CIVILISATION 271
APPENDIX I
SCIENTIFIC NOMENCLATURE OF SAHARAN BIRD LIFE 291
APPENDIX II
SCIENTIFIC NOMENCLATURE OF SAHARAN ANIMAL LIFE 295
INDEX 297
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE EDGE OF THE UNKNOWN _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
IN AGADES 4
NATIVE FOOD FOR THE LONG TRAIL 6
AN ORDINARY NIGHT CAMP 12
THE LONG, EXACTING MARCH 16
NOMAD AND CAMEL-MAN 20
THROUGH TO WATER AND RESTING 28
BRANDED 34
ALL MY COMRADES CARRIED STRANGE BOXES 36
MY NEW MASTER RODE ME ALL THAT DAY— 38
—AND THAT WAS THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT FRIENDSHIP 38
HE STROKED ME OFTEN 42
A NOOK IN THE MOUNTAINLAND OF AÏR 50
SALT-BUSH 52
DISINTEGRATING ROCK 52
A DESERTED STONE-BUILT VILLAGE 54
TYPICAL TASSILI 58
A DEEP RAVINE IN TASSILI 60
A SAHARAN RIVER-BED 62
A CORNER OF THE CAMP AT TABELLO 72
FOOD FOR CAMELS 78
GLIMPSES OF THE TARALUM 80
PART OF THE TARALUM CAMPED 82
AMONG SAND-DUNES 86
THE TOLL OF THE DESERT 86
EFALI 90
A DOORWAY IN FACHI 96
THE “SEVEN PALMS” 96
THE RAMPARTS 98
A TOWN BUILT OF SALT 100
SHADOWS AT EVERY TURN 102
WOMEN OF FACHI 104
THE DEN OF THE FORTY THIEVES 106
THE SALT-PITS OF BILMA 114
SETTING THE SALT 116
MEN OF THE OASIS 118
FROM THE ROOF-TOPS THEY WATCHED 122
THE SALT-PANS OF TIGGUIDA N’TISEM 124
SALT OF TIGGUIDA 126
THE VEIL 132
A TUAREG WOMAN 134
A MAIDEN 138
TUAREG LADS 140
A TUAREG HOME 144
EATING FROM THE ONE DISH 146
A TUAREG VILLAGE 150
THE WELL-HEAD 150
WITH RIFLE AND EQUIPMENT 152
A BRIEF HALT 160
A SCENE IN AÏR 166
SPELLBOUND IN THE GRIP OF LIMITLESS SILENCE 170
WHEN THE DAY DAWNED 176
TOMBS ON THE DESERT 180
A SLAVE WOMAN 185
A TEBU WOMAN 186
A TEBU MAN 186
SEMI-SEDENTARY—AN EGUMMI NATIVE 188
WATER FOR IRRIGATION 190
A DATE GROVE 192
A WOMAN OF THE “DIARABBA” 194
A HALT AT AN OLD WELL 200
A SAHARAN WELL 202
SUNK THROUGH ROCK 206
A CAMP-FIRE 210
THE WAYFARER’S POSSESSIONS 212
A BIRD DISGUISE 220
TWO MALE OSTRICHES 222
CATTLE EGRETS 224
ARAB BUSTARDS 226
CARRION VULTURES 230
A MORNING’S BAG 238
BIG GAME 240
DORCAS GAZELLE 244
AARDVARK 248
A DESERT FOX 252
EVER HEADING NORTH 258
IN-SALAH MARKET 260
SCENE IN OUARGLA 262
BUCHANAN 264
GLOVER, T. A. 266
TOGETHER TO THE END 268
GOOD-BYE TO AFRICA 276
BACK TO CIVILISED CLOTHES 280
ALI AND SAKARI IN ENGLAND 284
* * * * *
MAP _p._ 46
DIAGRAM OF ROCK DECAY _p._ 65
CHAPTER I
PREPARATIONS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
PREPARATIONS
It is strange how the maddest of dreams come true in the end;
provided one has faith to hold on to them dearly.
Twenty-one months before setting out on the journey recorded in these
pages, when I was on my way back from the Northern Regions of Aïr,
I remember, as clearly as if it was to-day, sitting in the dim,
mud dwelling-room of the fort quarters at Agades discussing with
Monsieur le Capitaine, in charge of that last outpost of French
military administration, the prospects of my returning again at
another time and undertaking further and greater exploration of
that vast and mystical land that men know by the name SAHARA.
At that time I had some acquaintance with the country, and, like
other explorers, once having tasted the charm of discovery, I was
eager to push onward into the dimmest recesses of the land, since
it held, at brilliant moments, stirring promise of new and strange
secrets of unknown character—secrets that shyly withdrew behind
the mist of the desert’s horizon, dancing like will-o’-the-wisps,
until they disappeared, leaving behind a taste of temptation that
beckoned alluringly.
Le Capitaine was a wise and experienced traveller and bushman—a
man of iron; a man of understanding; and he fanned the sparks of
my newly kindled ideas with such zest and earnestness that, in the
late hours of our discussions, they enlarged to the magnitude of
absolute ideals.
For that alone I owe Le Capitaine a debt of gratitude; but I have
gratitude also for having met him and shaken his hand in friendship.
To-day men of Le Capitaine’s type are rare. He was, when I knew
him, and is no doubt still, a pioneer; one of that little group
of exceptional men who stand head and shoulders above the rank
and file of their brethren in outdoor adaptability, and who leave
a deeply cut mark on the furthermost frontiers of a nation’s
colonies. Men of his type have the geography of Africa at their
finger-ends in infinite outlines, great though Africa is, and under
many flags. The ultimate future of all things is their particular
study and concern, since men have time to think and ponder deeply
over intimate problems who spend their lives in desperately lonely
environment. And, above all else, these rare _individuals_ are men
of deadly earnestness and unquestionable honesty.
It is a delight to induce such men, in the aftermeal hours of
merciful evening coolness, to discuss their schemes for the building
of colonies and empires, and hear them lay out a network of railways
and enterprises from place to place, across a continent, with the
clear precision and absolute accuracy that only is possible to the
student who thoroughly knows his subject.
[Illustration: IN AGADES; WHERE DREAMS OF A SECOND EXPEDITION TO
THE SAHARA FIRST DAWNED]
From the date of those camp-fire talks that carried us away into
the midnight hours of the brooding, sand-surrounded fort, a second
expedition to the Sahara was firmly planted in my mind.
But it was not until September 1921 that I found myself again free
to think of continuing travel on natural history research, and was
able to give to my dreams a definite shape.
At that time I wrote to Lord Rothschild’s Museum, and the British
Museum, to ascertain their views of the zoological value of an
extended journey right across the Sahara, starting from the West
Coast of Africa and striking northward until the sea-coast of the
Mediterranean was reached.
Encouraging replies were immediately forthcoming, and both these
great Natural History Institutions were anxious that I should make
the effort and offered to support me so far as lay in their power.
Their support made my decision to attempt a second expedition
final; whereupon Lord Rothschild at once took steps, on my behalf,
to forward, through the French Embassy in London, a request for
official consent to be granted to the expedition’s travelling
through the French territories of the Sudan and Sahara.
But formal preliminaries of this kind move very slowly at times,
and for four and a half months the matter lay unsettled and I lived
in an atmosphere of uncertainty, doubtful as to the view the French
authorities would take of a journey that was undoubtedly hazardous;
doubtful, also, as to the date at which it might be possible to
sail. If I was to make a well-timed start to catch the rains in
barren areas of the Sahara in August or September, I estimated that
I must set out not later than the 8th of March, on the West Coast
ship sailing at that date.
Weeks slipped by. No word came from across the Channel. The 8th of
March loomed nearer and nearer, and I grew restless and worried.
At last the time came when the French authorities said, “You may
go.” And then there was gladness and bustle and transformation.
Everything in the way of equipment had to be secured in three
weeks. My days were spent in London, flying here, there, and
everywhere on seemingly endless shopping errands, until on the eve
of sailing the entire equipment was tolerably complete.
I will describe one amusing incident that relates to shopping:
I drove up to a large West-End establishment and asked the
taxi-driver to wait, while, in company with my wife, I entered
the shop.
I had told the taxi-driver I would not be long, but was detained
almost an hour.
[Illustration: NATIVE FOOD FOR THE LONG TRAIL]
My wife became anxious about the taxi-man’s temper, and, after
considerable time had passed, went to pacify him.
“My husband won’t be long now,” she said. “You must excuse
him; he is in there buying food for a year.”
“Gawd! Where’s he going, Miss?” the taxi-man exclaimed, and
when my wife explained, “To explore the Sahara,” he got excited
and thoroughly interested, and at once started to confide the news
to a fellow taxi-man on another waiting cab.
This incident brings sharply before the mind the enormous contrast
between a land of plenty and a land of poverty, while it makes us
appreciate how much we rely on our everyday habit of shopping.
At home we have to think of little purchases of parcels for the needs
of the day, and we suffer no severe penalty if something required
has been overlooked, for any such omission can usually be rectified
in an hour or so by ’phone, or message, or by a second call.
How different in the Sahara!—no shops; scanty food; less
water—wilderness, often without living soul. Shopping that has
to foresee every emergency for so long a time as a year or more in
such environment is indeed a task of consequence. Not an item must
be forgotten, big or little, and it is the little things that are
the hardest to keep sight of (and to purchase, for that matter).
Yet, no matter how careful, after six months on the way, something is
sure to be badly missed; some provoking little thing, of increased
importance the moment one is aware it is not to be had for love or
money. Then, if you are kind, have pity, for the loss will be great
and real. All must have some fellow feelings in such a circumstance,
for has not everyone known what it is to be “put out” when some
little purchase has been forgotten on the shop’s _half-closing
day?_ Half a day! For 365 days I have known what it is to do without
things I believed were indispensable.
On the 8th March 1922, with equipment collected and complete
according to views that were the outcome of previous experience, I
sailed from Liverpool to land at Lagos; on the West Coast of Africa.
My companions were: Francis Rodd, who was to go with me as far
as Aïr, on ethnological and geographical research, and the
cinematographer of the expedition, T. A. Glover.
CHAPTER II
THE CARAVAN
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II
THE CARAVAN
A drowsy, uncertain voice, casting a word or two across the darkness
in search of comrade, disturbs my deep sleep of night. In a moment
I am consciously awake.
“Lord!” I think, “it seems but an hour since I wearily sought
repose.”
I feel dreadfully heavy and muscle-weary, and my blanket seems
the snuggest place on earth. But the laws of the wilderness are
pitiless. The caravan is four days out from water, and has three
more days to go—if we travel continuously.
With a groan, in protest and to pick up pluck, the mind wins
obedience over jaded flesh, and with sudden forced resolve I jerk
into sitting position on the sand, before I have time to change
my mind.
My head camel-man, the owner of the drowsy voice, is stirring
uneasily. Mindful of overnight orders, he has kept a faithful eye
on the starlit sky and knows it to be about two hours from dawn—
the time set for wakening the camp.
“Elatu! . . . Mohammed! . . . Gumbo!” I cry. “Wake
up! . . . Hurry! . . . Load the camels!”
As darkness is known to those who live in houses, it is still
deep and utter night. But it is not so opaque to the wayfarer: the
unroofed camp, under the great blue star-lit dome, can be made out
grouped like a tiny island of dark, huddled boulders in a vast sea
of sand, dimly visible for a distance. There is barely a suggestion
of light. Yet it is there—that faint glow of a Saharan night,
that is influenced by unobstructed skies and vast white plains of
sand. The accustomed eye can almost “sense” the approach of day,
but we know also by the position of the stars that the hour is 4
a.m., and that dawn will surely break at the appointed time.
The men gird travel-soiled garments about them. Instructions go
forth with perfect understanding. Camels grunt and roar as they
are head-roped and shifted from night-lairs to positions beside
their loads.
In a little a fire flares up, bright and dim by turns, fed by the
straw-leavings of overnight camel fodder.
By the fitful light stray ropes are recovered half buried in sand,
or difficult loads secured; while Elatu, Mohammed, and the others
work at a feverish pace so that the first animals loaded will not
have to wait overlong for the last of their comrades.
It is harsh work, hard and exacting; but the men, skilled and able,
go through with it. They have been with me for months. They are
men of the Sahara, and I know that loads will be well balanced and
unerringly roped when, out on the trail, dawn breaks to reveal the
merit of their workmanship.
[Illustration: AN ORDINARY NIGHT CAMP IN TRAVELLING THE DESERT]
The camp, deep in sleep and deadly still during the night, is
now appallingly noisy in comparison with the vast quiet that lies
outside its immediate circle. It is impossible to try to conceal our
whereabouts. No matter if raiders, or the deadliest enemies of war,
are at hand, the message of a camel-camp on the move goes out into
the night unfettered—and the risk recognised.
One by one garrulous camels are released from knee-ropes that have
kept them down, obedient to the task of loading, and rise from the
sand to stand in dim outline, ready for the road, tall and gaunt,
with jutting side-burdens.
Half an hour has passed, and still the caravan is not ready. It is
foolish to be impatient. The groping work of the men in the dark
seems provokingly slow; but patience, cheerfulness, and coolness
are tonic for the moment—so the leader learns to wait, and make
light of it—and reaps the gratitude of his henchmen in return.
“White Feather,” my faithful, travel-wise, long-tried
camel, kneels beside me ready to move. I have seen to it that the
riding-saddle—a slim, perched-on, Tuareg saddle of the Sahara—is
comfortable on the animal, and secure and level, for it is to serve
for many hours to come. On the long, hard day that lies ahead every
detail is important. In their places, calculated with purpose to
balance on either side of the saddle evenly, are hung an old army
water-bottle, a pair of field-glasses, a revolver, and two grass
saddle-satchels with dates, tobacco, ammunition, and maps; while over
the flanks drop leather buckets containing a shot-gun and a rifle.
It is too dark to see the worn condition of equipment, battered
and broken by months of “roughing it” in the open; nor men
who are rugged and hard, and lean as the camels they saddle,
from strain of relentless effort. Yet those conditions are there,
uncovered till kindness of night departs and reveals the sternness
of endless enduring.
At the end of an hour we start, and two long lines of camels head
northward into the darkness. And thenceforth the din, that was
in camp, dies out; broken only once or twice, to begin with, as a
camel protests while watchful native runs alongside to straighten
an uneasy load.
Soon there is scarcely a sound, and the soft-footed caravan moves
ghostlike over a great empty land that is dead.
The long, exacting march has begun, and another day’s effort to
conquer the vastness of Space and Sand.
At the start the camels travel well. The men are slightly urging the
pace by persuasive foot-pressure on the nape of the neck. They want
to make the most of this hour, but they do not press the animals
inconsiderately, for long, hot hours lie in front. Always the best
pace of the day is made during the cool hour before dawn and through
the delightful hour succeeding it.
I ride alongside Elatu’s camel, up in front of the caravan,
and enter into low conversation to gather the vital news of the
morning. Elatu—a tall, lean Tuareg of some thirty years—is my
head camel-man, and a ceaseless worker of exceptional ability. He
is one of those very fine natives whom a white man may win and come
to hold in esteem, conquered by sheer value of labour and fidelity.
Our minds are on the welfare of the caravan. “How sits the saddle
on Awena this morning?” I asked. “Is the sore worse?”
“Yes,” Elatu answered. “But, before I slept last night, I made
a rough cradle to try to keep the saddle from rubbing; and he carries
his load to-day. But he cannot last. To be any good again he must
reach a place to rest and recover strength, and heal the wound.”
“Owrak has no load to-day, nor Mizobe, and that swollen foot of
Tezarif will give trouble before the sun sets.”
“Bah! This desert is no good. We know that camels must die. In
my far-distant home I have seen them die since childhood. But
Allah hits hard this moon[1]—and the way is yet far. We need our
camels now.”
“That is bad news, Elatu,” I replied. “But we will get
through—we always have—and we will again.”
“Break up Awena’s load to-night when we camp and take him
along empty, if he can walk—if not, we will have to turn him
loose to take his chance, or shoot him, if there is no prospect
of grazing. Split up his main baggage among the fittest animals,
if you can—if not, we will have to risk letting some food go.
“Gumbo tells me Sili is ill this morning. I’m afraid he won’t
last much longer, poor lad. He has been sick too often lately,
and looks bad.” I passed Elatu two aspirin tabloids. “Give him
those and make him ride all day with his eyes covered from the sun
so far as possible. Also, let him have extra water if he wants it
badly before the end of the day.”
My camel went on, and Elatu halted. He would find Sili in the rear.
Camels—men—food—water—those make up one endless round
of anxiety to all who travel the vast, empty world that makes
up uttermost desert. Therein Nature is antagonistic to anything
that lives. Wherefore, to those who venture forth, life is alert
to its very foundation, and the contest for existence severe,
and often bitter. Long, weary days bring few successes, and many
disappointments and failures; and great lessons of life are taught
and comprehended, though few words go forth in complaint of those
things of tragedy and disaster that men keep hidden away in the
closed book of the soul.
I muse in my saddle over the strange gamble of it all, so similar,
in plan, to the gamble of life, familiar to most of us who have
intimately known struggle for existence. But here the gamble
is intensified, the material rude and raw, with vast wastes of
barrenness immediate on all sides, and on the very threshold,
ready to engulf and destroy the moment weakness is declared.
[Illustration: “THE LONG, EXACTING MARCH”]
I am still pondering over this philosophy when I become aware
that there is just a faint glow of light commencing to show in the
east. It is the first indication of dawn.
Ever so slowly it increases till the distant line between earth
and sky begins to form.
In a little time it is discerned that the light is coming from
behind the earth, below the far eastern horizon.
Gradually the stars go out, and the earth becomes mistily unfolded.
We are alert to know the prospect of the landscape—hopeful of
change to cheer our way. But, when the full expanse is revealed,
the morning is as yesterday—no “land” in sight—nothing but
the same old vast endless “sea” of sand that has come to be so
familiar and so haunting.
But, with the light, comes a lifting of spirits. The men commence to
chatter; and someone breaks into hopeful rhythmic song—a love-lilt
of a tribe, reminiscent of home-fond memories. Others pick it up,
rough-tuned and jazz-fashion, and a gay voice laughs after it has
inserted a sly line or two of misquotation to point the words to
a comrade’s sweetheart.
And so are rough men wooed to cheerfulness, even in time of stress,
by the soft magic hand of morn, and its influence, that resembles
the touch of a woman’s caress. For a space, all too short, the
caravan _lives_ at its best, careless of aught but the hour.
Meanwhile, the first flush of day creeps on. And soon, away at the
sand-end “Edge of the World,” the great golden sun, till now
the hidden source of day, blazes suddenly into sight, in the east,
shooting coloured shaft-rays in the sky by the very glory of its
brilliance.
It is the signal for Mohammedan prayer, and I order the caravan to
halt in consideration of the religion of my followers.
All except the sick man, Sili, move out clear of the camels.
Facing the east, where far-off, in another world, lie Mecca and the
Shrine of the Prophet, the men remove their sandals and, barefoot,
reverently pray.
First they stoop to touch the ground with the palms of the hands,
then pass them, dust-begrimed, over the face before they meet again,
in an action that resembles washing. Then, standing, the prayer is
commenced. Soon, the figures bend down to sit on the sand while
continuously muttering softly modulated prayer, and dipping the
forehead in the dust in moments of stress, or in gesticulations
of respect.
There they sit for a little, stooping anon as before.
Again they rise upright.
Again they sit down. And then a gradual repose sets in.
Finally the prayer dies out restfully, and, by the subtle composure
of the figures, the onlooker is conscious that the minds of the
natives have settled in peace.
In a little they rise and rejoin the caravan; and the camels move on.
Let no man idly misunderstand or underrate the faith of these
peoples of the East. It is a tremendous faith—and no single day
may pass without deep worship and thought of Allah. It may be, in
the Sahara, the faith of the primitive, the faith of an outdoor
people, but it is complete and ever present. And who of us dare
say so much of the Christianity of modern civilisation?
And this strength of religion has its political
significance. Notwithstanding the French influence, and the
venturings of missionaries, in parts that surround the Sahara, I
am confident that, throughout the length and breadth of the desert
to-day, its scattered peoples have, at heart, only the faith of
Islam, and really admit true friendship and allegiance to the Caliph,
and to none other. Wherever the wayfarer goes he will find the inner
mind of the nomad turn ever to one magic name—“Stombole”—the
Turkish centre in Constantinople, and the home of the Caliph.
Meantime, the sun has come completely into view; a great glowing
orb, looking twice the size it will appear when later it is high
in the sky.
The time is 6 a.m. For an hour more we travel in comparative
coolness; but by 9 a.m. we are into the full heat of day—that
awful, dreaded heat, that constantly torments and sets out, without
pity, to subdue and conquer the stoutest. In the desert the sun is
master, cruel and remorseless beyond belief, with bleaching blaze
that eats up life and kills. For the rest of the day the caravan
must pass under the rule of its greatest enemy.
Throughout the morning the camels travel well and the spirit of the
men is fairly cheerful. Though there is not much talking among them
now, as they sit huddled on their camels with their gowns thrown
over their heads as covering from the sun. They know well that it
is wise to conserve their strength, for long, weary hours lie ahead.
I scan the caravan as we plod monotonously along.
We have been travelling close on two hundred days, and the ranks
are sadly thinned, though the journey is not yet half completed.
There were sixteen natives at the start: now there are only
six—Elatu, Mohammed, Sili, Gumbo, Sakari, and Ali. Most of
the others have gone through fear of the dangers of the journey,
lack of heart for the hard, endless work, physical weakness, and
incurable sickness. (Two of the latter, left behind in good hands,
to recover, when next heard of, had died).
There had been forty-four camels at the start; now there are
but twenty-one. I have long learned to know them by their native
names. Those that are with us still are:
“AWENA” =“Wall-eyed, or piebald-eyed.”
“BANRI” =“The one-eyed one.”
“ALLETAT” =“White Belly.”
“ABEROK” =“The dark grey one.”
“KADEDE” =“The thin one.”
“ADIGNAS” =“The white one.”
“TERFURFUS” =“The piebald female.” (A female, because
of the T prefixed before the name, which
designates sex in the Tamascheq language of
the Tuareg nomads of the Sahara).
“KORURIMI” =“The earless one” (because ears damaged).
“TABZOW” =“The white one, but not quite white.”
“EMUSCHA” =“The white-mouthed one.”
“OWRAK” =“The pale fawn male.” (A male designated
because there is no T.)
“TOWRAK” =“The pale fawn female.” (A female designated
because of the T that is prefixed.)
“EZARIF” =“The pale grey male.” (T omitted denotes
sex.)
“TEZARIF” =“The pale grey female.”
“MIZOBE” =“The broken-nosed one.” (So named because
he has a piece out of one nostril where a
rein-ring has been torn away.)
“BUZAK” =“The white-footed one.”
“AJEMELEL” =“The spotted one.”
“KELBADO” =“Big Belly.”
“DOKI” =“The Horse.” (Because a very diminutive
camel, about the size of a horse.)
“BAKO” =so named, in hausa, before it came into my
possession.
“FERI N’GASHI” =“White feather.” My riding camel.
[Illustration: NOMAD AND CAMEL-MAN]
I am conscious, as I look the caravan over, of a soft-hearted
affection towards both man and beast. They have all served loyally,
and have given of strength to the uttermost. Moreover, the whole
caravan has come to embrace that free-and-easy, comprehending
comradeship, that belongs to the wise when long on the great
Open Road.
We have, therefore, as a body, lost all rawness and idle
ornament. The weaknesses in our composition at the start have been
found out and gone under. Battered, but hardened, we are travelling
now as a band complete and experienced through grim wilderness of
naked reality. The men that remain are of sterling quality, and all,
except Sili, look like lasting through any amount of hardship.
But it is not so with the camels. Good as they are, they are not
built to endure continuous work for ever; and the greatest struggle
and sacrifice are theirs. No matter how much one may try to save
them, the pitiless country claims its victims from their midst. All
along the trail that lies behind I have witnessed their comrades
go out, and know that, inevitably, others must follow. Indeed, too
well I know that few, if any, will ever reach the goal; and that it
will be left to others—that must be found among natives in remote
oases—to carry us through to the North African Coast—if we are
ever to reach our distant destination.
But all wayfarers in the desert become fatalistic, and the many
misfortunes of the trail teach the traveller to consign all disasters
to “Kismet,” or “Mektuib”; for it is learned, sooner or
later, that this is a land where Destiny irrevocably takes its
course, whatever man’s hopes may be. Wherefore the deep eastern
sadness that is found in the hearts of the nomads of the desert,
and that touches the soul of the white man in the end.
As if to bear out my thoughts, trouble rides upon us.
The caravan has halted suddenly. Something is wrong in the rear.
Gumbo calls out that Mizobe is down.
We find that he has collapsed wearily on the sand and does not
want to move. He is far through, but we cannot camp and wait beside
him. So in a little time he is persuaded to rise to his feet again;
and the caravan moves slowly on.
But it is not very long before the poor old fellow gives up again,
for his is a losing fight in the full heat of the midday sun. We
try for a little to encourage him to get up, but to no avail. He
is past further struggle.
I order the caravan to move onward, and remain behind with Elatu,
beside the prostrate animal, for I cannot leave the poor brute to
die a slow, lingering death, with the agony of pitiless surroundings
holding finality immediately before his eyes.
When the caravan is distant there is a single revolver shot—and
we are one less in our band.
Even although it is only an animal that has gone, Death casts a
shadow that disturbs the human mind; and Elatu and I ride forward
to rejoin the caravan with a pang of sadness in our hearts.
But such feelings are soon deadened of further thought. Shut out
and overpowered by the throbbing, awful heat of the day, which has
now reached its worst.
It is a heat that is tremendous; unbelievably trying, unless one
has experienced it in actual fact. The full rays of the noonday
sun blaze directly and intensely overhead, scorching the earth as
a furnace blast; while hot-baked desert sands reflect the heat like
the tray of an oven. It is small wonder that the caravan, oppressed
by a pitiless force that attacks both from overhead and underfoot,
wilts as a thing that is withering and sorely exhausted. In naked
truth, man and beast of our little band are at the full mercy of
a tyrant, and toil, yard by yard and mile by mile, slowly onward,
sticking to the allotted task, because it is fated so to toil in the
great ways of the desert. The shoulders of the camel-men are drooped
languidly, and no one speaks; while head-coverings are drawn more
and more closely about their faces in attempt to fight off the sun
and protect eyes that are wearied to actual pain by the dazzling,
incessant glare on the sand.
Thus is the desert at its worst, and its unspeakable heat.
But, through all, the camels keep ever on, though ever since the
sun’s great heat set in their pace has slowed down—and, now,
they are just crawling onward on their patient unquestioned task.
Hour after hour the monotonous ride continues. Our band, a
mere handful of outgone men who for the present are victims of
circumstance destined, as it were, to travel the very plains of Hell,
steeped in awful heat and desolation, from which there can never be
real escape until that distant “Dreamtime” when we may come to
pass out and beyond to a promised land where weary limbs and weary
minds may lay them down and rest.
About 4 p.m. Tezarif (the camel that has contracted an ugly swelling
in one of her feet) is lagging badly, and pulling hard on the rope
that secures her to the camel in front. I shook up Gumbo, dozing
and listless from long, comfortless riding, and bade him dismount
and get beside the ailing camel to encourage her on and to keep up
with the others.
Obediently the man jumped down, and I dropped back with him so that I
might talk and keep him to his irksome task. Thereafter he remained
beside the camel, encouraging and driving it to keep up with the
caravan. And when Gumbo tired, another took his place. So, at the
expense of considerable effort, the sick animal is kept to the trail.
And in this way the long afternoon passed on, until, at last,
the sun commenced to relax its grip on the earth, and gradually
the caravan recovered a certain measure of wakefulness.
Yet man and beast show that they are now very tired. None of the
brief, bright gayness of the morning is present, even although the
merciful retreat of the sun makes the evening hour delicious and
tempting. The fact is that spirits are wearied beyond caring for
aught on earth—except a longing to rest and sleep.
About 6 p.m. the hot day closes over the heated earth, as the tyrant
sun sets in gorgeous beauty amidst rainbow tints of every hue that
mistily touch both earth and sky with magic wand, and belie the
terror of that pitiless reign that has passed.
And again the men dismount and pray.
On, through the dusk we travel—and into the night. Body and
soul ache for the word to halt and camp; but still we hold on. All
know the need that drives us to uttermost effort—need to reach
water—and the goal still a long way ahead.
The night is strangely still. The desert’s lack of living creature
is more intimately apparent now than through the day, for the vast
range of our daylight surroundings has narrowed to our immediate
circle, which is no more than a thin line of passage cleaved
through thick banks of blackness. In our path no jackal cries;
no hyena laughs. Neither does ground-bird twitter, nor wings of
night-flight ruffle the air. Nothing moves, nothing lives. We can
almost “hear” the silence, it is so acute; and the noiseless
feet of the camels move over the sand as if they were ghosts,
afraid of disturbing a land of the dead.
If you have ever waited, with deep anxiety, for a precious
sound—the cry that tells you that a lost comrade has been found,
or, a sound-signal that fulfils a vital appointment after it has
kept you, tuned to expectancy, waiting overlong in suspense—you
must know one of the greatest joys that can fall on human ears,
when, by a sudden whim of chance, the world gives up the message
you have prayed for. It had gone 9 p.m. when I drew my camel to
a halt, and shouted “SUBKA!” The effect of revival along the
caravan was startling. It was the glad signal that everyone was
aching for—the signal that meant “Camp at last” and “Rest.”
And a great sigh of gladness went up from the hearts of the weary
men, as they dropped stiffly from their camels and started to unload.
There was no need to urge the camels to get down. We had no sooner
halted than each sank to the sand, leg-weary beyond the telling—for
sixteen long, weary hours their feet had never ceased to pass onward
over the desert.
We had camped in our tracks; there was no choice of ground—nothing
but endless sand, duneless and featureless.
Stiffly the men moved about; they were overtired for the work of
unloading and accordingly it moved slowly. When everything was
off-loaded the poor fellows sat in dazed fashion on various bundles
of kit gaining a breathing spell of rest for deadened minds and
aching limbs, utterly careless of further effort. Gladly would the
most spent of them sleep as they are without food, without water
and without a thought of the morrow; overpowered by the forces
of utter fatigue. But Elatu and I are watchful, for we have been
through these experiences before, and we shake them up to keep
awake. The last tasks of the camp are completed—a bale or two
of rough Asben hay, carried for the camels, is unroped and fed
to them, a ration of water issued to the men, while, one by one,
small husbanded camp-fires broke into light, speedily to cook a
frugal meal, devoured by men who needed it sorely.
Half an hour from the time of halting the whole camp is wrapped
deep in sleep—a dog-tired and dreamless band, at rest at last;
mercifully unconscious of the toil that is past or the toil that
awaits them on the morrow.
[Illustration: THROUGH TO WATER AND RESTING FOR A DAY
THE CAMELS ARE AT THE WELL IN THE BACKGROUND]
AN EXPLANATION
The foregoing is an account of a day in the world’s greatest
desert; a day in the heart of the Sahara—travel at its worst;
not at its best—_that_ is what I have endeavoured to describe.
We were then about 200 days out, and the camel-caravan travelled
405 days before the end, so it may be that I have learned a little
of the desert.
Should that be so, and should pen be able and reader forgiving,
I humbly try, in the contents of this book, to set down something
of a little-known land; going swiftly to the subject I would reveal,
and not slowly along the trail where the footprints of my camels were
sometimes all that there was to record over oceans of wasting sand.
In a previous book, _Out of the World_, I dealt with the journey of a
1st Saharan Expedition so far as the region of Aïr: wherefore this
work endeavours to touch almost entirely upon new ground (beyond
Aïr) explored on my last and more comprehensive expedition across
the entire Sahara.
CHAPTER III
A SHIP OF THE DESERT
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III
A SHIP OF THE DESERT (AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL)
“I am not riveted nor screwed together, neither am I steel plate
nor seasoned timber: wherefore I am not like ship of the sea in
physical construction.
“But I rock when under way, and am thin ‘keeled’ when gales
blow, so that ungenerous men-people say that I am clumsy and gawky.
“However, we animal creatures think slowly but with wisdom, and
we know that men-people are apt to hurry to opinions that have,
sometimes, little solidity. Therefore, since _appearances do not
matter at all in the land I travel_, I treat their gibes with silent
scorn, for the great desert asks only one thing: Endurance—aye,
endurance to the point of death.
“Wherefore my rivets and screws and tested ‘steel’ lie not
on the surface, but in joints and sinews developed through stern
adventurings that demand that a craft be strong-rigged, and stout
of heart, and fearless of the uttermost seas of the desert.
“And from this you may have gathered that I am only a camel.
“Regarding my early history: I was born on the plains of Talak
among the camps of the Tuaregs. I was soon taken from my mother,
since her milk was wanted for food for the camp. I bellowed wildly
in distress for some days, but to no purpose: I was staked beside
a tent and thenceforth watched and hand-fed by women-people. I
can remember that I was often very hungry, even in those days,
and called lustily whenever it was anywhere near time for me to
be brought my morning or evening milk. I was very young and very
uninstructed then, and was not to know that _hunger_ is that which
is of greatest import in the lives of all camels.
“For a long time I stayed beside the tents of my masters. Then
there came a time when I had grown big enough to be allowed to
graze near camp through the day, but I was never left out overnight,
because of the ill-scented animals I feared.[2]
“While I was still little I was taught to follow the caravans
on short journeys, running alongside my mother without rope or
hindrance of any kind.
“Then came a time when I had to bear a grass-padded saddle and a
small weight on my back. But I was growing big and strong by then,
and, after the first fear had passed, I did not mind the task
greatly, especially as I was allowed to join the other camels more
often and keep close to my nice old mother.
“One day, when I was six years old, there arose much stir in
camp. The men-people commenced to gather in all camels, and I
knew there was something afoot. At first, we camels, putting our
heads together, hoped it was only to be a movement to new grazing
ground. But we soon decided otherwise, during the few days that
followed, as we watched our masters busily working with saddles and
roping bundles, while strangers came in to join them from other
camps. Then, one morning, at dawn, after much noise of loading,
and chatter of farewell, we were all tied in line and set out from
the camp of Talak; leaving behind only the women-people and their
children and a few old men-people.
[Illustration: BRANDED]
“Although as yet inexperienced in great distances, like all my
kind, I required no master to instruct me in sense of direction;
and I soon knew that we were heading south, which is the direction
of least dread in the teachings of camel lore.
“But I soon lost interest in everything about me under the
weight of terrible fatigue; for, day after day, we had to travel
perpetually over hot sand and beneath wearying, fiery sun, kept
sternly to the trail by our travel-wise hard-riding masters. We
had little rest, and not much time to eat. All grew fretful, and
plaintive lowings pleaded with the men-people for consideration,
but they knew their task better than we, and kept on unflinchingly,
though no less tired than ourselves.
“We camped fifty nights on that journey, and I will never forget
it. For the first time I learned what desert travel really meant.
“At last, after travelling out of the desert and through country
with many trees, the like of which I had never seen at Talak, we
reached a strange town, and the men-people camped. There our loads
were undone and we were all turned free to eat our fill and rest
to our heart’s content. Men-people called the town Katsina.
“Eventually I came to stay there for many moons, for, before
my master went back to the Plains of Talak, in the course of his
tradings he made a bargain whereby I was exchanged for six lengths
of cotton clothing that he desired for the people of his tribe. And
thus I came to pass into the herds of the Emir of Katsina, one of
the greatest men in the land.
“For two years, thereafter, I had an easy life, being asked to
make but few journeys to Kano, Zaria, and Sokoto, in country that
was not of the poverty of my old home. Wherefore I had nearly always
food to eat, and accordingly grew big and strong.
“But at the season when water fell from the clouds, in that
country, I was not happy. It was cold and wet to sleep at nights,
and flies tormented me that were not of the desert, so that at
such times I longed for my old wind-swept home at Talak. That is
the season when I, and all my comrades, pine to go north into the
desert, like the addax and oryx of the bush-scattered plains.
“While I remained at Katsina the men-people who guarded me
called me Zaki.[3] And on festival days I was bedecked with
a bright-coloured saddle and head-rein, and made to run, with
others, as fast as ever my legs could go. When I was in front,
when we finished running, my master was very pleased; so I learned
to be in front very often, for I was given nice things to eat
afterwards—grains that the men-people grow that are passing sweet
to taste.
[Illustration: “ALL MY COMRADES CARRIED STRANGE BOXES”]
“But there came a time when this life of ease and pleasure was
all abruptly changed. Like most drastic changes, it was utterly
unexpected. I and my comrades were browsing peacefully in the bush,
as usual, one morning, when men-people of the Emir appeared suddenly
among us with ropes, and a certain gravity of expression. After
considerable consultation, while doubtless appraising our condition,
they began to pick out those of us that were the strongest; with
the ultimate result that some twenty of us, including myself,
were banded together and driven off into the town.
“By eventide we were marshalled in a caravan camp of strangers,
and the Emir’s men-people awaited the pleasure of the chief of
the gathering. When he came forward I saw that he was not like the
people of Talak or Katsina, but _white_ as the sand or the midday
sun. This stranger looked us over one by one, lifting feet, feeling
joints, and prying into mouths, the while he asked questions of
our guardians in their own tongue, but in an unusual voice. When
he came to me he seemed highly pleased, and asked more questions
than of the others. I thought, with out-bubbling pride of youth,
that this was because I was of the uncommon white colour, that all
chiefs prefer to any other, and clean limbed, and coming now to the
years of my prime. But one of my comrades was also white-haired,
and there again the stranger paused longer and asked more questions,
so that I decided that my vanity had been premature.
“The upshot of the examination was that three camels were discarded
and sent away with the Emir’s men-people, while all of us that
stayed behind were taken over by the white stranger.
“Next day we were roped and trussed and hurt for a few moments by
a stinging fire,[4] from which there was no escape; and thereby knew
that we had irrevocably changed masters, for only at such times, when
it is necessary to denote ownership, are we treated in this manner.
“This marked the beginning of my experience as a true traveller of
the desert. My new master’s caravan left Katsina almost at once,
and headed north—and I was to come to learn that we were ever to
hold in that direction; even to the region of Talak, and leagues
upon leagues beyond. It was, in fact, only the commencement of many,
many moons of mighty travel of duration that few camels experience
in a lifetime and but seldom survive.
“I was given a load to carry during the first few days; a strange
box-load, that frightened me to begin with. But the men-people of
my new master, who were the same as the people of Talak, knew their
work and watched me, and soon they made my burden fit comfortably,
so that I learned to travel without fear. Nearly all my comrades
carried similar box-loads, which was a curious thing in our eyes,
because they were so different from the bales of the men-people of
our land.
[Illustration: “MY NEW MASTER RODE ALL THAT DAY—]
[Illustration: —AND THAT WAS THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT
FRIENDSHIP”]
“At that time my master was riding a brown camel, the one that had
brought him to Katsina. But I had noticed that he watched me while
we plodded along the trail, and, therefore, I was not altogether
surprised when, before starting one morning, I was taken before him
without any load. Perhaps the men-people of the Emir had told him
I could run very fast and had been ridden; for, in a little, his
riding-saddle was placed on my back, made to fit me, and strapped
securely. I made no move in protest, for past experience had taught
me that it is far better to be ridden by a master than to carry a
load that is nearly twice the weight. While I was still seated on
the ground he came and spoke to me in his strange voice, while,
for the first time, I felt his hand caress my neck and knew, even
in that momentary touch, that he was not cruel.
“My new master rode me all that day—and that was the beginning
of a great friendship. He would go nowhere without me afterwards,
and I cannot count the days I carried him over the unfrequented
seas of the desert, either with the caravan, or on long hunting
trips that he sometimes made alone.
“At first my master did not ride so easily as the camel-men
of our land, being more stiff and ungiving of poise; but, as he
became familiar with my gait, that alien insensibility passed and
we travelled as one.
“I found I had one fault that annoyed my master. Through being
badly frightened, when young, by an evil-smelling animal that
pounced at me, I could not refrain from being startled whenever
I saw any black object close to me on the sand. At such times I
would suddenly plunge madly and retreat, while my master said quick
words and bore hard on the rein. Then he would persevere until
he had forced me to go nearer and nearer to the object I dreaded;
until I could see that it was only a tree-stump or a rock and could
not harm me. Nevertheless, it took me many months to overcome this
impulse of fright, though, always, my master persevered to show me
there was no actual danger.
“It was chiefly on account of this trait that I was given the
name by which my master called me: _Feri n’Gashi_, which, I
believe, meant ‘White Feather’ in native tongue, and this,
in his language, was a term applied to anyone showing signs of
cowardice. But the name also referred to my white coat of hair. My
master often spoke in a curious tongue that was foreign to me, but,
as time went on, I came to understand that he gradually lost all
thought of associating my name with any insinuation of fear.
“Moon followed moon in the wilderness, and time, and close
association, brought thorough understanding. And I came to love my
master, as I am sure he loved me. He was often kind in the hardest
hours of stress, when I was grievously hungry and leg-weary,
and apt to lose heart altogether in the interior of the terrible
desert. He would dismount for an hour or more, sometimes, and
search in the surroundings for a few handfuls of vegetation which
he would bring to me to eat, while I kept on along with the others
of the caravan. And at nights, if he could manage it, he brought
me tit-bits that I saw the others did not get.
“And so it came about that I always watched my master wherever
he happened to be; and that was in many places, for he was ever
restless, and never idle. When we were turned loose at an encampment,
to find what grazing we could pick up, I would raise my head whenever
I saw him afar off, returning on foot from hunting for meat, or the
curious things that he gathered—all of which had different and
alarming scents to my inquiring nostrils—and when he reached the
encampment I would leave my comrades and go to see him, for he would
surely pat me kindly, while, sometimes, when there was sufficient
water, he allowed me to drink from the basin he had washed in;
and that was sweet in the desert, although the portion was ever
so little.
“As the long, long journey progressed, through distance of time too
great to count, many of my comrades weakened and fell out, and some
died; and there came a time when only a few were left. Like all my
comrades, I had vastly changed by then, being lean, and tired out
by constant strain of travel, lack of sufficient food, and worry
through fear of the unknown country we traversed. And, at nights,
in my anxiety, I sometimes sought my master when he slept, and,
after sniffing him to be assured of his presence, would lie down
to rest near at hand, gaining thereby confidence and some comfort.
“It was during this period of ever-increasing strain that my
master met with a distressing accident. To carry the loads of my
dead or exhausted comrades, some fresh camels were collected from
men-people of a rocky land of name I did not comprehend. They were
animals of a wild region, and had been long free on the ranges,
so that they greatly feared the hand of men-people. When they
first felt the weight of my master’s boxes on their backs they
plunged wildly in all directions, and everything was scattered
to the ground. Yet patiently the men-people worked with them,
coaxing and replacing the fallen loads; until, finally, we were
all led into line ready to start. But just at that moment there
was further disaster and a wild stampede, and my master, holding
hard to the head of the maddest brute of all, was suddenly kicked
to the ground as the animal plunged free. And there he lay, while
others rushed blindly over him in their consternation, trampling
him underfoot, until a quick-witted camel-man rushed in and dragged
him clear; which, mayhap, saved his life. Then it was seen that he
was bleeding profusely, and could no longer walk.
[Illustration: “HE STROKED ME OFTEN WHILE THE LOADS WERE BEING
TAKEN AWAY”]
“For some days afterwards he lay and could not move, and I wondered
what would become of my master.
“When next I saw him he had long sticks below his arms and walked
strangely and slowly. On recommencing travel he could no longer
ride in the saddle, because of a helpless leg, and was placed,
with soft clothing, on the top of the boxes carried by one of my
old comrades. For the first time since the start I was without my
master. But he did not give me a load to carry, nor let another
take his place, and I was allowed to walk behind him with the
empty saddle.
“So soon as he could manage, he came to ride me again, and I was
glad. I knew he was not strong then, for I could feel a strangeness
in his seat, and was therefore gentle on the trail, so that I might
not jar or hurt him.
“But he jumped from the saddle no more, not even to hunt, as
had been his constant custom up till then. Yet, so far as lay in
his power, he was restless as always, and still tried to search
in strange nooks and corners, when they chanced by the trail. He
accomplished his purpose, to some extent, by riding me where he
wanted to go, and making his noise-piece go off when he sighted that
which he sought. I know I was clumsy on such occasions, and that my
master was not altogether happy in this makeshift way of hunting,
but he made the best of it.
“It was about two months after this time that the desert ended,
and the remnants of my master’s caravan crawled into a strange town
where the people were foreign to me, as was the scent in the air. I
was alone, except for my master, for none of my comrades of Katsina
were left; and I had a heavy heart. I could see my master was happy,
yet strangely sad. He stroked me often while the loads were being
taken away and stacked in a pile, and I felt he would have liked
to break down the barriers of dumbness and articulated words in my
own language. And I understood, and rubbed my soft nose against him.
“After a time the men-people gathered us all together and led us
away down the street of the strange town. We had gone but half-way
when my master’s servant came running after us, and I was taken
back to him.
“He stood beside me and stroked me ever so gently, and I knew,
then, that his heart was heavy as mine. And then I was led away
down the strange, unfriendly street again.
“I was terribly tired: I knew, somehow, that I would never see
my master again—and that is all I remembered.”
Feri n’Gashi died, without the slightest sign of illness or
pain, about one hour after our parting, marking one of the saddest
experiences in my life and the passing of one of the noblest animals
that ever lived.
CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT SOUTH ROAD
[Illustration]
[Map]
CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT SOUTH ROAD
Twice, in the course of my travels, I have found myself in great
wildernesses that gave me no field of comparison until I turned to
thought of the boundless sea—and then I had a simile that was
almost complete. These wildernesses were: Arctic Canada and the
Great Sahara.
With desire to describe the Sahara, and its ocean-like vastness,
I have sketched a map that lies before me (see opposite page)—and
I am disappointed. It is only some inches square. My Sahara that,
for the sake of lucid explanation, I want to represent as the ocean,
could be covered with a dinner plate; and might be a duck-pond,
or a trout lake with an island or two, if, for a single moment,
I forget the niceties of proportion and scale. That, precisely,
is an influence on the senses that it is well to guard against
because of the possibility of it turning the mind from reality, for,
no matter how willing and piercing the scrutiny, this insignificant
little sheet of paper can never be the actual Sahara.
And, after all, it is only the _Real_ that matters; particularly to
the frontiersman who lives close to the earth and beyond the ken
of the subtleties of Civilisation, for he sees, with the eye of
the untrammelled, the dominion of the world’s outer ranges and
the bigness of things as they are. Wherefore, with pen directed
by hand accustomed to rope a load, coax a rein, fondle a rifle,
heal a wound, or kindle a camp-fire, I set out, as an awkward
man of the outdoor places, without geographical technicalities,
to describe the Great Sahara as I have come to read its character
in the wake of many a trail over leagues of intimate sands.
Let us first endeavour to picture something of the vastness of the
Sahara. In approximate area—excepting the Libyan Desert—it is
about eighteen times larger than Britain and Ireland and about half
the area of the United States. Large as that may seem, it must be
taken into count that there is a sentimental vastness far beyond
that—the sentiment of environment. To illustrate this. Suppose
that one sets out to travel for a day, or a week, or a month,
through rich, inhabited country with good roads, and with the good
things of life always closely about one. Is it not the case that the
plenitude of the countryside pleases to such a comforting extent
that _Distance_ is prone to be unesteemed, and unthought of as a
cause for anxiety? Consequently, under such circumstances, all _fear
of distance_, and _the significance of overpowering immensity_,
do not enter into calculation. But it so happens that that is a
tremendously important factor, which must always be reckoned with,
in any considered treatment of the Sahara, where conditions are
entirely opposite. No one would hesitate to cross America to-day,
but could anyone contemplate a journey in the Great Desert without,
at once, being confronted with lively dread of its vastness and
desolation? Indeed, so strong is this influence that the eventual
result, once one enters that mystical land, is that the mind becomes
almost disqualified to reckon in terms of numerals. All that one
is constantly aware of is, that limitless leagues of drear desolate
sand lie ahead, and that, no matter what effort is made, no matter
how well the caravan travels, the twenty or thirty odd miles that
are the record of a day’s endeavour leave one apparently in the
same position as before, with horizon, and sand, and sky no nearer
to the vision than from camps that lie on the trail behind.
In that prospect there is, surely, a sentiment of the temperament
of the sea, in likeness of boundless, unchanging, unconquerable
leagues. But the sea swings and curls and breaks in foam, and is
alive; whereas the sands of the desert lie ever expressionless and
dead. So that, if we accept that in majestic space the sea and the
desert are the same, we still have to admit that the lassitude of
the desert multiplies the seeds of desolation to such an extent
that, almost tangibly, certainly sentiently, it enlarges its empty
vastness.
Wherefore I am confident that it is in all such intriguing influences
that we find the very essence of the desert’s desolation and
magnitude of space.
That it has a very real vastness that intimidates is borne out, in
our everyday life, by the accounts of tourists who have travelled in
Algeria, or elsewhere, and who have been a few days south of, say,
Biskra by camel, and who return to recount how they have seen the
Sahara. How many such tourists have stood on this mere threshold of
a mighty sandscape, beneath the Aurès Mountains, and conjectured
on the immensity of the Great South Road that points the way to
the heart and the mystery of another world, unyieldingly remote,
and not as theirs.
And what happens then? Why is it that we do not have record that
some of those tourists have got down from this doorstep of Biskra and
set out into the Great Desert? If it was a fair land that lay before
them most surely they would flock upon the way. But it is not so, and
no foot makes the move. They have viewed an awe-inspiring immensity
that casts a deadly spell of dread. And, one by one, year by year,
they are repelled and go their way; _back through the friendly
mountains_. After all, this is far from astonishing of strangers,
for they but express something of the deep-rooted, superstitious
dread of the desert which is found in the soul of every native who
lives anywhere within reach of its borders, or in its interior.
Furthermore, it may be well to remember that the Sahara is a land of
great antiquity, that takes one to realms of Biblical times. Steeped
in the religion of Islam, it knows little perceptible change to-day,
and is not on a plane with the modern world. Wherefore, even if we
only set our minds back in keeping with a not very distant period of
the past, it is not difficult thus to find another simile to the sea
in picturing that it was only a little more than four centuries ago
that the Atlantic Ocean probably held a similar dread of immensity
before Columbus discovered America.
[Illustration: A NOOK IN THE MOUNTAINLAND OF AÏR]
All those influences are important, for they can never be
brought out on any map, and yet they are an intrinsic part of the
land. Furthermore, they are a part of the poignant forces that teach
the traveller wonderment and awe of the desert when he camps in the
mighty company of its gigantic spaces; particularly if he catches
a gently poised breath of the Moslem’s “Allah!” which is an
indelible part of the mystic sadness it holds.
If we look, now, at the map, and picture that the Sahara is, broadly
speaking, a vast sheet of sand with a few island mountains, it will
suffice in dealing generally with its boundaries of the past.
It is my belief that the Sahara is increasing in size, and I think
there are many conditions that go to prove it. Wherefore I ask you,
in the first place, to conceive that the sand in the desert has
steadily risen, with consequent result that the shores have become
appreciably less. The belt that has been so engulfed all around
the margin, or wherever the surface was shallow, may be taken to
represent the regions that are to-day pre-Saharan, though, so far
as I am aware, such pre-Saharan areas are seldom more than vaguely
referred to, and have not been geographically defined.
I will take, as an example, the southern area of the Sahara, because
I have visited it more than once and know that region best. Not
vastly distant from the shore there is the mountainland of Aïr,
standing high above the surrounding country. Let us suppose that,
before the Sahara commenced to fill up and change, this particular
mountainland was not surrounded by sand, but was a part of a fertile
foreland, and that the bushland of the Western Sudan, with its
tropical fauna and vegetation and rainy season, either jutted out
as a wedge or stretched right across Africa about the 20th degree of
latitude, or 5 degrees farther north than obtains, with any solidity,
at the present time.[5] If that was the case intimate problems that
I have had to contend with would be logically explained.
My primary work in the Sahara was that of a field naturalist, and
the following extracts from Dr. Hartert’s paper in _Novitates
Zoologicæ_, May 1921, regarding my first journey, have bearing on
one of the problems that I wish to deal with:
“The best zoogeographical boundary, apart from the oceans,
has hitherto been the Sahara, a wide belt of poorly inhabited
and unexplored country. As long as we knew very little about it,
this was a very simple question—north of the Sahara palæarctic,
south of it Ethiopian. This contention, however, was bound to be
shaken to some extent when the Sahara (as it is marked on maps)
became zoologically explored. Until the second decade of this century
the Great Desert had only been touched by zoological collectors on
some of its borders.
“Looking at any map, a somewhat large mountainland, Aïr, or Asben,
catches the eye in the middle of the Sahara, on older maps and in
textbooks called an ‘Oasis,’ which is, however, a most misleading
name for a mountainous country with desert tracks and valleys, towns
and villages, and mountains rising up to about 2,000 m. in height.
“Zoologically Aïr remained absolutely unknown until Buchanan’s
expedition. We knew already, from Barth’s _Travels_, that Aïr
has tropical vegetation, that some valleys are fertile and contain
good water, that ostriches, lions, giraffes, birds were seen by him,
that near Agades he observed monkeys and butterflies. Jean, in 1909,
in his book, _Les Touaregs du Sud-Est, l’Aïr_, mentions lions in
the mountains of Timgue and Baguezan, foxes, hyenas, cats, antelopes,
monkeys, but he adds that giraffes do not now exist in the country,
and that the ostrich is not found north of Damergu.
“Meagre as these statements are, they proved that the fauna
of Asben is chiefly, if not entirely, tropical. This is borne
out by Buchanan’s collections. Of the birds nearly all—apart
from migrants—may be called tropical species or subspecies. The
mammals are on a whole Sudanese, and not found in Algeria proper. The
Lepidoptera are essentially Saharan, many forms being similar to
those found by Geyr and myself in the Sahara between the Atlas and
Tidikelt, and the Hoggar Mountains.
“The boundary between the palæarctic and tropical fauna may
therefore be regarded as fairly fixed to about the 20th degree of
latitude, though it is, of course, not a hard-and-fast dividing
line, there being many exceptions—even among birds, which form
the main basis of these notes.”
[Illustration: SALT-BUSH IN THE HEART OF THE SAHARA KILLED OUT BY
CHOKING SANDS]
[Illustration: DISINTEGRATING ROCK IN A REGION OF TASSILI]
Again, in a further paper in _Novitates Zoologicæ_, March 1924,
dealing with my second expedition, Dr. Hartert adds:
“More than ever it is clear that the ornis of Aïr is tropical, as
a country where Sunbirds, Barbets, Glossy Starlings, etc., live has
a tropical ornis, though there are a number of palæarctic species,
to which now a few must be added. On the other hand, these striking
tropical families like Sunbirds, Glossy Starlings, Emerald Cuckoos,
Hornbills, Barbets, are absent from the Ahaggar (Hoggar) Mountains,
and the almost lifeless desert between Aïr and Ahaggar forms the
boundary between the palæarctic and tropical African faunas.”
From all this it is clear that Aïr maintains many tropical
influences that penetrate northward, like a wedge, far into the
Sahara, although its surroundings are foreign to like conditions. For
instance, regarding the last remark, if we draw longitudinal
lines 200 miles or so clear of either side of the Aïr Mountains,
immediately those lines leave the southern shores of the Sahara,
about latitude 15°, they enter desert where all tropical influence
ceases.
[Illustration: A DESERTED STONE-BUILT VILLAGE OF AÏR]
If we ponder over the thought that the Sahara is increasing in sand,
and size, is it not conceivable that this mountainland of Aïr is as
an island that, because of its altitude, is left high and dry out in
the open while the plains surrounding it have been gradually smitten
as by a plague that has slowly driven back the line of fertility,
while that which remains, as representative of a configuration of
the past, is the rugged rock land that still offers a bold front
to the advances of time and decay?
I am confident that therein lies the truth—that formerly a wide
pre-Saharan region of fertility once reached much farther north than
at present; and, when it became flooded over with rising sand, and
lost, Aïr still remained, and, behind the shelter of its rocks,
retained a good deal of its old characteristics. All around the
Sahara I believe that conditions of a similar nature exist.
Wherefore the vast arid interior, made up chiefly of rock and sand,
may, to-day, be likened to a pear that has rotted at the core, and
that cannot be prevented from increasing the consuming advance of
an unhealthy interior that grows outward, and ever larger in circle.
Stern and drastic though they are, I am prepared to accept
those theories because they are in keeping with the nature of the
country. Moreover, they lead to the solution of problems that ever
bring me back to the source that is the cause of every change in
the land—which I read to be _decay_.
To make clear this perpetual insinuation of decay, which is
everywhere in the atmosphere of the Sahara to-day, I will endeavour
to cite a few instances that have bearing on the subject.
First, reverting to the topic of the tropical life in Aïr. In
1850-51 Barth stated that he saw giraffes and ostriches, yet in 1909
we find that Jean wrote that “Giraffes and ostriches _do not exist_
in Aïr.” Both those travellers, however, recorded lions in the
region, but in 1922, though I hunted particularly for lion, because
of those very records, I could find neither trace nor track of a
single specimen. All that my diligent investigations revealed was
that one had been killed at Aouderas in 1915, and another, the last,
in 1918 by the Chief of Baguezan. I believe them to be extinct in
Aïr to-day. To give an opening for the further continuance of this
sequence of singular disappearance of wild life, I can state that,
at the present time, wart-hog and guinea-fowl live in Aïr—and I
have actual specimens to prove it—but I am tolerably sure that
travellers who may follow in my footsteps will come to find that
both have disappeared within the next half-century or so.
As the people are dying out also, these changes cannot be accounted
for on the score of huntsmen. It is, I maintain, the natural
result of increasing sand and the drying up and dying out of
vegetation. Giraffes and ostriches have departed from a land that
can no longer nourish them, and lions have disappeared because the
gazelle which they hunted have grown scarce, and open water-holes
are a rarity. Eventually the wart-hog and guinea-fowl will vanish
from the land for like reasons.
Furthermore, Nature accepts no denial to her whims of devastation,
wherever they rule, and, in the Sahara, the sweep of her scythe
has taken, in its path, the mowing down of the very people of the
land, who depart, like the creatures of the wild, when the struggle
for existence becomes no longer possible. Hence, in Aïr alone,
there are scores of stone-built villages deserted and in ruins,
and steeped in pathos, no longer harbouring a single living soul.
In those, and in other ways, we learn that decay is sure. The elusive
problem is to gauge the duration of its reign, which can only be
conjectured, since the history of the Sahara is unwritten. It may
have set in a very long time ago, and be moving slowly, or it may
have been active but a few centuries.
That it has altered the aspect of the land is, to my mind,
undoubted. Here is an instance of the kind that sets one
thinking. South of Aïr, in country that is now desert, there is a
well of astonishing age, named Melen, in a basin surrounded by low
hills of bare, rough, stony nature. It is sunk through _solid rock_
to a depth of 70 feet, and is old beyond all calculation. One looks
down its depth and speaks in a hushed voice, and the dark chamber
booms back a whole volume of sound; a pebble is dropped to the
bottom and the splash of it sounds like the lashing of surf on the
sea-coast. The wall of the well is seared, in a remarkable way, with
deep channels worn in the solid rock by the friction of bucket-ropes
that have passed up and down the well—for who knows how long? It
seems almost impossible that they have been worn in an era within
historic times. The well offers a problem. There is no good grazing
around it; no means that would, to-day, enable a band of men to camp
there for a prolonged period while they laboured (with rock-drilling
implements, of which there is no record) on the tremendous task of
sinking the shaft through solid rock. Natives have no knowledge of
how the work was accomplished. Therefore I try to set back the hands
of Time and look over the land, imagining it as once covered with
vegetation for herds of camels and goats, and with pools of water
in the low hills. And, as a dreamer, I conjure up a picture of a
past when, mayhap, a tribe of happy nomads camped in the hollow,
in olden times, with everything in the neighbourhood that they
required for themselves and their herds; and the old chief of the
camp setting out to keep his slaves employed, at a time of plenty,
in drilling this well, maybe partly as a whim, and partly to be
assured of water for his people in the height of an over-long summer.
Since visiting Melen I have travelled far in the Sahara, and know
many wells in like God-forsaken places, each of which suggests that
it belongs to a bygone age when greater fertility made it possible
for the nomads to camp where they willed, which—if we take such
wells as significant—was sometimes in localities that they cannot
camp in now.
[Illustration: TYPICAL TASSILI]
Wherefore, in many strange ways, it comes back to one, always, that
the Sahara is a decadent land. And that is a steadfast impression,
that the traveller is always catching, even when least expected.
And, now, to broadly picture the aspect of the country, the Sahara
is not, of course, as is often popularly believed, simply a vast
track of desert sand. The “floor” of its vast area is made up,
principally, of four types of country, which I describe as follows,
along with the names by which they are known to the nomads:
(1) “_Tenere_” (Tamascheq[6]) =Absolute sandy desert.
“_Arummila_” (Arabic)
(2) “_Adjadi_” or “_Igidi_” =Regions of permanent sand-dunes,
(Tamascheq) sometimes barren, sometimes with
scattered vegetation.
“_Erg_” (Arabic)
(3) “_Tanezrouft_” =Regions where the sand is hard
(Tamascheq) and interspersed with plains of
pebbles. Sometimes great gravel
“_Reg_” (Arabic) plains as barren as sand desert
and hence often called _Black
Desert_ by the Tuaregs.
(4) “_Tassili_” (Tamascheq) =Regions of chiefly horizontal,
rough, rocky, much crevassed
“_Elkideà_” (Arabic) ground, often of shelf rock,
where decomposition is very rapid
and outcrops much cracked and
broken apart. The ground surface,
or plateau surface, is usually
as barren as sand desert, but
in deep ravines in such country
there is often a sparse growth of
vegetation.
As a whole all those regions are practically horizontal, and,
except in the north, are on a level well above the sea. Between
longitude 5° and 10°, from south to north, the altitudes of the
Saharan plains, above sea-level, are approximately:
Latitude 15° 1,525 feet (north of Tanout)
1,800 feet (Tanout).
„ 18° 1,000 feet (desert west of Aïr)
1,600 feet (desert east of Aïr)
1,220 feet (Bilma Oasis. Longitude 13°)
„ 20° 1,500 feet (Gara Tindi)
1,350 feet (In-Azaoua)
„ 22° 3,100 feet (Zazir) }
3,700 feet (Tenacurt) }Land rising to the Ahaggar
4,200 feet (Tamanrasset)}Mountains.
„ 30° 350 feet (Hassi Inifel) Land that falls gradually
600 feet (Messedli) away to a low basin in the
El Erg region between the
Ahaggar and Atlas Mountains.
The widespread aspect of the Sahara is of vast desolate plains
of rock and sand. But a fact which has been overlooked to an
astonishing degree, by popular consent, is that the Great Desert is
relieved by some very remarkable mountain groups, chief of which
are Aïr, Ahaggar, and Tibesti—each in extent as large as the
whole of England, and towering majestically to altitudes of 6,000
to 10,000 feet.
They are mountains that are lost to the world; full of mystical
silence, like the rest of the Sahara, and bleak and wild, yet they
are vast and rich in rugged grandeur; and the greys and browns of
their slopes are a feast to the eyes of traveller weary of scanning
limitless plains of sand.
[Illustration: A DEEP RAVINE IN THE TASSILI OF AHAGGAR
WITH POTHOLES OF WATER IN THE BOWELS OF THE ROCK]
Aïr and Ahaggar I know well; Tibesti I have not visited. The
former are, in general, alike, particularly in rocky bareness and
eerie desolation; but, of the two, Aïr is the more picturesque
and fascinating. Both, accentuated by their desert surroundings,
stand out in strong, clear relief, aggressively bold and
dominant—majestic in every line, amid unrestricted space of earth
and sky.
“They are made up of range upon range of hills, sometimes with
narrow sand-flats and river-beds between; massive hills of giant
grey boulders, and others—not nearly so numerous—with rounded
summits and a surface of apparent overlappings and downpourings
of smooth loose reddish and grey fragments, as if the peaks were
of volcanic origin, though no craters are there. But it is the
formation of the many hills of giant boulders that make these
mountains so astonishing, so rugged, and so unique. You might be on
the roughest sea-coast in the world, and not find scenes to surpass
them in desolation and utter wildness. They are hills that appear,
to the eye, as if a mighty energy underneath had, at some time,
heaved and shouldered boulder upon boulder of colossal proportions
into position, until large, wide-based, solid masses were raised into
magnificent being. On the other hand, there are instances where hills
appear as if the forces underneath had built their edifices badly,
and in a manner not fit to withstand the ravages of Time; and those
are places where part of the pile has apparently collapsed, and there
remains a bleak cliff face and the ruins of rocks at the foot.”[7]
The slopes and the bastions of the summits of those rugged, gravely
picturesque mountains present a sentiment of the sadness that goes
with great age; and their dark countenances are the very quintessence
of patience. For all time they have stood as over-masters of the
Great Desert. Proudly they overlook the far-flung wastes beneath
them, where foot-hills die out among black, stony, boulder-strewn
plains, and _“lakes”_ of sand, relieved, here and there, by
odd-shaped pill-box or church-like kopjes that stand as miniature
guardians of the mountains behind them—beyond, right to the faint
horizon, nothing but the great dead plains of the desert.
Ahaggar is not, as a whole, so rugged and picturesque as Aïr, though
it has many similar summits, especially the bare, disintegrating
hills of loose brown stone that are rounded and have no pronounced
contour.
The highest point I reached in Ahaggar was 6,000 feet (near Tazeruk),
and in Aïr 6,050 feet (Baguezan).
Ahaggar, on the whole, I consider less habitable than Aïr. At the
time of my journey, in the months of March and April, the scattered
acacias in wadis and mountain valleys were leafless from prolonged
lack of rain, and many of them had been completely ruined through
natives lopping off all the main branches so as to feed their goats
in extremity. Pasturage had completely given out in many places,
and herds had left the region to seek grazing ground where life was
possible. (Whole families of the _Ehaggaran_ Tuaregs had at that
time trekked 500 to 600 miles, to outlying wadis west of Aïr,
to keep their flocks and camels alive on _Alwat_, a plant common
to some regions, in sandy wadis and among _Ergs_.)
[Illustration: A SANDY RIVER-BED, IN THE MOUNTAINS, SHORTLY AFTER
RAIN HAS SWEPT DOWN IT
NOTE HOW PASSAGE OF CURRENT HAS RIPPLED THE SAND]
On the other hand, I noted that places of water—wells, and,
particularly, oozing surface springs in river-beds, often salt and
chemical bearing, were more numerous in Ahaggar than in Aïr, and
where such conditions exist there is also more domestic, garden-plot
cultivation, executed chiefly by _Zakummeran_ and _Imrad_ tribes,
and not by the haughty nomadic Tuaregs.
As a whole, these mountains of the Sahara attract more rain than
the desert, on the rare occasions when the rain condescends to
fall from the sky. But that advantage is almost momentary, for,
owing to the naked, growthless, and soilless slopes, and the quick
fall of the intricate network of mountain brooks and river-courses,
so soon as rain touches the bare hills it streams down, to be swept
away out into estuaries on the desert that drink in water with a
thirst that knows no quenching.
Nevertheless, a frugal benefit is left behind, for the passing
of mountain torrents leaves some moisture in the river-banks,
and pools in the best of deep-gullied streams, and in a brief week
green vegetation springs to life in thin lines in places, and grows
quickly to maturity. And it is this that is the grazing supply of the
year—whether browsed over then or in the long, dreary months that
follow, when grass and plants, in scattered tussocks, lie hay-dry
and uninviting, but are the best that the country has to offer.
I noted in Ahaggar that clouds were often in the sky; which I had not
remarked in Aïr, or, for that matter, anywhere farther south, except
at the season of rains (July-August) in the Western Sudan—rains
which sometimes move northwards over parts of the Sahara. It may be
that out-thrown influences of the northern hemisphere, despatched
from the Mediterranean over the Atlas Mountains, reach southward
to about the latitude of Ahaggar. Later on, when marching to the
north of the Algerian Sahara, I noted in my diary the _coolness_
of north winds, when they blew, and imagined I sensed a tang of
the sea in my nostrils. (Born and reared by the sea, my senses are
acutely tuned in that respect.)
In conclusion, the Sahara is, in entirety, a vast waste land in its
interior; its greater area made up of broken, desolate plains; its
features of relief extraordinary mountain-lands of rugged grandeur.
Throughout the whole decay appears insistent and sure, and the
increase of sand incessant. It has been shown to be a land containing
considerable rock surface, and wherever one goes much of such country
is disintegrating and crumbling away; thus forming more and more
sand, which accumulates, at the whim of the prevailing wind, to bank
up and choke out the plant life of the country. In places one may dig
down at the roots of shrubs and plants that are dead and find that
the old surface of the ground is a foot or so beneath that of to-day.
[Diagram]
The accompanying diagram is an illustration of rock disintegration
in the Sahara.
There is no tangible counteraction to these advances of decay, and
it would seem that they are destined irrevocably to continue. But
on this score the question of rainfall is intensely interesting,
for should the elements ever be kind, and really good and consistent
rains fall for two or three years in succession, the whole land would
undoubtedly revive its vegetation with astonishing speed. Perhaps
such revivals have occurred in the past, and may occur again. But I
fear that, at best, they can be but short-lived. Indeed, conditions
at the present are the opposite, and the prospect is that they will
so continue. One hears from the nomads of regions having no rain
for three years, four years, and even seven years; while have I
myself seen _had_ dried out and dead, though natives declare that
it never dies except when there are more than four rainless years.
The Sahara is not yet devoid of vegetation, but its poverty
is advancing. To-day we find the old caravan roads across
Africa unfrequented—the Cyrenaican-Kufra-Wadai road, the
Tripoli-Bilma-Chad road, the Tunis-Tripoli-Ghat-Aïr-Kano road:
all of great antiquity, and from time immemorial the trade routes
across North Africa. These roads are still to be seen, ten to fifteen
parallel paths, camel-width apart, with undiminished clearness,
where they pass over stony ground, powdered down to clean-cut furrows
by passage of countless feet. They are steeped in the romance and
mystery of the Sahara. Over them have passed hard-won pilgrimages
to Mecca, cavalcades of slaves fettered and limb-weary and fearful,
and rich caravans of merchandise that reached their goal or were
looted—a gamble that made or lost a fortune for the masters who
sent them forth. To-day they are unused, and the commerce of the
Sahara is dead. And this is comprehensible when the poverty of
the land is reviewed and the belief held that growing dearth of
vegetation has made it well-nigh impossible for large caravans to
live to-day on those roads.
The same melancholy decline is to be found among the people of the
Sahara. Its population is scattered and thin, and some regions
are uninhabited altogether. We can only approximately estimate
the numbers in the interior, which I believe, from data collected,
to be about 40,000. Say 200 to 600 in oases here and there at wide
intervals; 5,000 in the Aïr region; 5,000 in Ahaggar, and 10,000
Tebu in Tibesti; roughly, about one human soul to every sixty
square miles.
In Aïr, and Ahaggar, and, excepting Tibesti, throughout the
scattered grazing-grounds of the Sahara the masters or range-holders
are chiefly Tuaregs, who are a southern race of Berbers. It is not
proposed to deal with their history here, and it will suffice to
say that they are a white race, descended from some of the oldest
European stocks, and that the love of fighting and adventure that
is born in them is an inheritance from forefathers who made their
wars historic.
At an early stage in this chapter I stated that to-day Aïr contained
scores of deserted villages. They are illuminating as illustrative
of the drastic extent of change and decay. They have completely
died out.
And what of Agades, which is still alive? Its dwellings are half
in ruins. It supports about 2,000 inhabitants, and to-day its
surroundings are drear beyond description. Yet it was once a great
desert city, on a famous route across Africa of great antiquity,
and is said to have once contained 50,000 inhabitants—more than
the whole population of the Sahara’s interior to-day.
Verily, ever it comes back to me; the Sahara is a land of decay. To
the traveller it holds its principal charm in its strange mystic
beauty and wonderful vastness, and in the fact that it is a land
of Allah, steeped in inherent sadness.
CHAPTER V
THE TARALUM
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V
THE TARALUM
The Bilma Salt Caravan, the great _Taralum_ of the Sahara: few have
ever heard of it, or its fame. Yet in one part of Africa its journey
is the event of the year, and the date of departure as important
as a national fête in civilised lands.
Like a fleet of ships taking to the high seas to bring home riches,
so this famous concourse of camels sets out over oceans of sand to
bring south the salt supply of the year to many people dependent
upon it.
The caravan’s “Port of Departure,” each year, is from
harbouring foothills on the south-east side of the Aïr Mountains,
and the great gathering takes place from all quarters of the land.
The harbour is well chosen, and the time of the year, for the caravan
starts at the season when there is the best chance of water in the
river-beds, and grazing for camels for a number of days.
Beyond the harbour, befitting a port, away to the east, lies open,
stony “Reg” and, thence, the vast, empty desert.
It was into this harbour that, with the purpose of joining the
_Taralum_, my caravan rode, on a certain day in October; the camels,
unhurried, picking their way over stones with habitual caution. We
had been travelling for hours in country impressively forsaken,
and still, and silent. But, with a shock, the whole atmosphere was
suddenly changed and all sense of solitude dispelled.
We had ridden in upon a camp of astounding proportions and unique
picturesqueness. Before us stood _thousands of camels_, not a
hundred or two, which would have been amazing enough, but, literally,
_thousands_; and the spectacle was one never to be forgotten.
Where the ruins of the old forsaken village of Tabello squat
dolefully on the banks of the river-bed of that name, the great
caravan had already congregated in part, and was still in process
of expansion.
As far as eye could see camps were settled on the banks and on the
sand of the river-bed—camps full of pack-saddles, water-skins,
bundles of coarse hay-fodder and bundles of firewood; all in
readiness for the long desert journey.
About the camps, among the camels, picturesque camel-men moved
gracefully, or reclined upon the sand—athletic-looking men, of
the long trails, familiar with their tasks, strong and resourceful,
as befits men who live constantly out-of-doors.
Some were engaged in preparing a meal, but the greater number were
working on such jobs as plaiting rope from palm-leaves for binding
their camel-loads, strengthening pack-saddles that required repair,
mending sandals, and patching rents in cotton garbing—in fact,
putting all the odd touches to their gear that go to perfect and
complete outfits for a strenuous ordeal.
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE CAMP AT TABELLO]
And, all the time, they talked with an unwonted air of excitement,
passing round the latest and most sensational news of camp, and
again and again going over the details and hazards of the journey
ahead of them. In this keyed-up excitement there was something of
the atmosphere of an army on the move that has an action impending.
They are chiefly Tuaregs from the northern regions of the Southern
Sahara, and a scattering of Hausas from the territories farther
south, while both have their quota of _Buzus_ (slaves), who are
men of many mixtures of breed and are appointed the most menial
work in camp and on the road.
The whole concourse has gathered from far and wide to this appointed
rendezvous: from Kano, Katsina, and Sokoto, in Northern Nigeria;
from Gourè and Zinder and other towns in Damagarim, and from many
quarters in Damergou and Aïr.
Upon inquiry I learned that between 4,000 and 5,000 camels had
already arrived; truly a magnificent array of animals. And not
only were their numbers great: they were _the pick of the camels
of the country_, for it is recognised, by all who know the route,
that only the finest are fit to live through the long, hard journey
over the terrible wastes of sand, that are as a cruel expansive
sea on the trackless way that lies between them and Bilma.
We had camped on the fringe of the crowd, and thenceforth became a
unit of it. Salutations acclaimed us on all sides. The _Taralum_
is renowned for its meetings of long-lost friends who travel far
afield. Hausas and Tuaregs stalked smilingly into camp whom I had
met a year or two ago, or back on the trail on the present journey;
while my camelmen found a whole host of friends whom they knew
directly or indirectly “back home.” News of all kinds was
gleaned, of the south and of the outer trails, and friendliness
was in the air and everyone in high spirits.
After a night’s rest we settled down, like the others, to the
immediate concerns of the journey ahead, and were kept busy knitting
our gear to perfection of strength and compactness.
Like the others, also, we had to watch our camels alertly to
keep them from straying and mixing with others while shifting for
ourselves in the competition for the best of grazing.
To feed such an enormous caravan, even but for a brief day or two,
is a tremendous consideration, and Tabello had been chosen for this
very reason because it offered the best conditions to be found in
a region where drear poverty of growth is the general rule.
Sharp-thorned acacias, shrubs, prickly ground plants, coarse grass
tussocks—all make a camel’s meal; for they will tackle most
things, and they eat heavily when the chance offers. The skill with
which they strip the leaves from cruel-barbed trees and plants is
truly astonishing when one remembers that their lips and noses are
soft as velvet and sensitive in the extreme.
Acacias are the chief trees at Tabello; low, insignificant, and
far removed from the tall, leafy plants that one usually associates
with the name. They are nowhere in forests, and grow in an irregular
line along the dry river-bed banks, or in scattered, scraggy groups
in hollows where they happen to have found a bare footing. There
are a number of varieties, chief of which are: _tashrar_, _tamat_,
and _tigar_—thorny, squat-branched, lean and small-leafed; yet
all splendid camel food. Among them, particularly where bushes grow
together, is _aborer_, a densely branched tree with long green thorns
and sappy wood. A choice tree to the camel is _agar_, which seeks the
solitudes and often grows alone in the open. It is a pale-coloured
evergreen with thick twisting branches closely covered with tiny
leaves. Then there is _abisgee_, which is not an acacia. It grows,
willow-like, in clumps, and is very green, and has a pungent smell
not unlike skunk. Camels eat it—and, as a consequence, smell
foully—but only sparingly, unless no other food offers.
Underfoot, on the sand, in scanty patches, grow tussocks of coarse
grass and prickly plants; among them _tasmir_, _taruma_, _thelult_,
_tatite_, _afazo_, and _alwat_.[8] These plants were essential to
the life of the camp, for they meant food and contentment to the
camels, whose huge numbers roamed the country-side, rapidly eating
down whatever growth could be found within reach.
As to the food of the future: no camel had trekked into camp without
a big load of dry, harsh tussock-grass on either side, gathered
from the most favourable places _en route_: and those bales, which
every animal will carry at the start, are the camel-food that must
serve throughout the journey on the desert.
The departure for Bilma was delayed. On the day appointed to start
news reached camp that a lot of _Kel-Ferouan_ Tuaregs, on the way
back from Hausaland, were not yet in. It was also known that there
were some stragglers on the way. So that during the few days of
camp-life that followed our arrival at Tabello others trekked in,
as we had done, with their lines of fodder-loaded camels swelling
the numbers, until 7,000 animals were the total on the eve of
departure—a mighty cavalcade, and one of the largest caravans of
modern times.
It represented, massed into one narrow area, the greater part of
the wealth of a land that has no wealth if reckoned to the square
mile of its vastness and general desolation. At a fair valuation
each animal is worth £15 per head, making the total value of the
_Taralum_ £105,000.
Owing to this value, which, besides being monetary, represents
the cream of the transport stock of the whole region, whose loss
would be irreparable, precautions to protect the caravan are taken,
each year, by the French Administration of the Territoire du Niger.
Wherefore a force of _Meharists_ had been sent from the south to
join the _Taralum_ at Tabello and act as an escort while crossing
the desert. In addition, every native with the caravan is armed
with weapons of war of some sort—rifle, sword, or lance; while
some even carried the remarkable oryx-hide battle-shield that is
peculiar to the Tuaregs. All are familiar with the danger of raids
in the Sahara, and many have experienced them and fought before.
The date of departure of the _Taralum_ is an event in the Sahara
as notable as Christmas Day in civilised countries. It is fixed by
tribes who know nothing of printed calendars, and the appointed
date is: “Two days after the new moon _Ganni Wazuwirin_ (the
October-November moon). On this occasion, because of the delay
already referred to, the great caravan started two days late.
On the 25th of October, at the first streak of dawn, the dark,
gaunt forms of lines of camels, bulkily loaded with fodder, and
food and water for a severe journey, could be just discerned at
the mouth of a hill track, leading east out of Tabello river-bed.
In the dark comrade called to comrade in endeavour to find one
another. There is a good deal of confusion; the Awe of Silence
is absent.
The great cavalcade is saddled and ready to march, and, but for the
sound of voices, might well be taken for a stealthy army setting
out on great enterprise. The huge massed groups of men and animals
have all the significance of a powerful force on the move. And,
like an army, it is unwieldy at the commencement.
There is a period of loitering. Some camps are late and their
animals troublesome to load. Some men inquire the plan of march,
and that is explained to them. While yet others say good-bye to
friends they are leaving behind.
Eventually a low exchange of queries and orders set the foremost
camels off on the track, with others following as close behind as
possible; like a mere trickle, at the beginning, running out from
the black mass of a mighty flood along a tiny newly discovered
channel of escape.
We were off. The great journey had begun.
That first day, to each possessor of a line of camels, was a tale
of fractious animals and broken loads. All first days out are
the same, even if the animals have only been idle in camp for a
brief spell. Trouble can only be prevented to some extent. And the
secret, there, is to take care that the same saddle, and the same
load, if possible, is never changed from the animal to which it
is originally allocated, for until the same load has been carried
regularly there is bound to be trouble from individuals. They are
timid of anything new, and eye any odd-shaped or odd-coloured part
of a load with uneasy suspicion. But the commonest cause of trouble
is from new loads that have been put up so that they fit uneasily
and rub or jab the bearer; until the worried animal decides to
get rid of it—which, with a buck and a plunge or two, is only a
matter of a few moments. That ungodly act is disastrous enough,
but it is doubled or trebled when the pranks of one involve the
upset of the whole line in the neighbourhood.
[Illustration: FOOD FOR CAMELS ON A DESERT JOURNEY
EACH BALE WEIGHS ABOUT 80 LBS.]
The day moved slowly and halts were constant in one line of camels or
another, while in the wake of the caravan lay a trail of rope-ends
and saddle leavings. The type of country did not help matters,
for it was _reg_ of stone and rocks; rough on the camels’ feet,
and uneven in contour.
Nevertheless, the _Taralum_ travelled painstakingly for fourteen
hours, and, after dark, reached the end of the rough _reg_ country
to camp on the edge of a vast ocean of sand, that held, somewhere
in its bosom, the salt-giving oases of Fachi and Bilma—the latter
the goal of the caravan.
Like everyone else, I was tired, yet the sounds and scenes of that
first camping of the _Taralum_ were so astonishing that I almost
forgot my fatigue.
Camels being off-loaded are noisy at any time, but tired camels seem
to believe in letting everyone within hearing know that they have a
cause for complaint. The twenty to thirty of one’s own line can
make noise enough. But add to that the clamourings and complaints
of _thousands_, and then try to imagine something of the astonishing
uproar that resounded through the encampment of the _Taralum_.
Nor was the commotion all over in a little. It kept on almost
until midnight, while, like a great cable being drawn slowly in,
the huge caravan rolled slowly forward to arrive length by length
and find resting-place, band beside band, on the “floor” of
the sheltered basin that had been chosen for the night.
The shallow valley, drear and dead when we arrived, was soon a vast
arena of twinkling camp-fires, in area ever increasing as fresh
arrivals came in. There were no trees or other hindrance to the
vision, and the whole massed encampment lay open to view. It made
an impressive scene; impressive because of its size and singular
wilderness character, and because of its romantic mission. It
comprised an army of nomads and animals on their first step of
invasion, halted in an alcove below the dark rocks of the outland
of Aïr, while beyond lay the ocean of sand, which on the morrow,
and thereafter, held their adventure.