 Preface to the Secret of the Sahara Kufara by Rosita Forbes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please contact LibriVox.org. Recorded by Stephen Seidel, October 2019. The Secret of the Sahara Kufara by Rosita Forbes. Preface I feel this Libyan story needs a few words of explanation. For owing to the peculiar circumstances in which it was undertaken, it is not the usual consecutive and comprehensive book of travel compiled after the return of an expedition, wherein the traveler is able to review the journey as a whole. Reading such works I have so often found myself asking, and then what happened, or I wonder what he felt at that moment. Well, this is a very simple account of what happened next. In no way does it pretend to be a scientific record of exploration. For owing to the ever-urgent necessity of secrecy and disguise, the use of most instruments was an impossibility. The spirit of the story changes with the mood and the method of its development. It was written in so many odd ways, at so many odd times, under a scented sage bush in the sunset while the slaves were putting up our tent, or huddled inside a flea-bag when the nights were very cold. Sometimes, when life was exciting, it was scribbled on a camel under the shelter of a barricade. Twice at least, the last chapter, according to all human calculations, was completed in the hope that the tattered copy books would somehow find their way back to civilization, and if fate of the expedition would be known up till its last moments. It is a daily record of success and failure, of a few months in an alien world, showing how much of that world's spirit was absorbed. Because in real life, the big things and the little things are inextricably mixed up together. So in Libya at one moment, one worried because one's native boots were full of holes, at the next perhaps one wondered how long one would be alive to wear them. This book records the former mood as well as the latter, because both at the time were equally important. Naturally, such an impossible, illogical journey leaves one indebted to so many people that it is difficult to pick out those to whom one owes most. I have dedicated the story of our adventures to my co-explorer, Ahmad Bay Hassanine, for his knowledge of the Senusi acquired during his secretary ship to the Talbot mission in 1916 was invaluable to me, and he was the loyalist of my allies throughout the expedition. His tact and eloquence so often saved the situation when my Arabic failed, and we laughed and fought through all our difficulties together. Long before my Kufara expedition merged from impossible dream to a probable fact, many officers stationed in the western desert let me their knowledge of the Senusi oasis, gathered from careful conversations with Bedouin sheiks and merchants, while from Khartoum, El Fasher, and Cairo came maps and route reports which were most useful. I now know that we might have benefited exceedingly from Rolf's most careful and valuable writings on the subject of his North African travels. But unfortunately we only possessed his Kufra, which does not attempt much description of the oasis he was the first European to visit, confining itself chiefly to the relation of the story of the destruction of his camp and the breakup of the expedition. In a journal of the African society the great Germany explorer gives the exact bearing on which he marched from Jalo. Had we known this at the time we might have arrived at Tizer Bo in spite of the error in the extent of vegetation marked on the map. We picked up the traces of Rolf's journey at Busima, where some of the inhabitants remembered him as Mustafa Bey. At Hawari several sheiks told us stories about his adventures there and at Buma, but at no point could we find any trace of Stekker having visited the oasis. On the contrary we were categorically assured by sheiks Mohamed El-Madini, Bu-Regea, and Sidi Omar at Busima, and by sheiks Musa Squireen, Mansour Boubader, Musa Gabriel, and Sidi Zahra at Hawari, that Rolfs had no other European with him. Stekker was the surveyor of the party, and in view of the difference in the position he assigned to Buma and that which we believe it to occupy, we made the most exhaustive inquiries as to the personnel of the German expedition. But while we collected much intimate information concerning Rolfs, all evidence offered us stated positively that he was not accompanied by Stekker at Hawari, Buma, or on his return journey to Busima. On these occasions he was always described as being with his cook-a-lee and a big horse. The gracious reception accorded to me by his excellency the Governor of Sirenaica, Senator de Martino, made me regretful that I could not stay longer in his admirable colony. To him, to General De Vita and the Cavalieri Chiarolo, head of the Ufficio Politico at Benghazi, I owe my delightful journey to Jettabia and a store of invaluable information regarding the country to which they most kindly facilitated my visit. To any reader it will at once be evident that, after the generous help of the Italians in Sirenaica, the whole success of the expedition depended on the goodwill of the emir Mohamed Idris Essenoussi and of his brother Seyed Rita. It is absolutely impossible for any European to set foot in Delibia without the permission of the emir or his waqeel. We were welcomed by the Seyeds with a hospitality that reminded us of the Arab greeting to a guest, all that is mine is thine. Whatever we asked for was given us, multiplied a hundred fold. Seyed Idris and his brother were so prodigal of their generosity, so unfailing of their help, that we shall feel eternally their debtors. Since surprise has been expressed that we should have met with any opposition in Delibia once we were provided with Seyed Idris's passport, I should like to explain that we had no permit from the emir himself. The letter referred to throughout the book was merely a casual, personal letter expressing his willingness to receive us. We had, however, a passport from Seyed Rita authorizing the Sitt Qadija, a Muslim working for the good of Islam in the Senoussi, and A. M. Baye Hassanain to visit the country. This document ensured us the most hospitable welcome from the official classes, in spite of the plots of the Bazaama family and of Abdullah, to which plots alone I imagine we owe the adventures of our journey. Because of the goodwill of the Seyeds, we found many friends and allies in their country. Notably Mohamed Quemish and Yusuf El Hamri, who accompanied us through a thousand miles of desert, till somewhere east of Munasad Pass, we fell into the hands of the Frontier District's administration, and thereby hangs a tail, for so few of us in England know for how much she is responsible abroad. Egypt is like a tadpole, her head the delta, and her tail the long, curving valley of the Nile. Therefore, of all countries, she is the most vulnerable of attack and never could she defend her own borders. Mohamed Ali subsidized the sheiks of the Willid Ali to police as frontiers. Before the war, the Egyptian coast guards built their forts along the Mediterranean and Red Sea shores, and pushed their outposts south into the desert. But during the war, a far more efficient force sprang into being. Nowadays, the Frontier District's administration, a kingdom within a kingdom, is responsible for the safety of all country not watered by the Nile, between the Sudan and the Mediterranean, the Red Sea and Sireneica. The territory is divided into four provinces, and under a military administrator in Cairo, Brigadier General Hunter CBCMG, the governors and officials combine the complicated duties of protector and judge, guide, instructor, and friend to the tens of thousand Bedouin who might at any time crew a thorn in the flesh of Egypt. This exceedingly capable organization, or such portion of it as officiates in the western desert, took charge of us before we reached Siwa, and to them, especially to Colonel MacDonald, Governor of the western desert, and to Colonel Forth, Commandant of the Camel Corps, we owe more than it is possible to acknowledge in the mere preface. In fact, I find myself unconsciously including in a long list of indebtedness the fact that, having written their names far and wide across the eastern Sahara, they had, fortunately for me, temporarily omitted Qufara from the itineraries of those swift dashes into the wilderness, which habitually add a couple hundred miles or so to the known chart of Africa. One name is always connected with theirs, because it appears on so many desert routes, that of Dr. Ball, fellow of the Royal Geographic Society, the Director of Desert Surveys of Egypt. Encouraged by his sympathy and experience, we brought him our rough notes and drawings, and from them he compiled the map of our journey. I think, therefore, that my reader's gratitude should be nearly as great as my own. Rosita Forbes, Abu Minna's March, 1921 Chapter 1 of The Secret of the Sahara Qufara by Rosita Forbes Chapter 1 We Enter on the Great Adventure The Great Adventure began at Jeddabiya, 190 km from Benghazi as the crow flies. It is only a group of scattered sand houses with mysterious windowless walls of the east, flung down on a wide space of white rock and sand. Yet it is the home of the great Sunusi family. We arrived there on November 28, 1920, having come by Diver's Methods across a stretch of stony desert which lies to the southwest of Benghazi, capital of Sireneica. It is an almost deserted country of flat, reddish sand sprinkled with rocks and tufts of coarse-gray grass, which provides food for rare camel caravans and fuel for the Bedouin fires. There are no made roads, but rough tracks link the scattered Italian forts, manned by companies of stalwart Eritreans and irregular Arab levies. To the south, the Altiplano rises in a faint line of purple cliff which catches wonderful reflections in the setting sun. Otherwise the vista is intensely monotonous, save for an occasional encampment at Awahir. Unlike the solid black bite as shahr of the Syrian or Algerian nomad, their tants are of the poorest description, made of patched sacking of various gray brown shades. They are very low-pitched so that even in the center one cannot stand upright. In the dry season, wherever there are wells, may be seen congregated flocks of sheep and goats and herds of camels numbering many thousands. After rain, however, so much water lies out on the rocky ground that the animals can drink wherever they like, so the country presents its most deserted appearance. Benghazi is a little white town lying on the very edge of the Mediterranean breakers, unprotected by harbor or mole. Famine and disease considerably reduced its population during the war, and the sukes are almost deserted. An occasional donkey with scarlet tassels and a load of fresh dates passes down the city shabby where the European stores and native booths stand side by side. A few camels come in from the country, half buried beneath huge sacks of grain. In the evening there is a mustering of bearded merchants at the little café by the mosque, while contemptuous oscari and scarlet tarbushes and swinging cabes stroll by, smoking Italian cigarettes. But the life of the town is confined to the European quarter containing the hotel and the government offices. The biggest of the white oriental-looking buildings is Government House, with a double line of great Moorish arches decorating its imposing façade. So different from the windowless dwellings of Jeda Bia where their discreet high-walled yards, yet it was here that I first saw Esead Mohammed Idris bin Esead el-Madi e-Sannoussi, the man whose power is felt even beyond the boundaries of Libya and Sireneca. The Italians in the Sannoussi had ratified a few days before the Provisional Treaty of 1916 and there were great festas at Benghazi in honor of the newly made Amir, who was spending a few days in the capital on his way to Italy to visit the king. There had been an official reception, and down the broad steps moved the black mass of Italian uniforms splashed with a vivid blue of their gala sashes and the glint of their gay ribbon medals. Foremost came the Governor, Senator De Martino in the green and gold uniform of a night of Malta, and General De Vita with his splendid rows of decorations. Between them walked a figure which dominated the group and yet gave one the impression of being utterly remote from it. Robed all in white, in silken kaftan and trailing bernouse, the rich kufia flowing beneath a golden agle, with no jewel or embroidery to mark his state, Seedy Idris came slowly forward leaning on a silver-handled stick. An Italian officer murmured in my ear, give him a longer beard and he would be the pictured Christ. He was right. The ascetic leader of one of the greatest religious confraternities in the world had the strange, visionary eyes of the prophets of old. His long face had hollows under the cheekbones, his lips were pale, and the olive skin almost waxing. He looked out under a broad brow, dreamily, far beyond the pageant prepared in his honor, to realms even more remote than his own untrodden deserts. Thus might the Nazarene have walked among the legionaries of Rome. The following day I met the emir at a dinner which Omar Pasha gave in his honor. Before the other guests arrived we conversed. I, in faltering Egyptian Arabic, he in the classical language of the hijaz. In the same flowing white robes he sat in a great chair at the head of the room and, in a long line beside him, sat the equan who were to accompany him to Italy. They were a picturesque sight in their multicolored robes of ceremony. Prominent among them was the general Alebasha El Abdea, a delightful bearded personage with a complete set of gold teeth, which touch of modernity contrasted oddly with his crimson caftan and splendid dark bernoes bordered with silver. Beside him sat the venerable Shahruf Basha El Gariam, who had been the teacher of city Idris and was now his most trusted counselor. His dirt was a somber brown, and the end of it covered his head over a close-fitting white Ma'araka. But his caftan, with long embroidered sleeves, was vivid rose. He had a kindly serious face and seemed much more interested in his surroundings than the others. I stumbled over my words of formal greeting, expressed in the unaccustomed plural, wondering whether the man who looked so infinitely remote and uninterested would even listen to what I was saying. The brooding eyes softened suddenly in a smile that was veritable light flashed across his face. If graciousness be the token of royalty, then city Idris is crowned by his smile. For such a look the Bedouin prostrates himself to kiss the dust the holy feet have pressed. Thereafter we talked of my journey, and he blessed me in his frail voice, smiling, still, and saying, May Allah give you your wish. I tried to tell him of my love of the desert, of how I was happiest when, from a narrow camp-bed, I could look at the triangular patch of starlight beyond the flap of my tent. I, too, he said, cannot stay more than a month in one place. Then I must move, for I love the scent of the desert. Now it is true there is a scent in the desert, though there may be no flower or tree or blade of grass within miles. It is the essence of the untrodden, untarnished earthish self. We dine gorgeously on lambs, roasted-hole, and stuffed with all sorts of good things, rice, raisins, and almonds, and on strange sticky sweet-meats that I loved, and bowls of cinnamon-powered junket and best of all, the delicious thick Arab coffee. But the emir ate little, and spoke less. The Sunusi law forbids drinking and smoking, as also the use of gold for personal adornment. So after the meal, glasses of sweet tea flavored with mint leaves were handed round to the solemn equan, who took no notice whatever their fellow-guests, consisting of the Governor, the General, the Captain of the Light Cruiser, which was to carry the Sunusi to Italy, and myself. Omarapasha made me sit beside the emir, who suddenly turned to his venerable followers. Come and salute this lady, he said. And instantly, with the unquestioning obedience of children, they clambered up from their low chairs and moved in a body toward me. As-salamu alaikum, they murmured gravely, as they shook my hand without raising their eyes, but giving me the Moslem salutation to a Moslem. Benghazi was in faith those days. There were so many ceremonies, a review, a great dinner in the Governor's Palace in honor of Italy's new ally. So I did not see Sidi Idris again till the last night of his stay, when there was a general reception which brought streams of Arab notables, as well as Europeans, to witness the fireworks from the wide verandas of his Excellency's dwelling. I saw the emir standing aloof from the chattering crowd, his equanimity, and wondered what he thought of us all. Half the guests were of his own race, and creed, yet not here was his real kingdom, but among the ten thousand Bedouin who springed a horse or camel at his word, among the hundred thousand pilgrims who learned the law from his Zawias. We stood together on a windswept balcony and looked down at a wild dance of Abyssinian soldiers. A thousand black figures, each bearing a flaring torch, gyrated madly in the moonlight, yelling horse songs of victory and prowess. The three things a man may be justly proud of in Abyssinia are killing a lion, an elephant, or his enemy. The fantastic dance we saw might celebrate one or the other of those achievements. Gradually whirling into tempestuous circles, the soldiers flung their torches into flaming piles in the center and their chant rose stronger on the wind. Sayed Idris was pleased. You will see ceremonies like this in my country, he said, but there will be no houses. You will not miss them. The moment the last gun, announcing the Amir's departure for Italy, had been fired, Asinine Bay and I climbed into the car most kindly lent by the government. When he first consented to accompany me to the Libyan Desert, where his knowledge of the language, religions, and customs was invaluable to me, Asinine Bay assured me that he came for a rest cure. Later on he assumed so many characters that it was somewhat difficult to keep count. He was always the quartermaster general of our little expedition, and he used to produce macaroons at the most impossible moments from equally impossible places. He was a chaperone when elderly sheiks demanded my hand in marriage, a fanatic of the most bitter type when it was necessary to impress the local mind, my imam when we prayed in public, a child when he lost his only pair of primrose yellow slippers, a cook when we stole a bottle of marsala from the last Italian fort and chased a thin hen till, in desperation, she laid an egg for our Zabaglione. He also made the darkest plans for being a villain and murdering anyone who interfered with our affairs, and I nervously listened to tales of sudden disappearances in the Sahara. However, on the day of our departure from Meghazi, he was distinctly subdued for, on looking at our piles of camp-kit and my two very small suitcases, I had suddenly noticed several exceedingly large and heavy leather bags. With horror I demanded if they were all absolutely necessary to his personal comfort. Yes, really, he assured me, they are only actual necessities. As a matter of fact, they are half empty. I thought they would be useful for putting things in. The words were hardly out of his mouth when one of the opulent looking cases, slipping from the Arab servant's hand, burst open and deposited at my feet a large bottle of Yura blue bath salts, several packets of salted almonds, and a sticky mass of chocolates and moran's glassies, together with a pair of patent leather shoes, and a resplendent Ballyol blazer. Words failed me. Necessities, I stuttered, as I marched toward the cameon to see that the heaviest cases of provisions were not put on top of the rather fragile fanaties intended for carrying water. Ten minutes after leaving Benghazi the white town with its slender minarets had disappeared into the sand, and our camions crawled like great gray beetles over a sunlit waste, with here and there a line of camels black against the horizon. It was a season of sowing and the tribes were scattered far and wide, planting the barley that would suffice for their frugal life next year. Here and there, as we went further inland, a stooping figure and a close, wild, white jerk pushed a plow drawn by a camel, while a friend guarded his labors, rifles slung across his back. Sometimes a rare traveler on gaily comparison mule, his coarse brown jerk flung over his head and hiding the scarlet setteria beneath, gave us grave greeting. We spent a night at Solok, where the wells had attracted a great flock of sheep, black and brown, numbering about a thousand. The following day we rode the thirty kilometers to gamines on a wiry Arab horses, with mouths like iron beneath the wicked curved bits, and high pommeled saddles mounted on black sheepskins. Three irregulars of the aqua here banned accompanied us, generally galloping around us in circles by way of showing off their horsemanship. A small encampment of some half-dozen tents lay beside our path, so we turned in to see if they would make us tea. At first they refused because I was a Christian. Then a woman in striped red and yellow barricade with a heavy necklace of carved silver came out to inspect us. It is all right, she said to the others. She is a nice little thing, and she has a Muslim with her. This in appreciation of Hassanine Bay's white, brocaded kufia. They spread a scarlet campels-hair rug for us to sit on, but they were not really convinced of our good faith. My companion began asking the men if they had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Not yet, said the oldest wistfully, what is written is written. If Allah wills it, I shall go. We were rapidly making friends when a fierce-looking individual with a hard, weather-beaten face and stern eyes appeared. He carried tea and sugar, but bargained for them violently, thinking we were both the scorned Nasrani. When we told him we knew said Idris, he laughed in our faces. Our Lord Idris is traveling, he said. Would you like to see a letter from him? I asked. Ah! showed on all their faces, and their eyes followed Hassanine Bay's every movement, as he pulled out the somewhat crumpled envelope from his pocket. They read the superscription reverently, and then one by one kissed it with passionate earnestness and gravely pressed it to their foreheads. They returned it in complete silence. Without a word the atmosphere changed. The fanatic looked at us with humble yearning. The old man's eyes were glazed. We knew that we could have told these three men to get up and follow us to an unknown destination, and they would have obeyed with unquestioning, ungrudging faith. C. D. Idris has gone to visit the King of Italy, I said. He has been made an emir. They accepted the statement indifferently. How could a mere king confer honor on the man whom Allah himself had distinguished above all others' living? As we remounted, the old man kissed my hand with tender eyes, murmuring, in shahala matemut il Islam, and we galloped away amidst the wild ulala'een of the women and children. Comines to Zutina meant a hundred and twenty kilometers in a camion over a very bad sandy track, but that night I slept in a tent for the first time in six months. There was a wonderful starry sky with a full moon, and a senousi chic rode in to see us on a splendid gray horse with a scarlet saddle. The high pommels back and front and the wide stirrups were of silver, and the purple tassel bridle was heavily embossed with the same medal. Sayed Mohammed Hilal e Senousi is a cousin of Sid Idris, and a brother of the Sayed Aminesh Sharif, who fled to Turkey at the end of the war. A kindly, cheerful personage, he apparently had cut a drift from the stern rules of his order and found charm in his semi-European life. His language was so full of rhetorical flowers that I found it difficult to understand, but he lent me an excellent horse for the journey to Jedabiyah. He also requested me to deliver to his cousin, Sayed Rita, a poetic epistle which began, O freshness of my eyes may Allah bless your morning with peace and joy. The sand dunes of Zutina gave way to a flat, colorless waste, tough-to-glute gray brushwood. As we turned our horse's heads in land, tiny derboas scuttled into their holes at our approach, and occasionally a great hawk wheeled above our heads. Otherwise there was no sign of life save one solitary horseman in a white jerd on a white horse and a boy sitting on a pile of stones playing an odd little tune on a wooden flute. Our gray Arab mounts were tired when at last we mounted a low rise and saw before us a fringe of patched Bedouin tents. It was the first step on the long journey. Everything was uncertain. There were so many difficulties to be surmounted, but we felt that now at least the last trace of Europe lay behind us. We breathed more freely. We both loved the desert and the dwellers therein, and we felt that they must understand and respond to our sympathy. I turned to Hassanon Bay as the sandy track ran between the blind mud walls that I had seen in so many countries. I feel as if I had left behind me the last shred of civilization. The simplicity of life is beginning to impregnate me. I believe that old Bedouin's blessing hasn't bewitched me. When we leave the desert I shall be a Muslim. We sent to ask if Seyed Reedy Almaty as Sanusi, the brother and wakil of Sidi Idris, would receive us, and we waited for an answer at the edge of the souk, where grave-bearded men with the wistful eyes of those who look at far horizons stood in white-grobed groups, a few camels lay beside piles of grain, but otherwise the wide open spaces between the square walled-in yards where were Arab houses were deserted. The banner of the Sanusi family, a silver crescent and star on a black ground, floated over two of the houses, and the protesting roar of laden camels came from one of the larger enclosures. For Seyed's Safi El-Din, cousin of Sidi Idris and brother of the Bainesh Damid, was travelling to the interior the following day with the whole of his family and sixty beasts of burden. A soldier of the Arab Guard brought us news that the Seyed would receive us at once, and we dismounted in one of the windowless yards before the door of a big white house. We were ushered into the usual Arab reception room, with a stiff roll of crimson-brocaded chairs and sofas around the walls, and a table covered by a beautiful embroidered satin cloth in the centre. Seyed Rita came forward to meet us with a reflection of his brother's smile. One liked him at once. One appreciated instantly his warm kindliness and hospitality. Sidi Idris is a mystic imbued with the aloof dignity of another world, but his waqeel is young, spontaneous and sympathetic, with a very simple unaffected manner. He offered us immediately a house to live in while we were in Jeddabia, and put at our disposal a cook and two other servants. He made me talk Arabic to him and corrected my mistakes with his brother's smile. Sweet tea, flavoured with mint, appeared in delightful painted glass cups, and I soon felt as if I had known our host for years. He was amused and interested in our diver's journeys. He made plans to show us a falcon hunt. He wanted to give us instantly anything from horses to dates. In fact, I felt that I was in the presence of a magician who could wave his wand and produce the wish of my heart. In appearance, Sayed Rita is large and imposing with a round ollie face and very dark eyes, soft as velvet, which crinkle up humorously as he smiles widely, showing strong white teeth. He wore a black Jalabia under his striped silk-jerd, snowy white, and a rolled white turban above a red Ma'araka. Arab hospitality is famous throughout the world, but we left the dignified presence of Sayed Rita of feeling almost overwhelmed at his gracious welcome. Our temporary home fascinated me. A solitary door pierced the mysterious expanse of yellow wall made of sun-dried blocks of sand of all sizes and shapes. One passed through a small roofed court to a wide sunlit yard, whose high walls ensured the complete privacy of an Arab family. Hassanine Bay had a small room at one end, and I, a great high chamber, hung with text from the Quran. We were a kingdom to ourselves, for there was a well just under my window, charcoal in an outhouse, and a large yard beyond where we could have housed camels and horses. As it was, we stored our simple outfit in it, for the evening was dry and fine. We knew from the beginning that we must travel light and that our final success might depend on our capability for riding fast and far. We might have to leave all our luggage, by the way, and, disguised as Bedouin camel-drivers, slip away in the night into the uncharted land where none may follow. Thus, besides our sacks of rice, tea, and sugar, the two latter intended for gifts to Bedouins who helped us on our journey. We had only a single fly tent, eleven feet by eight feet, which could be divided into two by means of a canvas curtain, a waterproof ground sheet, and a couple of beds which rolled into our immensely thick, wool-lined sleeping sacks, a small army canteen that was so heavy that we had grave doubts as to its eventual fate, a canvas washing basin, and a chamadan case complete with a vast supply of candles, for I foresaw burning much midnight wax over notebooks and maps. We had reduced our provisions to the minimum which would support human life for four months, such as coffee, tins of army rations, slabs of chocolate, tins of cocoa and milk already mixed, bully-beef, vegetables to avoid scurvy, and malted milk tablets. But the daily ration was absurdly small, for we trusted to supplement it with dates and rice. By the light of Hassadine Bay's electric torch, we picked our way back over flat white rock and sand to Sayed read his house to dine. This time we found our host accompanied by Sayed Safi El-Din, the little warrior as he is called among the tribes. He is a boy with a vivacious pale face, a charming madder, and a ready wit. He is intelligent, and far more than the others he is interested in the ways of Europe. I think we should get on well, he said, for you are as curious about me as I am about you. The memory of that dinner will haunt me for a long time, for it consisted of twelve courses of which eight were meat in one form or another. We began eating at seven thirty, and at ten thirty the beautifully scented tea with sprigs of mint made its welcome appearance. During these three hours we ate soup, chicken, hashed mutton, slices of roast mutton, aubergine stuffed with sausage meat, fried chops, shoulder of mutton cooked in batter, ragout of mutton with vegetables, stuffed tomatoes, boiled mutton with marrow, savory rice, and sweet omelette. It can be easily imagined that the feast left us a little silent and comatose, but not so our host. He was literally brimming over with kindness and forethought. I was suffering at the time from a severely dislocated foot, which had not been improved by the long ride, and I was obliged to hobble in one shoe and a swollen native slipper by the aid of a stick. Said Rita's slipped away for a minute in the middle of the meal, and when we left the house, lo and behold a horse was waiting for me outside the door. His kindliness was as simple and natural as his whole bearing. We asked him if he traveled but, shunny replied, I have not time, I have so much work. You know it is just like planting a garden. Everything grows and grows till one's time is full. This from the emeer's walkle, whose word was born across half the deserts of the world, to Nigeria, to the Sudan, to the outposts of Morocco, to the doors of the house of Allah, Mecca. I remember opening my shutters that night to a flood of moonlight as clear as the day. A faint, mercented breeze icy cold from the Sahara came in, and I wondered whether it had blown over the unknown oasis we hoped to reach. We had a long talk that evening of past difficulties and future plans. In Italy, Gufara represents the goal of so many hopes. In Saranaica, the ambition of so many daring young political officers, that it is difficult to realize that in England it is an unknown name. The sacred place of the Sahara, the far-off oasis, six hundred kilometers from Jalo, which in itself is seven days rapid journey from the outskirts of civilization, is spoken up with awe and longing in Benghazi. I will tell you a great secret, said the Italian major who had spent a couple of days with Sidi Idris at Jaghabub, and had therefore penetrated many hundreds of kilometers farther into the interior than any of his compatriots. Some day I want to go to Gufara. No one has ever been there except Rolfs forty years ago, and he saw nothing, nothing at all. Without going deeply into the story of the Sinusi confraternity, it may be explained that their founder, Sidi Mohammed Ben Ali Sinusi, preached his doctrine of a pure and aesthetic Islam from Morocco to Mecca, but his teaching met with their greatest success in Saranaica, where the Bedouin had almost lapsed from the faith of their fathers. Rapidly, his Zawiya spread along the coast, and his authority was acknowledged by the Sultan of Wadi, who made him responsible for the caravans traversing the great deserts of Wadi, the pheasant and late Chad. Thus the stern beliefs of the Sinusi spread with every caravan that went into the interior. Mohammed Ben Ali, so holy that never unveiled his face to his disciples, so honored that his followers prostrated themselves to kiss his footprints, died at Jaghabub in 1850, and left to his son Mohammed El-Madi, the leadership of one of the greatest and fiercest religious confraternities in the world. Their laws were harsh, for even smelling of smoke a man might lose his right hand. Their hatred of the infidel was fanatical. They ousted the Zawiya and Tabu from their ancient homes in Kababo and established impregnably their holy of holies in this oasis which nature herself had protected, by surrounding it with a belt of mighty dunes and 250 miles of waterless desert. Kufara, the Kababo of Ol, lies some 600 kilometers south, faintly southeast of Jalo. It is the heart of the eastern Sahara and the center of its trade for the only big caravan route from the Sudan and Wadi to the north passes through it, yet the journey is so difficult that none but the strongest caravans can attempt it. From the well at Butterfall, a day's journey south of Jalo, seven hard waterless days bring the traveler to Zegan, where there is a well, but no fodder or oasis. After that he must continue another five days, two of which are through dunes before he reach Hawari, the outskirts of the Kufara group, sometimes considered by the Arabs to be a separate oasis because it is divided from the main group by the chain of mountains. This is the main route and the easiest. It continues to Wadi, to the west of this track lie three other oases. The first, Tizer Bo, is also seven days waterless journey from Butterfall, and it is rarely approached, for it has neither civil, religious, nor commercial importance, but its taboo ronds might make it of interest historically. Some hundred and fifty kilometers beyond in a southwesternly direction is Busima, which is famous for its dates, for which caravans sometimes visit it, and still farther south lies Rubiana, to all description a lulla spot from which come the marauding bands which make the neighborhood of Busima exceedingly dangerous. Of course all this information was acquired at a later date. When I arrived at Jeddabia I knew less than nothing of Libyan geography. I did not know that the principal villages in Kufara were Jaff, the seat of government, and Taj, the holy of holies of the Sanusi faith. I did not know that mountains and lakes, fields of tamarisk and acacia, peaches, grapes, and figs, were to be found in this garden of Eden lost amid the impenetrable sands, for between the Dockla Desert to the east, untraversed by Europeans, and to the west the trackless way stretching to Guelze Rear at the edge of Tripolitania, to which remote prisons some of the unfortunate survivors of the Miani column were sent as prisoners. To me Kufara was almost a mirage. It represented the secret which the Sahara had rigidly guarded for so long against Christian eyes. The tragic story of Rolf's ill-fated expedition fired my enthusiasm to reach the center of the world's most banatical confraternity, the unknown, mysterious country, untrod by foot of stranger, be Christian or Muslim. Having regard to the amazing difficulties of the journey, and the almost maniacal hatred with which strangers are regarded, it is natural that, with one possible exception, no European should ever have been able to reach the sacred cluster of Zawias and Morbets at Taj. A French prisoner spent some time in Kufara during the war. He was sent there from Ua'us-Hazir by order of Seyed Ahmed. Over forty years ago a German explorer made a very gallant attempt to solve the mystery of the far-off oasis. In 1879 the Kaiser Wilhelm I sent a scientific expedition to Libya, consisting of four men, Rolfs, Stecker, Eckhart, and Hübner. It was backed by the whole power of Turkey. It carried magnificent presence from the Emperor. It was laden with cases of silver and gold. Hostages were held at Benghazi while Rolfs led his party to the southern deserts. He left Jalo on July 5th with a hundred camels in a large escort of Zawias mounted on horses, including several sheiks, the principal of whom was Bouguettin. He accomplished the amazing feat of reaching Tizurbo in four and a half days by riding nearly twenty hours out of the twenty-four. His most interesting book on his North African travels, which has unfortunately not been translated into English, he suggested that Tizurbo may have been the side of the original taboo sultanate, as he saw ruins which might possibly be those of a castle or stronghand at Deranjeti. He continued his southern course by way of Busima till he reached Hawawiri, where he was persuaded by a friendly sheik, Koryem Abd Rabu, to camp in an outlying palm grove to avoid any friction with the villagers, who refused to allow the Nasrani to enter their country. The plucky Tutan describes the gathering outside his tent, and the long discussion as to whether he and his companions should be murdered or not. The day following, August 14th, they were induced by Bouguettin and the treacherous Suias, who were fanatically opposed to the presence of strangers and greedy to share the spoils of so rich a caravan, to leave Hawawiri and, skirting the Oasis, to isolate themselves in Boima, the loneliest and most deserted spot in the whole group. Rolfs apparently agreed to this plan because the neighborhood of any of the main villages was dangerous. He had to oppose the combined hatred of the equan and pupils of the Suias, religious fanatics, the villagers who jealously guarded the privacy of their country, and the passing caravans of pilgrims and merchants. After being held a prisoner for nearly a month in this lonely camp, in daily fear for his life, he was helped to escape by his original friend, Koryum, who took him by night with his three companions to his son-in-law's camp, somewhere in the neighborhood of Zaruk. That very night the German's camp was attacked and looted. Every single notebook, map, drawing, and scientific instrument was destroyed, so Rolfs was unable to attempt much description, even of his journey up to Hawawiri. In the book which he calls Kufra, he devotes a chapter to his perils and battles in that inhospitable Oasis. But after his rescue by Koryum, whose son we met at Taj, his narrative becomes very disjointed. He was moved to another place before being allowed to leave the Oasis. He himself thinks it was Jaff, but from his description of the journey this seems impossible. He spent another fortnight under the surveillance of Koryum. He tells us that he was not allowed to move without a guard of twenty rifles, during which he seems to have confronted every form of extortion and threat with calm and intrepidity. At Simp Tipper 27th he left the Oasis with Koryum, who took him all the way to Benghazi, where, unfortunately, the Sheik died. Consequently there is a legend that Rolfs poisoned him. With the experience of the greed of our own escort, I came to the conclusion that the grateful German probably gave him too much of his own cherry stores in the Arab over eight. After this ill-fated expedition, no alien presence cast a shadow on the sanctity and isolation of Kufara till Sayed Ahmed sent his prisoner there. Many attempts were made from Siwa to pierce the first barrier of dunes, but in vain. The secret switch-Rolfs had so nearly solved to remain wrapped in the mirage of the great deserts, and Kufara was still a legend more than a fact. The amicable relations at present existing between Italy and the Sunusi, and the genuine friendship of Senator Di Martino and Sayed Idris, made it easy for us to reach Jeddabia as the guests of the former's most hospitable government. But thenceforth it was left to us to fend for ourselves. We could not take our kindly hosts of Benghazi into our confidence, as they would have been aghast at the idea of a young woman venturing alone into a territory as yet unexplored. The agreement that had just been signed with Sidi Idris gave them control of the whole of Sireneika, thus assuring a future of great prosperity to the colony, but it left the greater Libyan desert from Aujela to Jagabab, with Kufara still another six hundred kilometers to the south, in the hands of Sayed Idris as an independent ruler under Italian protection. A most humorous complication added immensely to our difficulties. Hassanine Bay, having been secretary to the Italo-British mission, which arranged the Treaty of 1916 with the Sunusi, was promptly suspected of the darkest pan-Islamic designs. For a week at Benghazi we lived in a state of suspense. Intrigue was in the air and everyone suspected the moaties of everyone else. If a cameon broke down, we decided that we were not to be allowed to reach Jedabia. If Hassanine spoke to a Bedouin, using the Moslem salutation, the eyes of our so-called interpreter would almost pump out of his head with interest and dismay. Relays of kindly individuals took the utmost interest in our history, plans, ideas, and belongings. We were pumped until we could not think of anything more to say, and we, in turn, pumped every hospitable and amiable individual who politely and differently asked us our destination. At times we must have worn such strange and agonized expressions that I wonder we were not suspected of Bolshevism at the very least. The most amusing part of the business was afforded by the spies who constantly surrounded us and who were so thrilled with their own importance that I used to have daily fights with Hassanine Bay to prevent him playing delightful little comedies to excite them still more. However, once Jedabia was reached, we felt happier. The open desert lay before us and the lure of the great track south. Somewhere beyond the pale mauve line of the horizon lay the secret of the Sahara, the oasis which had become the goal of every explorer, from the enthusiastic Coast Guard officers who dreamed of forcing a trotting hage in through the sands, to the governments whose cameons and light patrol cars had failed to pierce the waterless drifts. The masked tourigs, those lawless riders who threaten the lumbering southbound caravans, bring strange tales of a white race, blue-eyed, fair-haired, whose women live unveiled with their men. Legend has attributed its home to the mysterious oasis whose position varies according to the whims of the map-maker. Inshallah, I breathe to the stars and the winds. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of the Secret of the Sahara Kufara by Rosita Forbes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 Plans for the Flight I went to sleep beside a glassless window opening into an empty yard after wondering whether we should be able to buy necessary food in the souk or whether we should have to break into our hoarded provisions. I woke to a busy scene and rubbed my eyes in amazement. In one corner was a white bell tent from which came the smoke of a charcoal fire. In another was tethered an excellent horse with a European saddle. Half a dozen servants appeared occupied in preparing an immense meal. I called to Hasananbe, where on earth did you get all this? I, he replied, bewildered, I. It is all from Sayed Rita. Do you realize that horse is going to stay here for you to ride whenever you like, that the tent is a fully-equipped kitchen and that you've got to cook, and I don't know how many servants besides. You mentioned you liked dates last night. Well, a huge sack arrived this morning and meat and bread and tea and sugar, and heavens know what beside. We are the Sayed's guests, and for the Lord's sake, don't say you like anything else, or it will arrive here within an hour. He paused for breath while I gazed at him helplessly. When one has come from an Italian colony, one is used to hospitality, for, from the governor downwards, everyone was amazingly kind to us, but this was overwhelming. I felt that a whole garden of floral rhetoric would not adequately express my gratitude. We rode out through the deserted stretches of flat white rock and sand to see the great herds of camels being watered. Bronze figures, nude but for a scarlet loincloth, shouted and sang with monotonous rhythm as they let down goatskins at the end of a rope and heaved them up brimming to pour their contents into rough troughs. A white moorabit and single palm marked the center of a cluster of sand colored houses. Otherwise the buildings were scattered over a broad expanse with a straight line of soot-booths in the center. We created so much sensation in the latter that I decided my gray riding-coat and felt-hat were out of place. We told Mustafa, a resplendent individual belonging to one of the irregular bands, whom the political officer Benghazi had kindly lent to us, to go and discover someone who wished to sell some native clothes. He returned half an hour later with a baffled and at the same time odd expression, in company with Seyed Rita's confidant, whose cold black face looked out from the folds of an immense white kufia. You are the Seyed's guests, the latter informed us respectfully. Anything that you need I will get for you at once. Gravely he offered me a bulky parcel. It contained the most beautiful white silk-jured stripe like the one I had silently admired the previous night, with a green and silver algal and a kufia that filled my heart with joy, for it was a subdued blending of all rich colors, purple and rose and blue on a silver ground with long-dropping tassels. There was also a tarbouche and a pair of wonderful yellow slippers. Before the faltering words were out of my mouth, Hassanine Bay had pounced upon the yellow slippers. His expression was that of a small child when a much loved doll has been restored to it. Hamdulillah, he exclaimed, and fled, clutching his prize. I confessed to spending a half-hour struggling with the intricacies of the jerk and picturing myself dressed in Seyed Rita's splendid gift, offering sweet mint tea to Reverend Sheik's. Thereafter we erased any verbs expressive of desire from our vocabulary, but we did not succeed in evading our host's royal generosity. We wanted a couple of small sacks in which to put a weak supply of rice and flour. For once we left Jettabia we should have seven or eight days' journey to the next oasis, and we planned to send the baggage-camels ahead and ride light on the fastest beasts we could find. With this intention we again dispatched the brightly-clad Mustafa to the souk. Ten minutes later he was brought firmly back by the head of police, a stalwart black with a hard-keen face. Our follower was protesting wildly but to deaf ears, for behind him came the ebony confinat Ajee Abdel Salam. I will send you the sacks, he told me in the tone of a parent scolding a foolish child. The Seyed wishes to give you everything you can need. Even Hassanine Bay's eloquence failed him while I wondered if we were living in one of the tales of the Arabian Nights. Our peace, however, was short-lived. For the first few days at Jettabia we were in a fool's paradise, all round to slay the desert. It seemed so easy a thing to hire a few camels and a guide and disappear over the rim of the horizon. By the fourth day we had discovered a few of the most important difficulties. Firstly, there were no camels. There had been an excellent harvest. The Bedouin was rich and he didn't want to work. It was impossible to explain the exact destination of the caravan, for the holy oasis is far beyond the borne of most camel-driver's dreams. Secondly, all work had to be done in secret, because the whole of our household were spies with a possible exception to the black cook, Ali. Mustafa had been in the Fusio political and he dutifully reported the minutest of our doings. The head of the police, the stalwart Maabruk, was also not averse to Latin gold, so he placed his brother to watch us as a horse boy and, lest that were not sufficient, he sent us a mysterious sermon whose head appeared suddenly at the glassless windows whenever Hassanine Bay and I were studying the caran or writing notes. We were never able to relax our vigilance for a second. We used to hold long Arabic conversations on how pleasant we found life in Jeddabiyah, how we must certainly stay there a fortnight before returning to Benghazi. We knew that every word would be overheard and repeated. Bazaar rumor spoiled our first plan, which was exceedingly simple. We meant to persuade an equan to accompany us to see some neighboring village where there would be a suppositional marriage or other festa, and from there drift on. We had not reckoned with the fanaticism of the Muslim. Tales of a wealthy Christian woman about to travel into the interior spread like a brush fire. Mustafa came to me with lurid tales of throats cut almost within sight of the souk. Sayad Rita himself explained that no Christian life was safe beyond the boundaries of syrinaica, and that anyone, supposed to have money, was a marked prey for the lawless bands who swept out of the desert, seized their prey, and disappeared into the limitless sands as ants upon an English lawn. We learned many things that day. We discovered that menace man, the German, had been killed by his own Arab guard a few hours outside the town because he had 12,000 pounds in gold upon him. We heard that the Tibu tribes, of the group of Oasis erroneously known as Khufra, really Khufara, have not entirely submitted to the Senusi rule and, consequently, still attack any caravans traveling beyond Taizurbo. But I don't understand, I said. Taizurbo is part of Khufara, isn't it? It is marked so in our maps. No, no, replied our informant impatiently. Taizurbo is Gereb, Gereb, near. You can go there easily. It is not important. There is no Sika, or Way. Khufara is much farther on. The dangerous part is after Taizurbo. If you go to Buseema, you may have to fight. Thereafter we began a laborious, systematic campaign to correct the impression of a rich Christian woman. I discarded my hat for the Seyed's beautiful Khufya. Early and late I could be heard reciting verses of the Quran. I already knew all the obligatory prayers and took care to perform them minutely. Moreover, we used to wander through the Bedouin camps which fringe Jeddabiyah, talking to the women and gradually gaining their confidence. At first we were regarded with the utmost suspicion, which gradually relaxed as we gave them Muslim salutations and told them how happy we were to be living an Arab life among Arabs. If a sheik, a haji, came to us, I used to murmur shihada to him. Ashadu ila ilaha ilala wa ashadu ina Muhammadin Rasul Allah upon which he generally blessed me warmly. After a few days I was greeted enthusiastically and introduced to the solemn-faced babies adorned with silver amulets and taught how to bake flat, heavy bread in mud ovens. It is amazing how perfect is the wireless telegraphy system of the desert. One night, dining with Seyed Rita, I remarked that I was so glad there was no electric light and that I liked the local coloring and primitive lighting effect in Arab houses. This was translated into the bizarre into, she is a Muslim, she hates all European things, she wants to keep the old customs as our fathers had them. We knew our campaign had succeeded on the eighth day when, after the chief spy despairing of getting a glimpse of us any other way, had brought us as a gift an absurd black bird with a bald head. A brother of Ali, the cook, arrived from his camel's hair tent. He greeted us kindly and told us that the Bedouins were in sympathy with us, that they knew we were Muslims and of their own blood. Thus we felt we had done something to dispose of the probability of sudden death before we were a hundred kilometers on our way. But all other arrangements lagged intolerably. The most venerable and respected of all the equan, Ajee Fethiter, who had gone the great journey right through Kufara to Wadai, was the one man who could probably help us on our way. He was of the Mojabra tribe and he so loathed Nasserani that he would not be in the same room as a Christian. I do not know whether it was Hassanine Bey's eloquence or his sudden discovery that Sidious Sunusi himself had prophesied that the English would eventually be converted to Islam that finally induced him to promise to accompany us. We are all servants of the Seyad, only if he tells me to go must I go, he said. But when the prophecy had aroused his enthusiasm he flung back his splendid gray head. I will protect her, exclaimed. I will take her to Kufara and she shall kiss the holy quaba and be a Muslim. He was eighty years old, but he determined instantly that he would run the whole caravan and generally instruct us in the art of desert traveling. He had caught but a glimpse of me as I was hurried from the house in case my present therein should pollute him. He can only have seen an exceedingly shy young person, with respectfully downcast eyes in a pale blue tweed suit, huddled on a ridiculously small pony, dangling a swollen foot in a native slipper, but he luckily took it into his head that he liked me. Hassanine Bay rapidly clenched the acceptance by repeating the Fatha, the opening sura of the Koran. This is only done on very important and solemn occasions and it constitutes at the same time a blessing and an oath. Even then our kindly host was not satisfied but insisted on sending an escort with us, ten soldiers of his guard, coal-black slaves under a commander called Abdul Rahim. He also determined to settle the vexed question of camels once and for all by sending a caravan of his own to Kufara to bring back some of his belongings and allowing us to travel with it. To anyone who does not know the east it would now appear that things were successfully settled, not a bit of it. The soldiers were at Zutina, a distant twenty-four miles. The camels were at least two days' journey away, a matter of sixty miles. They were vaguely described as being in the region of Antelot, the house of Sead Rita's family. Each day we watched the horizon with anxious eyes. Each day we counted eagerly every row of black specks that appeared amidst the sun-brown grass and rock, but neither camels nor soldiers appeared. We had decided that the caravan should announce its departure for noon and that in reality the long line of camels should steal past our door at three a.m. A few would be driven around a convenient wall and loaded hastily with all our outfit, after which we could mount and be fifty kilometers away before anyone knew of our departure. We could leave letters explaining a sudden opportunity and an equally sudden determination and send back further notes from every oasis en route. Unfortunately it was a race against time, for everyone was growing suspicious at my inexplicable desire to stay so long in a little mud village on the edge of the world. Omar, our government interpreter, was determined to get back to Benghazi for Christmas. The delightful cavalry lieutenant, who was the political officer at Zutina, was naturally bored at having to drive his heavy camion three or four times a week from his little camp by the ocean to see what a mysterious Englishwoman might be doing in the debatable country on the fringe of civilization. As the days wore on they tried by every means in their power to lure me from Jadabia, but my exceedingly swollen foot did me good service. The stirrup heard it so much riding here that I don't want to risk it again till it is quite recovered, I explained. They suggested camions and I assured them I had so much work to do that I was only too glad of the peace and quiet of my Arab house to do it in. It was a ludicrous situation. Five young people used to foregather in the house of the doctor to partake of Mr. Omar's delicious subiglionis and not one of them ever uttered one word of truth. Each felt instinctively the other was lying, but none knew exactly how far he was bluffing or what card he had up his sleeve. Perhaps we were a little better often than they, for we knew their game and they luckily had failed to understand ours. The political aspect was always before their eyes. In their anxiety to know whether Hassanine Bey was plotting a pan-Islamic empire with the 30 Egyptian ex-coast guards who had taken refuge with the Sinusi during the war, they overlooked other possibilities. I think the idea did occur to them that I wanted to go much farther into the desert than they cared to permit, but I doubt if they suspected our real goal. This used to surprise me immensely at the time. Looking back, I realized that it would have been very difficult for them to imagine that the woman they saw in a panniered frock with a French hat veiled in grouping lace and high heels to match the red-over-stripe cloak would have metamorphosed herself into a Bedouin and attempt a journey which they looked upon as impossible for a European and exceedingly difficult even for an Arab. We felt that we had one last card to play that they would never suspect, a midnight flight. We were loath to use it, however. We waited patiently for the camels that did not come and fenced desperately for time. Luckily our opponents were deceived by the apparent Freud year existing between Hassanine Bay and myself. We had made a point of disagreeing with each other at every possible opportunity and even retailed our grievances occasionally to sympathetic ears. Suddenly, therefore, they took my companion into their confidence, which made things distinctly easier. Together they used to lay dark plots to induce me to leave Jeddabia, where there was no café chantant and no hotel noble. In spite, however, of this new move, we began to get very anxious. The spies had redoubled their vigilance. There were no signs of camels. Mabre, the head of the police, introduced a person into our house whom he said was an equan from Kufara, evidently intending that we should question him enthusiastically about his journey. We refrained from all mention of it, and the supposed equan was so intensely stupid that one cannot imagine that he could have been much used to any secret service. This was our position on December 4th when, on our morning's wander around the neighboring encampments, we saw a line of camels coming in from Antelott. We instantly jumped to the conclusion that they were ours. One of the spies was leading the horse on which I was balanced sideways to protect my lame foot, so we could show no signs of joy, but for a few hours we made happy plans for the freedom of the desert. We had just finished a lunch of rice, dates, mutton, and mint tea when the blow fell. The black was here arrived in considerable perturbation. Not only was there no news of our camels or of our soldiers, but our opponents were well aware that a caravan was starting for Kufara in a few days' time and that we hoped to travel with it for a day or two. Hassanine turned to me with blazing eyes and a chalk-white face. It's come to a fight, he said, and I'm glad. I used to be amused sometimes at the way he shirked doing the simplest things till the last moment, but in sudden emergencies the whole strengthened energy of the man flamed out and there was no one in the world I would rather have beside me. He grasped essentials rapidly and left me to fill in the details. It's flight on two camels and the caravan must follow, he said. As usual I started to work out the practical possibilities while he went to gain further news. I think I shall always remember that long, dragging afternoon. The wind was full of dust, but I took the pony and went down to one of the encampments feeling I simply could not smile. I felt hopeless and trapped as if a net were closing around me and there was a numb dead ache at my heart. Nevertheless I could not help responding to the smiles of the Bedouin women who pressed round me, brilliant blots of color in their orange and black or red and black barricades, with blue-tried marks tattooed on their foreheads and half a dozen huge silver earrings dangling beneath their plaited hair. One laughed at my white hands against her black skin. You have soap to wash with. We have none, she said. The lounging white figures in the soup stared at me curiously as I passed but did not protest. They had stoned a Christian dog from Zetina the day before, but I was the Seyed's guest and therefore honored. A dignified sheik gave me greeting. He was a haji and he told me, We are all under the Seyed's orders. You may go safely where you like among us for it is the Seyed's wish. Mustafa listened eagerly. It is true, he said. The Seyed is great, all the people fear him, otherwise they would kill every Christian in the country. I began to realize the vast problem with which Italy is faced and to admire, more than ever, the way she is dealing with it. For the moment Europe has no message for the fierce fanatics of Libya, but the fertile Altiplano of Sirenaica only a few miles from the sea will have a prosperous future. Italian workmen have done so much to build up the prosperity of Egypt and Tunis. There is a wide field opening for them, from Zetina to Tobruk, in which their industry and thrift may benefit their own country. Sirenaica, once the granary of the Roman Empire, will be fittingly colonized by the descendants of those legionaries who left their trace from Sirene to far off Mista. The budding colonies should have a splendid agricultural future and the friendship between Italy and the Senusi, recently cemented at Regina, should open up the old Transaharan caravan routes. The Sultan used to confide his most precious merchandise to the protection of Sidi Ben Ali as Senusi on its long journeys to Wadi. Why should not the same arrangement be made between the governor of Sirenaica and the heredity emir of the Senusi? The sun was setting as I left the souk, a blaze of deep, flaming orange that we never see in Europe. The sky was molten in the crucible. I sent away the pony and sat crouched on the sand to watch the glory fade. A camel or two passed like huge distorted shadows across the burning west. A few white, shrouded figures went by me with a soft bismala. I ached for a horse, a camel, anything that would take me away into the wide spaces beyond Genobia. The strain of suspense eased a little in the evening for during one of our games of cross-purpose at the doctor's house, we discovered that our opponents proposed to prevent our accompanying the caravan on the ground that no equan was going with it. Apparently they still did not suspect our ultimate destination, but we were not at all certain that they had not wired for the cameons from Benghazi. We sat up late that night in the silent court with the stars above us and the guardian walls which I had learned to love shutting out all eavesdroppers. The spies retired in a body after our frugal dinner and Ali was always thankful to spend the night in the family tent. We decided on a simple but somewhat desperate plan. We felt that we should be allowed only two or three more days in Jeddabiya without an open fight and we could not be certain of the 20 camels necessary for the caravan. Therefore we decided to leave practically all our luggage behind and go off in the middle of the night, if possible, with the equan. Our little world would be told next morning that we had gone to visit some of the neighboring camps and would return in a day or two. To reassure them they would see all our clothes hanging up on their usual pegs, most of our suitcases scattered about the room, our sacks and boxes of provisions stored in various corners, even my camp chair and the table on which I wrote. On December 6th we did a hard morning's work. After our date and egg breakfast we settled ourselves with a caran and notebooks behind closed doors and said we did not wish to be disturbed. As soon as our retinue had retired to the white bell tent which served as a kitchen, we set to work on the provision boxes. We emptied them of their contents and carefully filled them with immense stones which we laboriously collected from an inner court in the course of construction. On top we put layers of straw and a few tins which could be seen through carefully arranged chinks. We sorted out an extra week's provisions to add to those we had already prepared and the rest we put into big sacks, with the intention of sending these latter at midnight when the spies were sleeping peacefully to some place where they could be stored until the delatory camels arrived and the caravan started. They would then be packed, unauthenticiously, with all the rest of the loads, and when we joined the caravan a few days' journey on the way to Ajayla we should recover our most necessary provisions. We ourselves, with a tent, two rolls of bedding, a fortnight's provisions, and two suitcases chiefly containing films, medicine, apparatus, candles, soap, etc., would disappear the following night in bed-and-clothes. I confessed to feeling a certain pang when I realized that I must leave every single European garment behind except a pair of riding boots and breeches and a woolen sweater. Hassanine said he thought it was carrying realism too far. I understood the reason when, sternly insisting that his one suitcase should hold half the apparatus and only the simplest necessities of life, it discorded seven different colored bottles of odiculone and a mass of heterogenous attire more suited to Bond Street than to the Sahara. I had to superintend the packing lest he ignore the claims of malted milk tablets, towels, and woolen underclothing in favor of delicately striped shirts and a lavender silk dressing gown. We wondered if we should ever see again the garments we left gracefully decorating the walls in order to indicate the imminence of our return, or whether a new fashion would be set in Jeddabia. At lunchtime the tailor came to fit my strange garments. It appeared that Seyed Rita wished to give me no fewer than four suits, but I assured him that I wanted only one to be photographed in and to show my friends in England. We finally compromised on two, one of which arrived that evening, an oddly shaped pair of trousers, very narrow at the ankle, made of white calico spotted with green leaves, and a dress like a voluminous chemise of dark red cotton with a blue pattern. We were told that the camels were ready, but that the equan was already regretting his moment of enthusiasm. Will he be ready to start tomorrow at midnight? Inshallah was all the answer we got. Our plan was so simple, but it depended on two-night secrecy, and secrecy is impossible among Arabs. However, we pretended not to worry. El Maktub Maktub, we said, but I caught Hassanine anxiously opening the Quran to see whether a verse chosen at random would prove a good omen. He was delighted because the first one he saw read Nasrun Min Allahi wa Fathan Garib. Victory and an opening out from Allah are nearer. I was not very much more composed myself, for on repeating the long formal prayers that afternoon I realized from my companion's horrified face that I was ascribing unto Allah's salutations, prayers, and physics. Tabiat instead of Tahibah. Sayed Rita took us for a drive in his car in the afternoon. There are no roads or even tracks beyond Jadabiyah, but the sand is hard and smooth. The Sayed thought it would be a good thing to show himself openly with us, and indeed our fame increased after that drive. When we returned, the whole of our household had attired itself in clean white garments, and there was an odd moment when they all reverently kissed the Sanusi's hand. They dared not approach very close to it, lest their garments touch their holy master, but it was wonderful to see the worship and homage they put into the act. They were chattels in the hands of the Sayed. As Waqil of Sidi Idris he represented to them, as he does to thousands like them, the mystic being chosen by Allah to direct them. Their lives are his to command. He is their supreme judge, as he is their defender and their guide. It is difficult for a European to realize the power held by the Sanusi family, for there has been nothing approaching it in Europe. It is a reflection of the temporal and spiritual papacy at its height. For instance, Sidi Idris might order one of the oldest and noblest equan to start the following day for a 2,000 mile journey to Lake Chad, and he would obey unquestioningly, without preparation or even surprise. We are the servants of the Sayed, he would say, as he wrapped his bernouce around him and prepared to face the waterless sands. When we decided on flight as the only possible means of leading Jeddabiyah, we asked Sayed reader for a guide. He gave us Yusuf El Hamri and Mohammed Quemish, and calling them into our presence he told them that if anything happened to us, whether by their fault or not, they would die immediately. The men accepted the statement as undoubted fact. Yet as the Sayed reader sat in our only camp chair in my big bear room, drinking sweet tea and eating Hassanine's last macaroons, it was difficult to realize that the fate of a country probably lay in his capable hands. The Sayed might declare a holy war tomorrow against the infidels, and Islam, from Wajanga to the Mediterranean, might respond. But that afternoon our host talked with the simplicity of a child. We were trying to thank him for his amazing hospitality and for the permission he had given us to travel to Egypt by way of the Great Desert, which included the loan of camels, guides, and an escort of soldiers, besides immense gifts of food and native clothing. Coming from an Italian colony we had become used to gracious hospitality, but Sayed reader's generosity was overwhelming. I have traveled in half the countries of the world. I have been the guest of Mandarin and Boundary Rider, or Raja, Fijian Mraz, Northwest Mounted Police, and of every intermediate race and grade. But I have never received such generous, unquestioning welcome as in Bedouin countries. Some of the happiest weeks of my life were spent in Syria as the guest of a great Arab prince. I used to think that nothing could match his kindness, but here in Jeddabia I found its equal in another descendant of the prophet, a sheriff of Islam. We asked Sayed reader if we could send him anything from Cairo, our thoughts running to a jewel or a gold inlaid rifle. He asked for a green parrot and some gramophone records with a smile as delightful as his brothers. You see, he said, my life is rather lonely. It is not wise that I go out or I show myself very much to our people. Our family is holy and we must live a secluded life. We may not see dancing or hear singing. Our people would not understand. But sometimes when I am alone late at night I play the gramophone, for I love music very much. A curiously sweet smile illuminated his kindly face, and he beat time to an imaginary tune with a jeweled finger. I do not like much noise, he said. I like the sad, soft melodies best. I think all music should be melancholy. For a moment he was a child thinking wistfully of a toy, and then, as Ali entered bent double with respect over his tray of tea, a sad resumed the grave dignity in keeping with his gorgeous clothes. A purple embroidered jalabia under an apple-green silk tuba with a wonderful crimson and blue kufia stiff with gold thread and having great tassels of gold. Our busy day closed with the most humorous scene. After Ali and the spies had gone willingly to the amusement or repose they desired, we dragged the six heavy sacks of provisions one by one out of my room across the court to the dark-yard by the main door. There was no moon. Tin meat weighs incredibly heavy. We fell over a lot of loose stones and we imagined we made a good deal of noise. The peculiar form of an Arab dwelling, however, precludes the possibility of being overheard. We then dug stones and sand from the unfinished bit at the house and filled some most realistic-looking dummy sacks which we artistically arranged in the place of the real ones. At eleven p.m. we got one of those unexpected shocks that send cold shivers down one's back and desperate thoughts to one's brain. There was a sudden knock at the door. It was too soon for our fellow plotters in search of the luggage. Minda asked Hassanai nicely and I felt the tot and thrill in his voice. My brook answered the voice of the chief spy and then a long ramble about wanting to see the native garments already delivered to make a pattern for the others his brother the tailor was making. As a matter of fact it was a perfectly genuine demand. We had asked the confidential Wazir to hurry up the making of our clothes and he had done so to such good effect by saying it was the Seyed's wish that the unfortunate tailor proposed to work all night but to our apprehensive ears it sounded very suspicious. I was glad that Hassanai had not got a revolver on him. He told me afterwards that his first impulse had been to shoot the man and bury him instantly instead of which he murmured that the sit was in bed and the magical word which retards the progress of Islam bakra tomorrow. At one a.m. Hassanai shrouded from head to foot in a white jurid was waiting just outside the main door. A few minutes later there was the faintest scratch on the heavy wood. Almost before he had pulled it open seven dark figures muffled up to the eyes utterly unrecognizable slipped into the yard. Not a word was uttered. Dexterously they shouldered the provision sacks and stepped away into the night without a murmur. Of course they simply reveled in the mystery and secrecy of it but we wondered how soon rumour would reach the bazaar.