 Chapter 3 The Secret of the Sahara-Kufara by Rosita Forbes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In this chapter the passage in French was kindly read for us by Sonia. Chapter 3 The Escape from Jeddabia. December 7th dawned brilliantly fine. We rose from our camp beds, feeling, joyfully, that thirty-six hours would elapse before we slept on them again. Our morning was enlivened by the visits of two or three friends from the neighboring encampments. Sheikh Mohammed the Haji came in to tell us that we were welcome visitors to any Bedouin camp. He drank three glasses of sweet tea and three gulps, asked in a mysterious whisper for a cigarette, hastily put the whole packet into his sleeve, and demanded that I should repeat suras from the Quran to him. I did so to the best of my ability, and he was much impressed. We meant to sleep in the afternoon, but the unsuspecting said had most kindly ordered his slaves to perform a dance in our honor. So about three p.m. the sound of drums was heard outside our blind walls. Ali summoned us forth in great excitement. We sat on two chairs before our door, and gradually the whole male population of Jeddabia gathered round us, row upon row of the shrouded white figures crouching on the sand. In an irregular circle, round a couple of high drums, danced the black Sudanese slaves from Wadi, bought to the market at Khufara, presents from native potentates to the Sinusi family, or children of slaves set by the famous Ali Dinar, Sultan of Darfur. Slavery in the East is a kindly institution, quite unlike the horrors of Uncle Tom's cabin. The blacks are treated as part of the family, they are proud of their masters and devoted to them. They are trusted and confidential. Thus Ali came to us one evening in honest grief. That Mustafa is a bad man, he said. He goes to the house of the doctor and says he has not had enough to eat here. It is not true. The sehid is generous. There is everything here. It is not good for the sehid's honor that such things should be said. The blacks enjoyed the dance even more than we did. For we had just heard that, through too much ardor on the part of our allies, there was likely to be a hitch in the arrangements. The long-delayed camels for the caravan had arrived at last. The soldiers had come in from Zutina. We had better all start together at midnight, said our confident triumphantly. Anyone who knows the East will realize how difficult it is for even two or three people to slip away secretly. Everyone's business is known from A to Z. Projects are discussed in the bazaars while they are still formless in the brain of the plotter. The idea that a score of camels and a dozen soldiers with luggage, tents, stores, guides, etc., could start secretly from Jettabia was ludicrous. Already there was a rumor in the souk that we were going to Kufara because of the unfortunate suggestion that we should accompany the caravan for a day or two. Therefore, even while we gazed at the gyrating circle of blacks who flung themselves into extravagant postures, chanting their monotonous songs and clicking together short sticks, we had sent post-haze to rearrange matters. News was brought to us that the delightful cavalry officer from Zutina had arrived two days before he was expected. I think I will go and have tea at the doctors, I said firmly to Hassanine. I will stay with them there for two hours, which will give you plenty of time to get the caravan postponed. The spies were as clinging as limpets that day. Mabruch lent over my shoulder as I spoke, pointing to the wildest dancer with a forced smile. However, I was determined to spoil his little effort and insisted that he and Mustafa should accompany me on my walk. I don't like going through all these people alone, I said, and reluctantly they had to come with me. Our last game of cross-purposes will always remain in my mind, for with one eye on the clock I summoned every atom of intelligence to my aid. I allowed myself to be reluctantly persuaded to return my cameon to Benghazi the following week. I asked reproachfully why no equan could be found to accompany me on a little caravan tour. They assured me that none was willing to travel with a Christian, and that no one of that faith could journey beyond Jadabiya. I took up and emphasized this point for some time, as it would eventually preclude their attempting to follow us. I allowed my bitter disappointment to be seen, was comforted, and finally cheered up with a promise of visiting all the encampments on the way back. We parted the best of friends, and I shall always retain a grateful memory of their kindness and care. So often we longed to confide all our plans to them. We were sure of their sympathy, but their very hospitality would have made it impossible for them to allow their erstwhile guest to venture her life on such a wild and dangerous journey. Six months before I had talked to an Arabian emir about my project. Heya, Maguna, he exclaimed to his wakil, she is mad. If she could get to Kavara, she could get to any place in heaven or earth. Thus we knew from the beginning that we must hide our object from our generous Italian friends. If they hadn't thought that at least Hassanine had some political aim in coming to Jadabiya, remorse would probably have added to our mental troubles. But luckily the fact that they were obviously watching us turned the affair into a game, and justified us in having a few secrets also. If my charming hosts in Sireneika read this book, I think they will forgive me for the part their own kindness and forethought forced me to play most unwillingly. They are all sportsmen. They too are travelers and lovers of the great desert. They lay the foundations of my journey by their long years of work in North Africa. They will reap the benefit when the friendship between European and Senucius firmly cemented and the Bedouins welcome the influx of commerce and exploration from over the sea. I returned at 7 p.m. to our walled Arab house, but the Fantasia was still continuing. The gift of our last packet of cigarettes had stimulated the performers to frenzy, and they were prepared to spend the night in an orgy of dance and song. Ordinarily I should have loved watching their barbaric vigor, and I was exceedingly grateful to the ever-thoughtful Seid for giving this festae in our honor. But we still had a good many preparations to make, so we regretfully thanked the performers and despatched them to their homes. After a hasty meal, Asinine went off to make final preparations concerning changing our Italian notes into heavy silver megeties, the cumbersome coin of the country, buying bread and eggs, collecting the native dress, and a dozen other things that had to be done at the very last moment for fear of arousing suspicion. I wrote a note to our Italian interpreter, who had also proved guide, philosopher, and friend, explaining that I was not to be entirely deprived of my desert journey after all. For at the last moment I was able to accompany an equan who was traveling to an encampment a day or two away. I then made relays of green tea in an inadequate kettle, and filled both our thermos flasks all for the water-bottles. It was then nearly nine p.m., at which hour Asinine had said he would return. But the minutes dragged on and there was no sign of his coming. At ten I became anxious, I couldn't lie still any more, and began walking up and down the big room by the light of one candle guttering on the window-edge. A Lee came to me to ask if he and the servant, who was also a spy, could go home. I said he must stay until Hasinine Bay return, for I did not want to give the boy an opportunity of inquiring into my companion's designs. But each hour that went by made our flight more and more difficult. For we could not begin to pack beds, luggage, etc. till the house was empty. At eleven I was nearly frantic. I don't think I have ever spent the worst two hours. I began to wonder whether the spies had discovered our plot, and, deciding to frustrate it at all costs, had arranged to have my ally knock senseless as he crossed the wide expanse of white sandstone between our house and the scattered buildings of Jettabia. At eleven thirty, as I was preparing to set forth in search, and was actually winding myself into the intricacies of a jurid so as to pass unnoticed in the dark, Hasinine arrived, staggering beneath the megeties, for a very moderate sum in that coinage weighs intolerably. He discharged eggs, bread, and clothing in a heap, and explained that the usual Arab dilatoriness had delayed him. The letters to sheiks of Zawis were not ready, the eggs were not cooked, the clothes were not quite finished. However, we didn't wait for much talk. We sent off the servants with minute instructions about tomorrow's work. An Arab spy is clever in some ways, but he never looks ahead, so it is generally fairly easy to lull his suspicions. The instant the door shut behind them, we literally flung ourselves on the luggage. We wrestled first with the beds and fleabags, stuffing them into all sacks that look like native bundles. The tent had to be disposed of in the same way. Its poles tied up with a red prayer rug, its canvas disguised in native wrappings. Not one single bit of European luggage must be visible. My suitcase was already packed, and it was but a minute's work to push it into a striped flower sack. But my heart sank when I saw Hasinine's room. It was still littered with what he called necessities. We packed and pushed and tugged at his bundles, getting frantically hot and tired, but always what we had was superhuman effort, triumphantly strapped up a bulging roll. A minute later he would remember something he absolutely must put in and want the thing undone. When but half an hour was left before our departure was due, I became desperate and took matters into my own hands. I packed the food into one napsack, the necessities I divided into two others. I shut his suitcase firmly on the most useful articles I could collect from the chaos. I stood over him equally firmly while I put Macintoshes with fleece linings, rugs, and extra-native dress into the bedding. I pulled the straps to a tighter hole myself before scurrying off the dress. Let no one think it is easy to get into bed-o and feminine attire for the first time. The tight white trousers presented difficulties over riding breeches. The red tov was too tight at the neck. The barricade needed much adjustment. One in flaps loose over the head, which is already swabbed in a tight black handkerchief hiding all the hair, while the other is wound twice around in the form of a skirt that comes up over the left shoulder to make the front bit of the bodice. It is all held in place by a thick red woolen hezam. At least twelve feet in length, which is wound round and round till one's waist resembles a mummy and is tied on one side with dangling ends. Under this I wore my revolver belt with two fully loaded colts and a prismatic compass in a case. Glancing around my room as I put on my huge yellow heelless slippers, I decided it looked a very realistic picture of the abode left temporarily and in haste. My cherries blue-tweed hung on one hook and a rose-red sweater on another. A few books and papers with a hot water bottle and some stockings were scattered on convenient chairs. The cases and sacks of stone stood formally around the walls. A bottle of complexion lotion was prominent on a shelf and my European shoes were in their usual robe. With a sigh of relief I dragged the sack containing my suitcase to join the disguised camp outfit by the main door and blowing out the candle in my room closed the door for the last time. My cheerfulness rapidly evaporated when I crossed the court to Hassanine's room. The litter was inconceivable. Everything that we had shut twenty minutes ago was open. He himself with ruffled wild hair was still in shirt and riding breeches. To a casual observer he appeared to be playing a game of leap frog with various bundles in which the objects seemed to be to upset as many things as possible. You have exactly six minutes in which to get ready, I said, in an awful voice. A chair fell with a crash, breaking an Oda cologne bottle and sending a mass of little tubes, bottles, and boxes rolling to my feet. Thereafter followed ten minutes best American hustle. In spite of feeling like a swathed Chinese infant in my cumbersome dress, I attacked that room with a personal venom that surely had effect even on inanimate things for the suitcase shut almost unprotestingly on a huddled mass in which the parcels of megeties stuck out like Mount Everest. I don't know what I said. I imagined at the time it was quite unforgivable, but Hassanine is the most good tempered person in the world. He submitted to being pushed and pulled into the white garments he had to wear over his European riding-kit, voluminous white pantalons, long flowing shirt, and wool-enjured. I believe I banged a white kufia on his head and flung an agilatic before rushing from the room to take up my position behind the main door with a tiny dark lantern which revealed the piles of corpulent sacks. When, a few minutes later, a stately white figure with flowing lines unbroken, saved by the crossed revolver belts, true son of a sheik of the famous Azar University, joined me, I could hardly recognize in this solemn Arab the wild individual who was playing at hay-making a few minutes before. Of course our fellow plotters were late. We waited nearly an hour crouched on the sacks while the only thing that broke the silence of the desert night was the braying of a donkey near the sooth. At about 1.45 we heard the faint roar of protesting camels and our pulses quickened. Some ten minutes later stealthy footsteps approached. There was a light scratch on the door and the operation of the previous night was successfully repeated. Only this time we had another quarter of an hour of suspense after the porters went forth with the first sacks before they could return for the last. Our confidant leaned against the door, motionless and calm, looking at the starlight sky. Bah-hee, he murmured as the mysterious figures reappeared. The only word he had uttered the whole time. Shouldering knapsack, water bottle, thermos flask, and Kodak, I stumbled out of the dark passage into the moonless night. A strong cold wind met me and I wondered, shivering, why a Bedouin woman does not freeze to death. I've never seen them wear anything but a cotton barricade. And while I limped across the open white sands, for the camels were hidden some three hundred yards away near the rough cemetery that surrounds the deserted war-bit of Sidi Hassan, I felt that I wanted an overcoat even more than I wanted to go to Kufara. Nevertheless, it was freedom at last and excitement thrilled us. There was a moment's pause on the part of our puzzle guide when an absolute blackness on all sides gave no hint of direction. Then a muffled roar told us that a camel was on our left and the smothered sound of it suggested that someone was probably sitting on its head. A moment more and a dark mass loomed up beside a broken wall. Thankfully I subsided on a heap of stones. It is not the slightest use arguing with a camel driver about a load. It is a waste of energy to try to hurry him. He is used to weighing burdens minutely, to arranging them slowly to his own satisfaction. So I was prepared for an hour's wait while our retinue-cut rope made corners to the sacks with stones, discussed loads, lost camels, caught them again, and were generally inefficient. I was genuinely surprised, therefore, when in only twenty minutes everything was noiselessly packed and the camels were ready to start. Yusuf Elhamri and Mohamed Qemish, our two confidential servants, were introduced to me in the dark and we exchanged a few florid sentences in which the word mazboot and momnen played a large part. Then I hoisted myself on to my camel, a huge blonde beast with no proper saddle. A spike stuck up in front of me and behind and his hump was painfully evident between the rolled straw of the baggage-surg. On the top were a-folded a couple of native mats and thereon I perched in my uncomfortable, closely wound clothes, which made mounting a matter of peril and difficulty. In spite of all this, when my great beast rose to his stately height and moved off into the night, exhilaration rushed over me. I hadn't been on a camel for three months and then on the beautiful trotting hajjain of the Sudan. This was only a fine baggage-hamla, but he was in keeping with the desert and the night in our wild impossible project. I was happy. Also it was a wonderful start. Sir Richard Burton wisely writes that the African traveler must always be prepared for three starts, the long one, the short one, and the real one. Later we realized how right he was, but for the moment as our little line of camels swayed off into the darkness beyond the white morbid, we only felt that we had escaped. How amazing that they can find their way and pitch darkness like this, I exclaimed, and only when Orion had appeared in four different directions did I begin to wonder whether they could. We had started just before three striking a northerly course which surprised us, as we knew that Aujala lay to the south. We comforted ourselves with the idea that our guides were purposely avoiding the main track, and patiently we bore the icy wind in constant change of direction. When after an hour we turned completely round, we decided it was necessary to expostulate. Yusuf, on being shown a luminous compass, refused to believe that the north was where the needle directed. We pointed out the extraordinary movement of the stars and he remained unconvinced. He looked pathetically at the heavens and asked persistently for Jedi, the star that had guided him, apparently in many wanderings over half Africa. Unfortunately we could not find her for him, though we pointed out most of the constellations from the Great Bear to the Milky Way. We continued our aimless progress for another hour. As we were merely describing irregular circles, we were not surprised when a little before five, a chorus of dogs barking proclaimed our nearness to Jeddabiya. It is an encampment, said Yusuf. I know where we are now, and at that moment the donkey in the suit braided quite close to us. I couldn't help laughing. In a few minutes our desperate midnight flight would land us before the doors of the house from which we had escaped so triumphantly three hours earlier. The distressed Yusuf, inexplicably bereft of his tame star, was all for camping there and then to await the dawn. But lest the rising sun should reveal to the astonished eyes of the early Astur, a disheveled party of sleep on the space before the mosque, I firmly took command. By the compass I marched him due south of the donkey's bray for half an hour. At least we should be out of sight at dawn and could then start off on the right track. The winds seemed colder than ever as we barriced our camels in a flat sandy waist. We were frozen and shelterless. Excitement, suspense, and physical labor had all combined to wear us out. My foot was swollen and inflamed after its unusual exercise. Hassanine had rheumatism in his back. There was an hour to wait for the dawn. I doubt if a more miserable couple existed than the two who rolled themselves into the thin and dirty camel rugs and lay down on the hard sand, their heads on tufts of spiky grass. I did not sleep. It was too cold. The winds searched out every corner of my aching body. I began to feel the strain of our sleepless nights and days of suspense. Even my sense of humor had gone. It was five weeks since we had left England and we had got no further than a sand heap outside Jeddabia. At six a flush of pale pink appeared in the sky in a direction which amazed Yusuf. Shivering, with chattering teeth, we rose to a windy dawn. Muhammad was already murmuring, al-Ahu Akbar, devoutly turning toward the qiblah at Mecca. We followed his example, a blooting in the sand as it's permissible when there is no water. Luckily, it is only necessary to go through the fatha and the requisite rakwa at. The kneeling position hurt my foot excruciatingly and I could hardly get it into my huge yellow shoe again. The men bestirred themselves to some purpose. Five minutes after the last, Salamu alaykum wa Ramatala had saluted the angels who stand on either side to record a man's good and bad deeds. The camels were loaded and we were moving away from the white qwaba of Sidiousan and the scattered mud houses which appeared but a stone's throw distant. There had been no time to eat. I tried to force a hard-boiled egg down my throat as I swayed along, but I could not manage it. Hasanain was doubled up with rheumatism and I tried every possible position to ease my foot. My hands were numb as I clutched the gaudi barakan, red, blue, and orange round me, and prayed for the sun to warm me. Every few minutes we turned around to see if Jeddabiya had disappeared, but it must stand on a slight rise as the morbid was visible for three hours. Distance is elusive in the desert. Everything looks much nearer than it really is. One sees the palms of an oasis early in the morning, plans to arrive before midday and as lucky if one reaches it by sunset. However, by ten thirty every sign of human habitation had disappeared and only a flat, sandy plain, tufted with coarse gray brush a few inches to a foot high, lay all around us. Thankfully we halted, turned the camels to grays, spread the scarlet, woven rugs in the sun, and prepared to eat. Further trouble threatened when we discovered that our retinue, Yusuf, Muhammad, and two coal-black Sudanese soldiers, had brought no provisions of any sort. They had trusted either to us or to joining the southbound caravan within a few hours. Consternation seized us. In order to travel light, we had brought what we considered the least possible amount of food necessary for two people for a week, that is, one tin of meat per day with a very small ration of flour, rice, dates, and tea. How were we going to feed six people for perhaps a fortnight on it? At the moment we were too tired to think. We doled out to the retinue, rice, tea, and most of the hard-boiled eggs intended for ourselves, and, after the frugal meal, insisted on immediate departure. There was a great deal of grumbling. They were all tired and they wanted to sleep there and then. The blacks were openly rebellious. We are not your slaves, they said. We will not overtire ourselves. However, by force of sarcasm, encouragement, and laughter, we got them to load the camels. In Libya they do not girth the baggage-saddles at all. They merely balance the bales evenly according to weight on either side of a straw-pad round the hump. Thus, if the camel stumbles badly or is frightened and runs a few paces, the luggage overbalances and crashes to the ground, generally terrifying the beast into a mad gallop. I suppose ours were carelessly loaded, for the tent dropped off three times and tempers grew sulky. About one we came to a small cluster of camel's hair tents in the shelter of a slight rise, and the retinue clamored to stop there for the night. The Arab is greedy my nature, while the Sudanese is positively voracious. At one meal he will devour what would support a European family for a day. Having seen our meager provisions, the retinue thought they would get a better dinner in these better intents. They protested and argued violently, but we were ruthless. There was fear of pursuit and of being recognized. Yusuf joined his hands in prayer. We will say that you are the wife of an equan, he said, and that we are taking you to Jalo. But he pleaded in vain. We moved on and they followed, perforce, surly, bronzed Bedouins and coarse-woolern jerds, rifles slung across their backs. The impressions cherished since childhood are gradually disappearing from my mind. One hears so often of the untiring endurance of the Bedouin and of his frugal fare. I used to believe that he could ride for days without sleep and live on a few dates or locusts. He may be able to do the latter if he is absolutely obliged to, but normally his appetite is large and his amiability depends on his food. With regard to his endurance I have met some Turegs who had accomplished some amazingly swift rides. But in the French Sahara, in Syria or in Libya, as in Sudan, I have never found an Arab who did not want to camp several hours before I did. North of Toghurt I once had a delightful guide called Ali, a blue-eyed, ruddy-haired Tureg, who must have had vandal blood in his veins, and he used to get positively haggard after a nine-hours ride without a pause. After two-thirty we could not urge our retinue farther. It was obvious that they were very tired. But it is doubtful if they were as exhausted as we were, for we had worked very hard the preceding day and night while they were fiddling in the souk. However, use of seas my camel reign. This is a good place. We must rest, he said. And it was no use exasperating them. We had ridden for six hours. A camel does a regular two-and-a-half miles an hour, so we imagined ourselves about fifteen miles from Jeddabiyah and safe from pursuit. Almost before we had got the sacks off the camels, Mohammed had rolled himself in his jurid and was actually asleep. Use of helped us half-heartedly while we struggled to put up the tent, that we unrolled bedding, put down ground sheets, doled out provisions, fitted the camp beds together ourselves. The Sudanese collected brushwood, yawning violently and infinitely wearily. We boiled tea and drank it sugarless, for the retinue had the usual Arab passion for sugar. I looked at myself once in a tiny hand-glass, and was thankful to put it down, for I hardly recognized the begrind and haggard visage, yellow, sunburnt and lined, that peered out under the heavy black handkerchief between the folds of the barricade. A gale rose suddenly, and it nearly swept our tent away. We did not mind. We slept fitfully, woke to cook rice on a brushwood fire, and went to bed about six p.m. with the thankfulness too deep for words. Feather mattresses, frill pillows, Chippendale or Louis 15th beds all have their charms, but I have never been so grateful for any as I was that night for my flea-bag and my air-cushion. At six next morning, use of woke us with a cry of el-fogger, and after the usual prayers we set to work to break camp. We informed the retinue that we intended to reach Wadi Farag in its well that day, and therefore they must not count on a midday halt. Consequently they insisted on making a fire and cooking half our week's rations straight away. We started at 8 a.m. and continued a south-easterly, southerly course all day. Wadi Farag is only sixty kilometers from Jeddabia, but I imagine our first day we must have made a detour in order to avoid the main route, for it was not till two o'clock on the second day that a mirage on the horizon, a sheet of silver water bordered with purple mountains, proclaimed the position of the Wadi. It is bad, bad, said Muhammad. We cannot reach it before sunset. Let us rest now. This time, however, we would not stop. We had shared our flasks of tea and our dates evenly with him at noon, and we felt that after a good night's sleep, if we could ride nine hours on end, they could too. It was an absolutely perfect day, cloudless and still, but the sun was very hot at noon. It scorched through the thin folds of my barricade and made one wonder why Europe, and not Africa, invented parasols. The character of the country remained unchanged, always the same sandy scrub stretched away as far as the eye could see. Occasional gerboas or lizards scuttered into their holes as we approached. Once a dozen gazelle fled swiftly across our path. Muhammad tried a shot at them, but he was too slow. Another time we passed a large rabbit war, and a couple of white scuts disappeared into the labyrinth of holes. We struck a main track about noon, and I noticed a sage bush covered with bits of different colored threads. It appears that every wayfarer adds a piece of cotton or wool from this attire to show that this is a desert road and that caravans pass that way. Yusuf contributed a white thread from his girdle, and I a red one from my long hezam. All that day we met only two travelers. I discreetly covered my face while they exchanged greetings with our retinue. The desert telephone was at work again. They brought news from Jalo which they exchanged for tales of Jadabia. They were not interested in us. Mrs. Forbes had disappeared into space, and in her place was a Muhammadan woman called Karajah, traveling with a kinsman, an Egyptian bay, son of a sheik el-Azhar. She wore bedouin clothes, followed their customs, prayed to their god, lived their life. Her language was certainly different, but the Arabic varies so immensely between Baghdad and Marrakesh that my faltering conversation was attributed to my being accustomed only to the classical language. Even Hassanine could hardly understand a dialect used by the Libyan Bedouins. It is not a case of accent or pronunciation. Nearly all the words are different. I cannot imagine why Wadi Farag is marked on the map as a vivid green splash across the colorless desert. The slight depression running due east and west between the two faint ridges about fifteen meters high varies in no respect from the surrounding country. No blade of grass or green thing decorates it. Nothing breaks the monotonous sand and gray brushwood except the one well of bitter, brackish water. We arrived just as the sun was setting and had difficulty in getting the camels past the well in order to camp on the higher ground beyond. Hassanine was riding on a nervous naga, or female, who never kept her head in one direction for more than a minute or two. She now decided to race for the well while a playful companion kicked off a bale or two, upset the balance of the rest, cut her foot in a falling sack, and tore wildly away scattering her load to the winds. My stately beast was in an amorous mood, so with guttural gurglings he added himself to the general melee. I had to dismount and limp up to the rise, dragging him forcibly after me while the men collected our belongings and reloaded them. It was a race with the sun, but we just won it. As the last crimson glow faded in the radiant west and the devout Mohammed lifted a sandy nose from his ablutions, the last tent peg was driven in. Brush fires gleamed on the rise opposite, for wherever there is a desert well there are a few scattered tents of the nomads whose homes move with the season in the pasture. We made a flaming pyre and sat round it in a circle of pack-saddles. Yusuf had found his beloved Jedi and he pointed her out to me triumphantly, the pole-star. The silence of the desert encircled us, and a faint scent of thyme stole up from the cold sand. Faraj, both the black Sudanese were called Faraj, began intoning verses of the Quran, a melodious sound in the starlet night. Then, surprised by his own song, he suddenly sprang to his feet enchanted loudly, triumphantly, the Muzaïns called to prayer. Alahu akbar, alahu akbar, hashadu ila ilaha ilalalah, wahashhadu inamohamedan rasul ala. The shi'hada rolled splendidly, intolerant from his lips, and his voice rose higher on the cry, haia alasala, haia alafela, till we all took up the chorus of alahu akbar, alahu akbar. As I undressed in the hareen portion of the tent, which had enormously impressed our retinue, I pondered on the character of these men with whom we were to live in familiar intercourse for months. Apart from their fierce fanaticism, which made it a duty for them to kill the infidel in the Nasrani as we killed dangerous and pestilential vermin, they had the simplicity of children. I felt that our blacks would steal all our food one day if they happen to be hungry, and defend us most gallantly the next. They are utterly unable to provide for the Marul. Their trust in Allah is of the blind kind that does not try to help itself. Yet the Quran says, Allah works with him who works. Again and again we told them about the scarcity of food. We showed them the pathetic limit of our provisions. They said, The caravan will come to Marul, inshallah. Knowing the delatory habits of the East, I had very little faith in the arrival of that caravan for at least a week. But we agreed to their persistent request to camp for two days at the Wadi to give it a chance of joining us. If it did not arrive on the evening of the eleventh, bringing with it all our provisions, we should have to send back the two blacks and continue post-haste to Ajwela with Yusuf and Muhammad. With that intent we put into one sack the smallest quantity of food for four people for five days, that is, a tin of meat or sardines per person per day, with coffee and dates. When this was done we were horrified at the little that remained. The blacks wanted to bake great flat loaves of unleavened bread morning and evening, and we had so very little flour. I began to realize that if the caravan did not arrive we should die of exhaustion on the way to Ajwela. Let us once lose the way, let us storm Delaus, let the retinue prove unreliable and insist on eating more than the days meager ration, and we should be lost. Yet we were determined on one thing only, not to go back. In any case we have the peace and quiet of the desert, I thought, as I went to sleep and woke a few hours later to pandemonium indescribable. I've heard the roar of an uncaged lion in Rhodesia, but never before had I heard such mad bellows of rage as made the night hideous. The camels have gone mad, I gassed, as I flung myself out of the tent. Thunder of sound broke from a heaving black mass only a few yards from our canvas walls. Shouts came from Yusuf and Muhammad, who seemed to be aimlessly dancing around the wildly excited beasts. Then the mass crashed, roaring to its feet, and two camels dashed madly past me, missing the tent by a foot. I found Asinayn only half awake at my elbow. What are they doing, he said blankly, in the spring the camels fancy lightly turned to thoughts of love. But it isn't the spring, he objected drowsily. Never mind. God, they're coming back. We retreated hastily from the tent. In Syria I had seen a maddened beast go right through a tent in such a mood, and the vision of the crushed poles and canvas, intricately mixed up with shattered baggage in an absolutely flattened camp bed, flashed across me. I took up a strategic position in the open, but the bellowing brooch staggered away again, their roars mercifully fading in the distance. Is this likely to happen often, I asked Yusuf. Yes, when it is cold, he answered indifferently. Two things increase in winter, the camels and the sea. We enjoyed the rare luxury of sleeping late next morning, and we woke to another gorgeous day. The water from the well was almost undrinkable, and it was so salt and muddy. But we washed in it triumphantly. Unfortunately, Asinayn was tempted to wash his hair, with the odd result that it thereafter stood up like a tuft of coarse ostrich feathers. Everything dries appallingly in the desert. One skin is cracked and lined after a few days, one's nails break, one's hair dries and becomes brittle, yet one does not mind. The desert has a subtle and a cruel charm. She destroys while she enthralls. She is the siren from whom there is no escape. The Astakli, whom I met years ago and bewail, writes in one of her vivid stories of African life that once the desert has stuck her claw into a man. He must return to her, for only she can heal the wounds she has made. The preceding night the wadi had been empty. That morning it was crowded. Half-naked brown figures hauled water for a great herd of camels who crushed round the low mud walls of the well. A flock of sheep waited their turn at a short distance. More camels strayed slowly down the rise, grazing as they walked. Some white figures came up to greet us, rifles slung across their backs. They were the dwellers of the Nugas whose fires we had seen the night before. The desert wires had informed them of our imminent arrival before we had left Jettabia. They sat around our brushwood fire and drank tea sweetened with crushed dates as the sugar had run out. Hoss and I left them to faddle with our retinue and went and sat on a sand hill and dreamed visions of the caravan that would end all our troubles coming over the rise opposite. Instead we saw only forage go down the wadi to buy bitter camels milk and date pulp, highly flavored with sand from the Nugga-man. When the sunset died the land to crimson glory we returned to our camp frantically hungry for we had eaten nothing since eight a.m. and then only rice and tin vegetables because the latter were disliked by our retinue. The two blacks were playing drops on the sands with white shells and camel-dung. Faddle urged the Mohammed, smiling, Faddle, do not live always alone, said Yusuf, mix with us a little. We shall not forget who is master. From this I knew that Hoss and I had won another of his personal victories, yet a wonderful way of gaining the confidence and the sympathy of Arabs from the Seads down to the fanatical Bedouin. The mental atmosphere of our retinue had been most unpropitious during the first two days. We realized that our journey would be almost an impossibility unless it changed, but wisely Hoss and I would not hurry matters. A word dropped here and there, a swift rebuke or a warm praise, hinted sympathy with the Sinousie Ames, tales of old friendship with the Seads, little counsels of war in the outer tent had all borne fruit. We felt the effect that night as we toasted ourselves before the fire. Watching Faraj knead his heavy bread and cook it on the ashes. When it was baked, he pressed some on us with a broad toothless smile. It was hot, heavy, and indigestible, but wholly delicious with our corned beef. Only the cocoa was a failure, as the water was terribly salt. I settled myself into the double woollen flaps of my fleabag that night with a great sense of peace. The thermometer had soared up at midday, but the nights were always chilly, and we were extremely grateful for our rain-proof sleeping sacks sprinkled with insect powder, which by the way had no effect, whatever, on the fleas. The third morning in Jedabia I had spent a happy half-hour chasing agile insects around my bedding. Hassanine entered with breakfast at my most heated moment, when I thought I had cornered the largest, a sweet smile sped over his face. There are dozens and dozens in my room, he said, but it doesn't matter. At least I have found the use for my target pistol. Don't ever laugh at me again for useless baggage. I thought of this as I heard a bed upset on the other side of the partition, but this time it was only a delicious little field-mouse scurrying wildly around in search of a hole which was probably somewhere under our ground sheet. A little later I heard the coran in tone verse by verse, and to its monotonous murmur I fell asleep, wondering at the desert spell which had changed the Oxford blue into a typical Bedouin, devout as the fanatic whose prayers rose five times a day to Allah, aloof as the nomad whose wishful eyes are ever on a desert horizon, impenetrable as the jurid which muffled him from head to foot. December 7th provided us with a gibli, a strong south wind laden with sand which nearly tore up our tent pegs and covered everything with a thick yellow coating. It was a most unpleasant day. Hair, eyes, and skin were full of sand. Everything we ate was flavored with it. The dust sheet was three inches deep in it. It oozed from the pillows and from every article of clothing. It penetrated every box and bag. The noise of flapping canvas and cracking pegs was a continual strain, and in the middle of it arrived a messenger from Jadabia, burying a letter from Benghazi which our opponents had sent on with an amused message written on the back. I think the French emanated from the cavalry officer with a sense of humor. From the beginning he may have suspected our whole project, but a noted fencer he was as clever with words as with the foils. However, we knew that a messenger who confessed that he had been told to follow us even unto Jalo would not be sent merely to bring us an unimportant letter. He was intended to find out our destination for certain. So we thought he had better wait with us until the caravan arrived or until we ourselves left for Jalo. Faraj amused us immensely for having got it into his head that the man was a spy. He wanted to shoot him at once. It took a good deal of persuasion on our parts to prevent this bloodthirsty deed. The Seyed told me to protect you. If I do not kill this man the Seyed will surely kill me, he said morosely. We comforted him by telling him to watch the man did not escape, but not to hurt him. Yet when Hassanine was asleep that afternoon, and I heard the click of a rifle lock, I rushed frantically to see that the man was safe. He too had come without any food. The improvidence of the race had begun to anger me. Should manna fall from heaven I believe they would eat their fill and pick up none for the moral. We broke the news to the retinue that we should have to leave the blacks at the nougats to wait for the caravan and to hurry it up when it finally arrived, and ourselves go on to our jail by forced marches. We told them we would start early and ride ten or eleven hours a day, pitch no tent to save labor, share our food evenly with them, but they must expect to be very hungry for four or five days. There was a good deal of protest because they looked with simple faith to the caravan, and they could not realize that if we waited four days and it had not arrived, starvation would drive us back to Jettabia. The form of protest showed, however, how well things were going. They now looked upon us as their friends. The arrival of the spy had made a bond between us. We knew that you were hurt by the coming of that man, they said, but you are safe with us. It is our honor too. We tried to explain the difficulty about food, and Mohamed suddenly showed the fine clay he was made of. I have felt ashamed, he said, that we have taken your food for three days, that we have asked you for sugar when you have none. I would have liked to share my food with you, as is our habit, but we were ordered to come with you at the last moment. We asked if we might visit our homes. No, we were told. The caravan will follow with all things needful. It is not our fault, but we feel it deeply that you are depriving yourselves for us. This is the loyal spirit that lies at the heart of every Bedouin. Greedy for food he may be, and the stranger with gold is not safe with him, but once you are his friend he will never betray you. These men were beginning to realize our sympathy for their race, our love for their customs and country. They had eaten our bread and salt, we had shared all we had with them, and we had taken them wholly into our confidence. We were guests of their Lord, the Holy One, the blessed of Allah. We were friends of their blood and religion. The Italians should not get us back. They swore to protect us as their own families. We had won another fight. We will find food somehow in the Nugas, said Yusuf. No Arab starves in the desert. We showed them a simple letter of greeting from C.D. Idris. They almost prostrated themselves to kiss the sacred writing. This was the same ungrudging loyalty that we had witnessed among the humble Agwajir whose tents we had visited between Solaq and Gabayn's. Their lives belonged to the Seyed. Therefore they were at our disposal. Their courage and faith were undaunted because they were the essence of simplicity. Surely the glories of a race which can give its all so ungrudgingly cannot be entirely in the past. The great history of Omar, of Ibn Nebul Musa, of Harun El Rashid and Saladin may yet be repeated. There are leaders who understand the heart of their people. But perchance they only know that they have power without knowing how they can use it. It has ever been the policy of European nations to break up the Arab races, to create discord among their princes, to induce their chiefs to oppose one another. Is it not a short-sighted policy and due of the widespread unrest in Europe today? Our Western empires and kingdoms are large enough. Concentration and not expansion should be our program. In the days of Mohammed Ben Ali a caravan under his protection could pass safely from Tripoli to Wadi. All the great caravan routes were open for commerce and trade. How many are open today? Strengthen the hand of the native ruler with all the prestige of European support, and he will be responsible for the opening up of his country for the safe conduct of travelers, for the friendly intercourse that will allow grain and hides and dates and tea to cross the age-old desert routes. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 The Secret of the Sahara Kufara by Rosita Forbes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 Across the Desert with She-ib All that day we sat inside the tent amidst blinding sand. It was in vain that we shut every curtain and flap. The whirling dust penetrated as if by magic. We abstained from lunch in order to save food, and the only break in the monotony of removing continual layers of sand from faces and notebooks was when a peg cracked under the strain and one side of the tent flew up with a scream of flapping canvas, tearing up half a dozen pegs with it. We used to go out half blinded by the force of the Ghibli, and knock them in again and take the opportunity of scanning the distant rise for the prayed-for caravan. Once we counted eighteen camels coming over the brow and hope rose high. But alas, they were only grazing. "'Alla will send this solution to the problem,' said Muhammad simply, and he was right. For towards evening when the wind had dropped considerably and we had gone down to the wadi to buy camel's milk, which I love, but which Asinine found too bitter, a small caravan of eight camels laden with luggage for jallow accompanied by a half a dozen mojabras returning to their homes after a shopping expedition in Jeddabiyah came down the rise. The situation changed at once. These men brought much news from the Bilad village we had left four days before. They knew all about our caravan. Inshallah, it will arrive in a day or two. When we left, the men were buying their sugar and their jerds. "'But how is it you have come so far? Other people expect you to be waiting just outside Jeddabiyah.' They said to us, If you meet them, treat them well for our sakes, and the honour that you do them will be as if you had done it to us.' We told them about the spy. "'He is one of our tribe,' they said, sadly. It is a shame that he has set one foot outside the Bilad on this errand. When we return to Jeddabiyah we will surely spit upon him, meaning to us now that we may take him on to Jallah with us. We thought, however, that the man would probably be safer with us. It is a desert custom that when a caravan arrives at nightfall to find another encamp before it, the first arrivals give dinner to the latecomers. We were unable to do this because we had no food, so we could send only apologies and greetings. Just as we had finished our meager supper of corn, beef, and rice, a messenger arrived from the hospitable Mojabras bearing two immense basins of barley grain cooked with native butter and pepper, with great cakes of hard sugar and actually a teapot. The joy with which we ate this savoury mess can hardly be described, and our retinue made relays of strong bitter tea halfway into the night. There was much visiting between the encampment and a chorus of Cahf Halleck, How Are You, and Teyib, well, sounded constantly. If two caravans meet, coming from Jalo and Jeda Bia, respectively, the former exchanges dates for the latter's tea and sugar. If any traveller reaches a camp at night, he is freely given food and tea in a rug by the brushwood fire. Desert hospitality is amazing. Food and drink are always offered. We were never allowed to buy camel's milk. It was always given. For were we not nomads like the desert men themselves? One never passes a fire with two or three white-robed figures clustered round it, without being asked to sit down with them by the one expressive word, foddle. It is customary to say, Keef Halleck, at least a half a dozen times to each individual, though the reply is always the same. Teyib. That night, as we sat around a fire with a cold wind freezing at our backs, yet feeling happily satiated after our barley meal, the retinue became rhetorical in its expressions of fidelity. The caravan had told him that a motor had arrived from Zutina the day after our flight, and the town had instantly jumped to the conclusion that it was to take us back forcibly. We were assured that the whole sympathy of Jeda Bia was with us, that our opponents were very angry at our escape, but could do nothing because they themselves have recommended us to the Seyed. I very much doubted this latter statement, and we determined to move on the following afternoon if the caravan did not arrive in the morning. We thought that we could get sufficient food for our men from the Mojabras and repay them at Jalo if they would not take money. I felt sorry for the spy. He evidently wished he had not meddled in the affair at all. Farad astonished us by suddenly rising to his feet, and with hands held to heaven, calling all at a witness that he would protect us to the last drop of his blood. Not even a thorn shall enter your sides, he chanted solemnly, and there was an odd hush after so mighty an oath. Naturally our spy escaped in the night. Our retinue were as unpractical as they were lazy. Therefore, when December 12th dawned, they were extremely averse to any talk of starting. We explained to them with infinite patience that in twenty-four hours our whereabouts, our plans, our intentions, our very thoughts would be known in Jeda Bia. With the faith of children they said, the caravan will come today. The ever-kindly Mojabras had sent over two more vast bowls of a flowery paste, somewhat like macaroni cooked in the same rancid butter. So thoroughly gorged, the retinue were prepared to await placidly the will of Allah. We had packed up and hauled everything out of the tent by seven a.m. At eleven there were still incessant councils around one or another of the fires. The Mojabras were determined to come with us. You are the guests of Sidi Idris, they said. Once more the holy letter was produced and kissed. We had become used to, now, its magical effect. Apparently it would produce anything but haste. The strangers acknowledged, however, that they had not enough food for all our men, meaning, of course, that they could not hope to supply large quantities three times a day. We could not hope to make them ration it out in small portions, so we wanted to leave at least one of the blacks to await the caravan and either hurry its progress or send on a swift camel with provisions. There was instant mutiny at this suggestion. The two forage refused to leave us. We have no authority over them, Muhammad said, without surprise. Their commandant would whip them, but what can we do? Further discussion seemed useless, so we went down to the wadi to buy dates from the caravan that had come from Kufara. It was an amusing instance of how news is carried in the Sahara. Before the question of dates was raised at all, we squatted solemnly in the sand opposite the merchants from the far-off oasis, and Muhammad subented to a perfect inquisition on the state of affairs in Jeddabiyah. Afterwards he propounded his list of questions. What was the price of silk, of wool, of grain, etc., in Kufara? What was the price of dates? So much peruba or so much peroka, they quoted, and for dates there is no price, they are plentiful. Who did you meet on the way? What news of such and such a family? One of their slaves has run away, or he has married another wife, and so on until all information was exhausted. We actually left our low ridge above the wadi at 130, but we had ceased to worry. The fatalism of the east had begun to grip us. We decided to put our trust in Allah and join the caravan of Shi'ib and his kinsmen, Musa Shi'ib, merchants from Jalo who had sometimes traveled to Wadi, a route that takes anything from forty-five to sixty days, with bales of cotton-stuffs, to return with ostrich feathers, ivory, camels, and hides for the markets of Kufara. We asked them how long it would take to reach Jalo, and they replied, There is no time. If you walk quickly you may arrive the fifth day. But evidently they had no intention of hurrying themselves. They were a delightful party of six men with eight heavily laden camels and one or two foals clumsily trotting alongside. We made quite an imposing caravan as we struck the track a little to the east and the camels began to march together. It was headed by old Shi'ib sitting upright on the top of great green boxes of merchandise, a rifle on his back, a huge revolver slung beside him in a scarlet holster, his ebony face half covered against the dust in the foals of his white kufya. Hassanine's brilliant kufya, orange, yellow, and emerald, made a gorgeous flash of color on another camel, and I followed huddled under the shrouding barricade, for I must not show my face to the strange caravan. Les Fait played a new card, and decided that we should wander slowly south with a mojabra merchants and learn yet another phase of bedouin life. Time forgetting and by time forgot, indifferent to the caravan of stores that might or might not be following, we drifted incredibly slowly across the vague track marked by occasional carins of stone. The aspect of the country had slightly changed since we left Awadi. It became undulating with a series of slight waves running from east to west, while the vegetation grew scantier and scantier, till finally only a few tufts of coarse-grained bush a few inches high broke the wilderness of sand. At 3 p.m. the undulating country lay behind us, and we were on an absolutely flat plain. Two specks appeared in the distance to materialize into a couple of travelers on camels. They paused to ask our news, and on hearing we were bound for Khufara, they entrusted Yusuf with a few megeties to be paid to somebody at our destination. If he did not get there himself, he was to hand the money on to another traveler. This transaction was evidently a usual one, and roused no comment. Sheib decided to camp shortly after 3, for he observed a patch of slightly thicker grazing away to the right of the track. Ten minutes after the last camel had been barren, his men had made a wonderful semicircular Zareba of the boxes and sacks, with its back to the wind. They had spread rugs and blankets to form a most comfortable shelter, and were busy making strong Arab tea. It was done with infinite swiftness and deafness, while we were still struggling with a tent in a violent north wind. The previous day the ghibli had blown with a fairly high temperature at midday. This morning the wind had been in the east, swinging round to the north in the afternoon, yet the temperature at noon had been nearly as high as on the previous day. Desert weather seems to be quite illogical. The ground was so hard that we could not drive in our tent pegs, so we half buried the camel sandals and stones and tied the ropes to them. Then we were called to try our skill at a shooting match with the Mojabras, who had set up a piece of wood at fifty yards. My neat revolvers caused interest and amusement when produced from under my huge hezham, but they were scarcely appropriate. Muhammad won the match and was loudly cheered. We had begun to feel some affection for this tall, lean, hard-featured Bedouin with his falcon's eyes and rare smile. We felt that he might prove a loyal ally, whereas the plump Yusuf, with his round face and sleeping narrow eyes, loose lips and glib tongue, only thought of getting home as soon as possible. Luckily for us, the flight from Jedabia had been interpreted to mean a political mission, and almost before we were out of sight of the town, the desert wireless proclaimed that we'd traveled on the business of Seedy Idris. After the first day it was painfully obvious to us that only some extraordinary intervention of faith would induce any one of our escort to brave the dangers of the route from Jedabia to Gufara. So we encouraged the belief in our mission by all means in our power. The Arab dearly loves a secret. Mystery is the breadth of its nostrils. Our escape at midnight, the orders given to Yusuf and Muhammad at the last moment, our frantic desire for speed, the spy who brought a letter from Jedabia in 24 hours, the large caravan, unificently fitted out by the lavish generosity of Seyed Rita, all spoke to him of an important secret to be guarded with their lives and ours. We had ceased to be the Seyed's traveling guests whose mad whim to visit the sacred city should be discouraged to all costs. We were rapidly becoming the mysterious messengers bearing sacred orders from their Lord. Soon we should all grumble together at the task that drove us forth in winter on such a journey, but we should be suffering for the work of Sidi Idris as Sunusi and, therefore, for the will of Allah. December 13 we rose at 7.30 under the impression that Shia's caravan would take advantage of the cool morning to travel. But three hours later we were still drinking tea inside the comfortable semi-circle of the merchant Sariva. Better when hospitality is always generous, but these people overwhelmed us with kindness. That morning they sent us a basket of nuts followed by glasses of bitter tea. Hassanine went across to their encampment to thank them, and they insisted on his staying. I joined them later, and the best red blanket was spread from me beside Shia. It is an erroneous impression in Europe that the veiled women of the East are ill-treated and overworked. The Koran devotes half the third surah to man's behavior toward women. Ask the Syrian woman if she would lose her veil, and she will reply, Not till men are better educated. But the better one woman only hides her face before strange men. With her own tribe she mingles freely, and the work is evenly shared. Often with a caravan I tried to hold a tent pole or knock in a peg, and I was promptly told, This is man's work. Do not tire yourself, sit karejah. Many times when old Shia saw me resting at midday he would say, The sit karejah is weary. Let us wait a little longer. On the other hand, the Muslim woman is expected to do all the work within the tent. She should cook her men folk's meal and wash the dishes afterwards. Luckily, by this time our food was so reduced that I lost no prestige by my inability to cook more than damper bread, heavy and unleavened. Tea drinking is a ceremony which may last anything from one hour to three. If one wishes to travel fast it can only be allowed at night, but the mojabras had no desire to hurry, so we lingered over the glasses while our two servants and our blacks cooked relays of tea on hot ashes. They fill half the teapot with sugar, another quarter with tea, and then pour the water on top. They taste the sweet, strong beverage half a dozen times, pouring it from one teapot to another, adding water or re-boiling it till it suits them. Then it is drunk with as much noise as possible to show appreciation. When the host thinks it is time to finish the party, he adds mint to the teapot, and the guests take the last sweet-scented cup as a sign of departure. Meanwhile, they have exchanged every form of gossip and told long, rambling tales with the flavor of the Arabian nights. Their courtesy to one another is amazing, and it is an honest courtesy that expresses itself in deeds as well as words, while Yusuf and Muhammad rarely addressed each other without the respectful prefix of sidi, my lord, they also warmly urged each other to ride the only available camel at midday heat. Once Muhammad was riding it, and he noticed Musa Shia looking tired. We share alike, he said, what is ours is yours, and scrambling down he insisted on the Mojabra mounting. It was a very friendly caravan that crawled south by short stages. Our only troubles, really, were Yusuf's laziness and the grumblings of the blacks, who shirked even the lightest work. On the 13th we started at 9.30 and camped at 3.30, while the sun was yet hot, for we happened to have arrived at a patch of coarse, odorless grass for the camels. At noon the men had slipped away from the caravan, one by one, to prostrate themselves with the murmured, Bismallah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim. Generally two of them marched a couple of hundred yards ahead with their rifles ready, but we saw nothing more exciting than a few distant gazelle. As soon as we had unloaded the camels, we all said our evening prayers, the fogger or fourth of the series. It still gave me much pain getting in and out of my yellow shoe, but the fanaticism of the Senusi was a very strong spur to the observance of every Muslim duty. Shiaab and his relations always insisted on helping us to put up the tent. There used to be a regular little fight as to who should hammer in the pegs, much to the delight of the lazy blacks. I remember that night was the most perfect we had yet spent in the desert, windless and calm with a crescent moon and the strange, translucent blue that you sometimes get in the Sahara. A mournful monotonous chance came from the friendly encampment beside us and the wide, white desert, unbroken by ridger dune, spread all around us. We had mounted slowly and imperceptibly from the Wadi Farag, the empty valley, to a low table-land with occasional ripples running east and west and a few scattered handhills with square tops. Just before we reached Beer Rasm, the following day, the ripples became accentuated into ridges and the country looked almost volcanic, for a series of high square hillocks appeared on our right with some sort of rock formation on top. We could easily have reached the wells on the evening of the thirteenth, but our friends had their own settled ideas about camping and nothing could change them. They wanted to spend the heat of the day at Rasam and water at Leisure, so we were awakened at five a.m. on the fourteenth and were actually away by six-fifteen. It was a glorious morning, but as usual, chilly. Hassanine walked with Oshia, who promptly quoted the Arab proverb, a man should not sleep on silt till he has walked on sand. But I rolled myself in every available blanket on the back of my jealous camel, who divided his time between biting the rival males and amorous assaults on the females. Besides being cold, one had begun to feel extremely hungry. The preceding day the ration had been two sardines and a cup of coffee for breakfast, a handful of dates at noon and half of a one ration tin of meat at night. That morning there had been no time for food, but the kindly Shia bed brought me a delicious bowl of camel's milk, still warm. I would not have exchanged it for the seller of the writs. We had left the last distige of the fawny yellow earth and gray scrub behind us, and as the strange square hillocks came in sight, we trod the white limestone that we had known in Jedabia. We looked right over the farther edge of the low table-land and dropped gently to a plain with a deep white sand of the southern deserts, tough to brew great shrubs and bushes of sweet-scented feathery vegetation and clumps of low-pom foliage, with here and there a solitary upright-pom. There are three wells in the neighborhood of Birasim, perennial springs, two of which have brackish yet drinkable water, while the third, several kilometers farther south, has terribly salt water. As we approached the wells about 9.15 a.m., streams of camels appeared from all directions. Muhammad gazed at them with loving eyes. The Zouya are rich, he said appreciatively, look at the hundreds of their beasts. All that morning a crowd of camels, numbering several hundreds, pressed around the well, together with some sheep and goats, but we encamped under a mound of sand topped by a mass of palm scrub, and in rare shelter I prepared our frugal meal. The previous night in that morning we had had no fuel for fire, so now it was a joy to make hot tea, and I was about to need my heavy damper, and Migrim, the most delightful of the Mujamras, young and smiling in his torn white shirt which showed muscular brown arms and chest, assured me that he could make a much better one. He took the dough from me, and after much pummeling and baking, produced a charred and blackened plate-like substance, but it was thinner than mine and crisper, so we ate it thankfully with dates and nuts. Then we rolled ourselves in jerds and slept to awaken by the postman from Kufara, who had heard at the well of our connection with Sayed Rida. He was an old, old man with beard as white as his jerd, but he could accomplish the astounding feat of going several days without water. So about twice a year he travels on the Sinusi's government business across the Libyan desert with one fast cabel and a couple of sacks of dates and grains. Hassanine and Muhammad went back to the wells after the camels had been watered and the fanaties filled to see if they could get milk, and while there they were severely cross-questioned by two stern-faced Bedouins as to whether we were going on Sayed Idris's business. Was it in his interests? Was it by his actual orders? Had we letters? And so on. Hassanine asked them if they were sheiks of tribes, and when they replied in the negative, she said he could not show them the sacred documents. Meanwhile the Mojave chief was being solemnly shaved by Ahmad under the shadow of a palm. Halfway through the proceeding he asked me for my small mirror and, evidently dissatisfied with his enthusiastic but inexperienced barber, finished his toilet himself with a pair of scissors at its largest shears. After that they all came and talked to me, and I unconsciously did good work by teasing Yusuf about his laziness and saying he was only fit for a town life. I have left everything with a caravan, he said, so have we seven big sacks full. See, I have but one tolb and one bar-a-con and both are dirty. This seemed to be a new point of view for Yusuf, especially as the Mojabras backed me up. We have seen that they share everything they have with you. What more do you want? said she had. Even now you are wearing the sit's coat. Our retinue had complained bitterly of the cold one night at Wadi Farag, so we had lent them two fleece-lined waterproofs which we had hidden in our bedding, and they wore them day and night even in the fierce noon sun. We departed leisurely at 3.30 p.m., and trekked through blinding white sand, soft and deep till 8.30 p.m. But the last hour we went very slow as the gray brush appeared again and the camels grazed as they walked. We passed to herd grazing, and Sheyib went to greet the owners and camped in a zareba of piled luggage and to drink strong tea. We camped under some huge gray bushes with a wonderfully sweet scent, and ate the rest of Migrib's black damper, with camel's milk and a half ration of meat. While another marvelous sunset painted feathers of flame and rose below the silver sickle moon. We used to shut the tent flaps after our evening meal to write our diaries and make our simple route maps, for if we pulled out notebooks and pencil in the daytime it caused great suspicion. We had made plans in England while lunching in the Oriental Splendor of Clerages to do a little survey work in Libya, but we had not counted with the fanaticism of the Senusi. It seems to me now that we were mad to imagine that a Christian could show his or her face beyond Jettabia, in a land where it is every man's sacred duty to kill the Nasrani. True, the mental atmosphere had changed since the first day up, when, if we carelessly asked the name of any tribe or district, we were looked upon as spies. At our first camp I told one of the blacks to fetch me a camel, whereupon he turned to his fellow soldier, exclaiming, Are we to be ordered about by a cursed Christian woman? One bullet, and we will send her back to her Christian country. After that their attitude had changed. The ways of Allah are strange, they said, for she is in truth a Muslim. Still, the general friendliness did not extend to instruments or diaries. Why do you need a compass? asked Yusuf. We know the road as we know our own hearts. We took the hint and hid our compasses under the luminous folds of our native dress, studying them only in secret. The barometer amused them because it showed what the weather was like, so the actual retinue did not mind its occasional presence outside our tent, but it had to be concealed from all visitors. A theodolite would have been an absolute impossibility. Something that suggested map-making was abhorrent to our guides. We carry the road in our heads, they said. I dared not even write an ordinary diary in public, unless I could pretend it was a letter. Gradually we drew them on to talk about roots in places with rather less suspicion, but for a long time it was a dangerous subject, and even when we had more or less won their confidence we had to treat their replies concerning names and positions exceedingly casually. To have made an instant note of a name would have aroused sharp suspicion. Before we could get real information from them, we had to destroy their original idea that we were traveling for our own pleasure and laboriously build up, word by word, deed by deed, a wholly new situation. That we had been sent, much against our will, by said Idris on a mission so secret and important that it justified our midnight flight and the hardships of an almost intolerable journey. December 15th saw us on our way by 7.30 a.m. after a troubled packing in the teeth of a sharp gale. The camels ran round in circles and upset their loads and a little of our precious water dribbled out of the fondates. B. Rossum is the last goodwill on the way to Augella. Three long waterless days lay before us and the blacks were horribly careless. We ourselves used only a quart of water each per day. Since we left Wadi Farag, our daily ablution consisted of merely washing hands and face every evening in an inch of muddy water. After a week, one got used to never washing and by the time we reached Augella we had forgotten even to feel dirty. It became a competition who could use least water and so prepare for the deadly Kufara root with its one well and 12 hard days. December 15th provided us with few incidents. We did a dreary seven hours riding with a cold south wind blowing straight in our faces. We wrapped our jerds in blankets around us and tried to pretend we were not hungry after a lunch of five malted milk tablets. We passed a camp of mojabras who were resting for an hour at midday while their camels grazed and as I hid my face in my barricade and urged on my camel, Hassanine went with Shia and Muhammad to greet them. When he rejoined me 20 minutes later, I asked him with primitive fierceness, did they give you tea? Before I realized to what ridiculous depths hunger drives one. He looked at me with one blankness. No luck, he said grimly, but they asked us to wait for them at sunset. The one cheerful moment was when about two p.m. I produced a thermos flask and offered each of Shia's caravan a mouthful of hot tea. There is no fire, said the old man, we cannot stop to make one. It was Hassanine's greatest triumph. I had fought against bringing that huge flask. It was bulky, heavy, and of course it had no case or strap. It was his pet possession, however, and though I firmly discarded it half a dozen times, it always reappeared. Now Musashiib drank from it amazed. But where is the fire, he asked, unless we should be shot as magicians, we instantly entered into the intricate explanations as to the making of a thermos. We met but one traveler on that cold, dusty day. Now for our newspaper, said Hassanine, it is rather a late addition. But the man was devoid of news, save that a caravan might possibly be starting from Jalo for why die within a week or two. As for our own caravan, the Mojavras, who proposed to join us that night, had made a quick journey from Jeddabiya, leaving on the morning of the twelfth, three days after Shiaib, they told us our men were still buying necessities but proposed to start next day. From that moment, I think we mutually decided against putting any faith in their arrival. The behavior of the two blacks had made us realize the danger of being at the mercy of a dozen such creatures for 13 days beyond reach of any human aid. If the water ran short, they would certainly steal ours. In order to be able to overeat, they would probably overload the camels. They would refuse to start early or ride hard. Consequently, the perils of the waterless seven days, after which time the camels begin to get tired, would become insuperable. We began planning to leave Jalo before them, taking only Mohammed and Yusuf and a couple of reliable guides. The last hour of the day's march is generally the most cheerful, for everybody is in a hurry to reach camp, and it is a curious fact that camels walk more quickly and straighter to the sound of singing. Therefore, the blacks and Shiaib's drivers used to chant wild melodies of love and prowess till even my great blonde beast forgot his amour as gurglings and kept his nose in a beeline for the horizon. That particular day, we had ridden due south across rolling sandy country without much vegetation, except where the sudden square hills and mounds appeared on our left at Mirmarag, some 18 kilometers from Rassam. The well holds only salt and drinkable water, but around it there is about a mile of rough scrub with large bushes of the scented furs which had perfumed our sleep the preceding night. On the only maps I have seen, a green wadi has marked running the whole way from Rassam to Awjala, but it exists only in the imagination of the chartmaker. In reality, there is no trace of a valley or a verdure. Across rolling white sand, we rode till 3 p.m. Under a sandy rock, a few hundred yards from a square hill called Orita, we camped by the last patch of rare fuel. The south wind rose in the night and added more sand to ourselves and our surroundings. The tent pegs on one side blew up and we crawled out in murky darkness to knock them in again. December 16th saw us started by 7.30, for the forage had succeeded in upsetting one of the fanaties in Old Shia was wisely frightened about our water supply, feeling that a certain amount of sympathy now existed between ourselves and our retinue. We tried the passometer for the first time that day. The nervous Naga, ridden by Hassanine, objected strongly, as she always progressed in circles, she was not of much use. My stately beast never altered his step, except to bite one of the other animals and after a few furious stamps, he submitted to the strap across his knee, but the labor of keeping him absolutely straight for eight hours on end was very trying. However, the instrument measured fairly accurately and after an eight hours march, it gave us 36 kilometers. There is no one track from Jeddabia to Augella. The distance as the crow flies is about 220 kilometers. There is a main route as far as Wadi Farid. Thereafter, one may wander south anywhere on a stretch some 10 miles broad. We traveled on the route which our friends considered provided the best fuel and grass, but it was the least frequented and therefore the most dangerous. No one comes by this track without fear of a battle, said the delightful Migreb, and hardly half an hour later, a party of eight men without camels, six blacks and two Arabs, appeared from the sand mounds. Dursalam, we are going to be attacked, said Shia, with calm interest. Any party of men without camels is looked upon with suspicion in the desert. Thus traveled the robber bands in order to be able to scatter quickly. Some of them will come up and talk to us. Their friends will be hidden behind those mounds. They will fire into the air to attract our attention and then the people who are talking to us will attack us. If they kill us, they will take the caravan. The blacks cheered up at once. The prospect of a fight always stimulated them. Everybody pulled out a rifle, but evidently the display of force or the Sudanese intimidated the mysterious party, for they suddenly sheered off without any salutation and vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. It is curious the fear with which the Bedouins regard the black slaves who are sent from the Sudan as boys of eight or 10 and who are trained as soldiers by the Sunusi family. They are more brutes than men. I have seen sheer murder in the eyes of the toothless forage when I refused him extra sugar. Yet they are courageous and faithful to their masters. A good black slave like Ali, our beloved cook at Jeddabia, is worth his weight in gold. There was much difference of character between the forages. One had a square, bestial face with a few broken yellow teeth. He was a grumbler and infinitely lazy, shirking all work, stealing everything he could lay his hands on. The other was big, brutal, and stupid with something of the nature of a kindly bulldog. He would occasionally return us dates or flour, saying, we have enough. Why do you not eat yourselves? We thought he might be turned into a good servant eventually for he did not mind cooking and washing up. The point of view of both was that they were soldiers and not servants. They were prepared to fight, but not to work. As a matter of fact, a caravan guarded by blacks is rarely attacked, as the Bedouins know it will generally be defended to the last inch. When first the rumor spread through Jeddabia that a rich woman was traveling into the interior and a guard of sorts became necessary, Sayed Rita instantly offered some of his soldier slaves. Not till after we left the little mud-belot on the edge of the world did we grasp all the threads of the situation we left behind. It had been a cunning woof of plot and counter-plot from the moment when the aged equan, Haji Fethiter, had vowed on the fatha to take the English woman safely to the Holy Oasis, to the night of our desperate flight without other guard than Muhammad and Yusuf. From the very day we first spoke tentatively of our journey among the Ulima of Jeddabia, one equan, fanatical and terror-stricken, had been strongly opposed to it. He successfully dissuaded Haji Fethiter from accompanying us. You are too old, he said. You will die on the road. Where is your dignity? Is this traveling with a Nasrani to be your last action on earth? Heaven forbid. As the ancient man was over 80, we were not sorry to hear his change of front. Another equan was suggested, but as he asked for 40 men to protect us, among whom only 10 were to be blacks, our suspicions were aroused and we refused his company. We learned afterwards that, believing the bizarre rumor about our wealth, he had planned to kill us in the desert, seize our money and return sorrowfully, saying that a vast force of Tebu spearmen had attacked us, that he had defended us gallantly, but that we and all the blacks had been killed. This because he knew that the Sudanese would fulfill the orders given by their master the Said and protect us to the last. There was always faint friction between these black warrior slaves and the Arabs. They could never combine. For this reason, the crafty equan decided that his force must be large enough to murder the soldiers as well as us. The proportion of Bedouin to Sudanese shows his high opinion of the latter's value. Their ruthlessness is encouraged by every means, even by brutal punishment. If a soldier disobeys an order, he is flogged or his hand is cut off. December 16th was enlivened by Muhammad's marriage prospects. One Omar, owner of two or three camels, a one eyed creature of hideous and ferocious aspect, was traveling with Shiab's caravan. He was reputed to have a very beautiful sister. Muhammad was thrilled. He made discreet inquiries and finally offered to marry the girl on his return journey. Muhammad was a big man in the eyes of the Bedouin. He enjoyed the confidence of the Said and, moreover, he was tall and straight and clean of limb, a fine, lean Arab with pride of race and tradition written all over him. Omar accepted the suitor at once and three camels were agreed upon as the dowry to be paid by the bridegroom to the bride's father. Thereafter, everyone made plans for marrying, mostly for the third or fourth time. Hassanine heard there were slaves to be bought at Qufara and he instantly decided to add a beautiful one to his possessions when we reached our far-off goal. There was one member of the caravan who took no part in the plans. For five days he had plotted along with the party, singing and talking cheerfully, doing his share of the work and we never guessed that he was different from the rest till Mohammed, in his excess of matrimonial enthusiasm, let go the camel he was leading and called out, ya ama im siku, thou blind one catch him. Unfalteringly, the sightless boy caught the beast. It was most extraordinary. Thereafter, I watched him carefully. I saw him driving camels in the right direction. He measured distance much better than the others. He was more accurate in his judgment of time. He reminded me of the famous medieval Arabian Bashar, the blind poet of Aleppo, who arriving in a certain city was told to bend his head in one of the streets as a beam was stretched across it from one house to another. 10 years later he rode into the same town and his companions were surprised because he bowed low in the middle of an empty road. Is the beam still here? He asked. The better ones have no idea of distance. How many hours is it to Aujala, one asked? There are no hours in the desert, they replied. We do not know them. Are there days in the desert? Yes, there are days. If you walk quickly, it is one thing. If you do not let yourself out, it is another thing. The difficulty in measuring by day is that, except on the big caravan routes, each man's estimate of the distance varies according to his energy. The whole life of Bedouin is reduced to the simplest possible effect. He uses very few words. The same verb has a dozen meanings. For instance, shil means anything from take away, pick up, carry, put on, throw away, to pack, unpack, drop, lose, et cetera. Akal should mean to eat food, but when two camels fought hideously, Muhammad said, they are eating each other. Desert Arabs have no names for plants or flowers they see each day. I asked about a huge feathery tree, something like a Coromandel, which first made its appearance at Sawami, and I was told, it has no name. It is for making houses in firewood. At 3.30 p.m., we were still more than a day's march from Aujala, and our water was running out, owing to the carelessness of the blacks. Grave colloquy followed. We were relieved to see that even the lazy Yusuf grasped the seriousness of the situation. We had two single ration tins left, and about two pounds of flour, and one pound of macaroni. It was decided that we should camp for a couple of hours in order to rest after our three hours riding, and then push on by starlight. We gave half the food to our retinue with the last morsels of sugar, and made ourselves coffee on a tiny fire and a hole scooped in the ground. Earlier in the day we had collected wood from the last patch of scrub that we passed, and loaded it on one of the camels. We hated opening the last tin, but we knew that we must keep the cereals for the men's breakfast next day. We had had nothing to eat all day except a few dates and a small bowl of camel's milk, which the adorable she-ib gave me at sunrise. I shall always remember the dear old man's twisted smile. When you are happy, I am happy, he said. For the honor of the Seyed, we would carry you on our heads. Luckily it was a glorious night. At five p.m. we said our sunset prayers, and to the usual formalities, I added a very passionate supplication that we might reach Ojala on the morrow. I should never have believed it possible for our indolent revenue to have collected so much energy. As the evening star rose red above the horizon, the camels were loaded, and at five p.m. we set off under a crescent moon in a vivid starry sky. A caravan always marches better at night. The camels cannot see de graze. It is cold, and the men step out briskly, singing continual wild songs and urging on their beasts by strange shouts and yells. Thou beautiful one, walk on. Let yourself out, for soon you shall have rest. Be patient, thou strong heart. Do not stumble. Or else a monotonous, repetitive chorus, she la-tif, she la-tif, a pleasant thing, ma salam. If one person falls silent for more than a minute, he is urged by name to let his voice be heard. So, in ever-increasing cold, to the accompaniment of chants and shouts, we marched for three-and-a-half hours, by which time she had considered it was safe to camp, for we were within a day's journey of our shala. A few sandy mounds broke the surface of the vast plain. In a white starlight, clear and cold, with a rising south wind that is the bane of the desert, we laid our flea bags on the lee side of the largest hillock, and crept into them without undressing. We tried to put the flaps over our heads, but the sand, as usual, covered everything, and we ate grit mingled with dates for breakfast. We meant to start before the dawn, but the camels had strayed far in search of scarce grass. When collected, they displayed a fiendish ingenuity in throwing their loads and tangling themselves up in every possible strap. The wind was bitterly cold, and my barracan was in its most irritating mood when it wrapped itself round everything but me. The forages would not walk because they were cold. The ghibli blinded the camels, and they swung around in circles. Even Hossanine was not feeling energetic on six tablets of malted milk. In the middle of the frozen muddle, I suddenly lost my temper, saying, I will show you how to walk. I dropped from my camel, and, throwing my barracan over my arm, set off with great strides in the southern direction. This action may have stimulated the caravan in the movement, but it certainly undid nearly a week's work. For 20 minutes, as they followed my racing steps, Omar and Migreb discussed Christians in their ways. These Ferrangi women walk well until they get fat and they cannot move, they said. Hossanine changed the conversation two or three times, but it always came back to the difference between the Nasrani and the Moslem. Old Shia had been walked on, and I found him waiting on top of a slight rise from where the beginning of the long-fore oasis showed a faint blur of green surrounded by a mist of mirage. There is beer masseuse, he said. You will have eggs and bread and milk tonight. I think I want to tailor even more, I said ruefully, regarding my torn white trousers, rented ankle and knee. These must be mended. Well, I think new ones would do better, said Shia, diffidently. At 10 a.m., we saw the dark line of masseuse in the distance, but not till midday did we draw a level with it, trekking steadily south over a flat, sandy plain with no sign of wadi. As there is only a well at masseuse and no village, we left it to the east and went straight on toward Au Jaila, which lies at the southwest end of an S-like wadi, whose other extremity is represented by masseuse. At 12.30, we breasted a slight swell, and below us lay the wide green wadi full of coarse-gray shrub with a mass of palms on the farther side. Hamdulillah exclaimed the devout Muhammad and slipped off his camel for the noon-day prayers. End of chapter four.