halt at 7:45 P.M. Make 30 kilometers. Highest temperature
38°, lowest 7°. Fine, clear, and calm in the morning. At midday
strong hot southeast wind, which drops in afternoon. Few white
clouds. Warm and calm in the evening. Very cloudy, with few drops of
rain at 10 P.M. Valleys of soft sand as before, with low sandstone
hills twenty to eighty meters high. Patches of the same stone crop
out through the sand.
Herri proved himself a bad guide. He predicted that we would reach Bao
this morning, but when night came we were not yet there. He knew the
places when he saw them, but his sense of direction was faulty. Our
water had given out, except for one last _girba_, and it was very hot.
We marched until 7:45, when we reached rocky ground, dangerous for
the camels even in the clear moonlight. We were on the edge of a
large valley which Herri declared to be that of Bao, but we could
not believe him. Experience had taught me not to permit the last of
the water-supply to be used until we had not only seen the well but
approached it to make sure that there was drinkable water there. I
insisted that the last _girba_ should not be touched that night. We
went to bed without dinner, since we could not cook without water.
There was, however, the consolation of a beautiful night. I lay in
bed watching the play of the moonlight on the clouds. A few drops
of rain announced the approach of the rainy season. We were astir
early. Empty stomachs do not encourage long sleep. We drove the
camels as we had not driven them before. How tired they looked, and
how weak! When camels and men are hungry and thirsty, all the other
defects in the caravan come out. There was no singing that morning,
merely silent, relentless urging forward of the camels and ourselves.
The descent into the valley was steep and dangerous. Three camels
threw off their loads, which had to be carried by the men down to
the level ground and loaded again. At last we saw a few sheep and a
straw hut or two. We stopped, and I let the men drink the water from
the last _girba_, for which they had asked many times that morning.
Herri and Mohammed went ahead and made their way to the huts. The
caravan meanwhile moved directly down the valley toward the well. Soon
some blacks of the Goran and Bidiyat tribes came to meet us. We fired
our rifles as usual, as if in salutation, but in reality to impress
the natives with our preparedness.
I noticed that by a curious coincidence those who met us, men and
women, were all old. There was not a single young person among
them, especially no young woman. However, it did not strike me as
extraordinary, but a little later I was surprised to see batches
of slim and beautiful girls, brown or black, half naked in their
tattered clothes, but holding themselves gracefully erect. As they
came along in groups of three and four, I turned to Bukara and asked,
“From where are these girls?”
Bukara looked at them with great admiration and replied: “Allah
be great! These girls are of the village. They thought we were going
to rob the village and take away the young girls as slaves, so they
sent them out to hide as soon as they sighted our caravan. Now that
the men know that we are a peaceful caravan, they have sent word to
the girls to come back.”
As the girls passed my horse they shyly dropped on their knees
in salutation, as is the custom there when addressing a person of
higher rank. In this part of the world when one is addressed by some
more exalted person the etiquette is not to stand up but to sit
down in token of reverence. One after another these girls dropped
to their knees, and in return I gave them the usual Arab blessing,
“May God’s peace be on you and His mercy and blessings.” As
they rose again the girls bashfully turned to look at my company of
admiring Bedouins.
We camped at the end of the valley near the well. An hour later the
_sheikh_ of the camp came to greet us. We discussed the roads to El
Fasher and the direction to be followed. Here Herri looked thoughtful
and sad. This was close to his own country, for we were across the
frontier of French Wadai now. He had thrown away his rights and run
away from the French, leaving all his property and relatives, and
gone to the solitary oasis of Ouenat to live in self-inflicted exile.
We were getting into a different kind of country. There were many
more varieties of birds, including crows, owls, parrots, doves,
and others whose names I do not know.
In the night a lioness had killed two donkeys, and some of the natives
captured one of its young and sent its skin to Fada to be sold. There
are several score of blacks of the Goran and Bidiyat tribes at Bao. The
women are graceful creatures, clothed with the utmost simplicity. Their
dress is either a length of cloth wound skilfully around the body, with
a narrow strip of cloth for a belt, in which is carried a small knife,
or a sheepskin wrapped round the lower part of the body. Their hair
is arranged in small plaits. They wear ornaments of silver and ivory,
heavy rings in the hair, and bead and amber necklaces. Young girls wear
only an apron of cloth or leather. The men have splendid physique, go
naked except for a loin-cloth, and carry two or three spears, a sword,
and throwing-knife. Only _sheikhs_ wear white robes and large turbans.
We gave the women and children macaroni, but they refused to eat
it. Instead, they threaded the pieces on strings and made necklaces,
which they wore proudly. The business instinct of the Bedouins at
once displayed itself. They made necklaces from our little store of
macaroni and exchanged them for butter and leather.
Herri and Mohammed were to leave us here. They did not care to venture
further south. I had some difficulty in finding a guide to take us to
Furawia but at last succeeded. A sheep was brought to us as _diafa_,
and we dined early on Tuesday, intending to make a prompt start in
the morning.
The guide did not present himself, and I began to feel that the Bidiyat
were suspicious of my caravan. At 11 P.M. he appeared, however, and
I immediately woke the men and set them to loading the camels before
he had any chance of changing his mind.
_Wednesday, May 30._ Start at 1 A.M., halt at 8:30 A.M., start again
at 4:15 P.M., halt at 7:15 P.M. Make 40 kilometers. Highest temperature
36°. Fine and clear. Strong and dusty southeast wind. The wind changes
to northeast in the afternoon and drops in the evening. Country same as
before, except flatter, and with no large valleys and no big trees. At
8:15 A.M. across a small _wadi_ running east and west.
When we started at one o’clock there was a beautiful moon, which
made it as clear as in daylight.
Herri and Mohammed started with us, as they wished to give the
impression to the men of Bao that they were going with us to El
Fasher. Otherwise they feared that they might be waylaid. In an hour
we had climbed out of the valley. We halted to say good-by to the two
guides, who were going to travel only by night on their way back to
Ouenat, to avoid detection.
As I stood a little apart from the caravan in the moment of farewell
to them, I realized that the difficulties through which we had come
had drawn us close together. Mohammed was tall, erect, with a piercing
eye and an interesting illustration of the self-assurance that life
in the desert gives and the fatalistic resignation with which one
accepts whatever comes. Herri was a gentle-mannered, unassuming old
man with a benign smile and charming manners. There was unquestioned
dignity in his movements in spite of an injured left foot which he
had to drag when he walked. He was a prince by nature.
This was not merely a parting of companions of the trek, but a symbol
of the old, having run the race, pointing the onward road to the
young. We all forgot that I was the head of a caravan and they my
guides. Herri put his hands on my shoulders and spoke with feeling
in his voice.
“May God bless you and give you strength,” he said. “There is
your road.” He pointed to an opening in the distant hills. I murmured
a few words in a voice that I could scarcely trust not to tremble
and turned away to my caravan. The two dignified but somehow pathetic
figures, both exiles from their own land, faded away in the moonlight.
We halted at dawn for our morning prayers and at 8:30 to camp for
the day. There were tracks of lions about. We started again early in
the afternoon, but the men were tired, having had little sleep the
previous night, and we marched only three hours. The sheep which had
been given us escaped, and in the moonlight Hamid and Sad went after
it, bleating like sheep themselves to attract it, but with no success.
_Thursday, May 31._ Start at 3:45 A.M., halt at 8:45 A.M., start
again at 3:30 P.M., halt at 7:30 P.M. Make 36 kilometers. Highest
temperature 37°, lowest 5°. Fine, clear, and calm. Southeast wind
in the afternoon, which changed to northeast and dropped toward
evening. Calm evening and night, with full moon and few white clouds.
An uneventful day.
Shortly after an early start on Friday, June 1, the guide got sleepy
and “lost his head.” We were soon traveling due west instead of
southeast. I did not interfere until we stopped for morning prayers at
five, but then I asked him quietly if he had intended to march to the
westward. He was surprised but admitted frankly his error. Fortunately,
we had not been going wrong for long.
At 6:30 we passed a hill called Tamaira, on which stood a dry
tree marking the boundary between Wadai and the Sudan. From the
boundary-post we dropped into Wadai Hawar, a large valley full of big
trees, which is said to extend westward to Wadai and eastward toward
the Sudan. In Wadai, it is called Wadi Hawash.
The soil in the _wadi_ is very fertile, and the men from Wadai and
Darfur come to it in the autumn for grazing. We camped here for the
midday halt and found tracks of giraffe. In the afternoon we walked
through high dry grass as though in a great field of ripe corn.
[Illustration: THE CHIEF OF THE ZAGHAWA TRIBE OF DARFUR
Receiving the explorer and his party on entering the frontiers]
The men of the caravan were getting worn out, all the more as clothing
was tattered, shoes at the last gasp; and to add to our inflictions
we had much trouble with _haskanit_, a small, very hard, hooked thorn
which grows on a low bush and attaches itself to whosoever brushes
against it, when it is extremely difficult to extract.
I heard Bukara describing to Hamid a giraffe and an elephant. The
giraffe, he said, has the head of a camel, the hoofs of a cow, and
the hind quarters of a horse. His word picture of the elephant was
grotesque and much exaggerated, to impress the man from the north.
We made a very early start on Saturday, June 2, to make sure of
reaching Furawia that day. At 5 A.M. we passed on our right the
landmark of Hagar Kamra-ra, ten kilometers away, and an hour later
passed another, Hagar Urdru, a hill about eighty meters high and two
hundred meters long. _Hagar_ is the Sudanese word for _gara_, or small
hill. Then we started dropping into the valley of Furawia. It was the
largest valley and the most inhabited that we had come across. Its
people are Zaghawa and a few Bidiyat.
We camped at nine near a Bidiyat camp and soon heard the distressing
news that no food was to be obtained at Furawia. This was contrary to
my expectation. I made haste to find a messenger to take a letter to
the governor of Darfur at El Fasher, asking him to send me provisions
and cloth to clothe my men, who were in rags. After much hesitation,
caused apparently by fear of my men, the Zaghawa _sheikh_ of a camp
near-by came, driven by curiosity, to visit us. He was under the
Sudanese Government, and I pounced on him and offered him three pounds
to take a letter from me to Saville Pasha, Governor of Darfur. It was
liberal pay, and in addition I threatened him with much unpleasantness
should he hesitate or refuse. I told him he must start at dawn the next
day. After murmuring something about having no animal to carry him,
he went away and soon returned to say that he would take my letter to
El Fasher. He intended to go on horseback. This was good news, for we
had had no sugar for three weeks and had been obliged to sweeten our
tea as best we could with pounded-up dates. Flour and rice had also
given out, and a scanty diet of macaroni prepared with bad water is
very monotonous.
I moved the camp near to one of the wells in the valley and tried to
buy a sheep to cheer up my men. But it was getting dark, and none of
the inhabitants came near our camp. We watered the camels and settled
down for the night, not very well satisfied with life.
I was suddenly surprised to hear my men singing and apparently as
cheerful as though they had had a good meal. I called Zerwali and
Bukara over and asked them what was the singing about when there was
no sugar and little food and things were generally disagreeable.
“We can breathe now,” answered Zerwali. “We have entered the
Sudan and feel ourselves at last in safety.”
“Were you so fearful, then, of this journey we have made?” I asked.
“At Kufra all our relations said that we were ‘walking for our
fate’ when we took this road,” explained Bukara. “‘Your fates
are written,’ they said to us, ‘but may God protect you.’ We
wondered if perhaps they might not be right.”
“You heard at Kufra,” said Zerwali, “how some people offered
you encouragement to take this route, while many advised against
it. Those who favored it were malicious men who simply hoped that
they would never see you again.”
It was then also that Zerwali—who, now that we were nearing the
end of the trip, felt himself more free to talk—told me that the
houses of Sadaida and Jehilat of the Zwaya tribe at Hawari and Kufra
had strongly resented my second visit and held a meeting to discuss
the best means of either destroying the caravan or preventing me from
coming back.
Then I realized what pluck it had taken for these men to come with
me by the strange and unknown way without a murmur of protest. I was
proud of them.
At 2 A.M. Hamid, who was acting as sentry, woke me to say that the
messenger had arrived and was ready to take my letter to El Fasher. Two
letters were all written and ready under my pillow, one to Saville
Pasha and the other to the officer in command at Kuttum, the outpost
on the way to El Fasher, asking him to make sure that my letter to El
Fasher reached its destination. I was glad the messenger had come so
early. The sooner we got new supplies the happier we should all be. I
promised him a few extra dollars if he would deliver the letter to El
Fasher in four days. I bade him a very warm God-speed and watched him
ride off in the moonlight on a quite strong if ragged-looking horse.