CHAPTER VII

Left][RightPANORAMA OF JAGHBUBEl Mahdi also extended the circle of influence of the Senussis in many directions.Ikhwanwere sent out to establishzawiasfrom Morocco as far east as Persia. But his greatest work was in the desert, among the Bedouins and the black tribes south of Kufra. He made the Senussis not only a spiritual power in those regions, and a powerful influence for peace and amity among the tribes, but a strong mercantile organization under whose stimulus trade developed and flourished. In the last years of his life he undertook to extend the influence of the brotherhood to the southward in person. He had gone to Geru south of Kufra when his death came suddenly in the year 1900.The sons of El Mahdi were then minors, and his nephew Sayed Ahmed was made the head of the brotherhood. He was the guardian of Sayed Idris, who, as the eldest son of El Mahdi, was his legitimate successor.The new head of the Senussis made an abrupt departure from the policies of his predecessors. He sought to combine temporal and spiritual power. When the Italians took over Cyrenaica and Tripoli from the Turks, Sayed Ahmed attempted to unite his spiritual power as head of the brotherhood with the remnants of temporal and military power left by the Turks. Then the Great War broke out, and he allowed himself to be persuaded by Turkish and German emissaries to attack the western frontier of Egypt. The effort was a complete failure, and Sayed Ahmed was compelled to go to Constantinople in a German submarine.The third of the Senussi leaders saw things differently from the Grand Senussi and his son. They had realized that a spiritual leader cannot be beaten on his own ground, whereas if he takes the field in quest of temporal supremacy it requires only a few military reverses to destroy his prestige. The power of Sayed Ibn Ali El Senussi and Sayed El Mahdi lay in themselves and in the spiritual influence that radiated from them. Sayed Ahmed surrendered thisinfluence to rely upon arms, ammunition, and circumstances. When these failed, there was nothing left.From the hands of Sayed Ahmed the Senussi leadership fell to the lineal successor, Sayed Idris. He derives a considerable part of the prestige which he undoubtedly possesses from the fact that he is the son of El Mahdi. But even without that advantage his own personal qualities would be an adequate foundation for success in the important position to which he has been called. He combines gentleness of disposition with firmness of character to a high degree. He has the loyal allegiance and support not only of the Senussiikhwanbut of the people of the Libyan Desert.In 1917 an agreement was entered into by the Italian Government with Sayed Idris, as head of the Senussi brotherhood, by which his right to administer the affairs of the oases of Jalo, Aujila, Jedabia, and Kufra was expressly recognized. This agreement was again ratified two years later at Regima. Unfortunately in 1923 a misunderstanding between the parties to this agreement caused it to lapse. It is to be hoped, however, that a new arrangement will be entered into between Sayed Idris and the Italian authorities which will restore to these oases of the Libyan Desert their peace and prosperity.There can be no question that the influence of theSenussi brotherhood upon the lives of the people of that region is good. Theikhwanof the Senussis are not only the teachers of the people, both in the field of religion and of general knowledge, but judges and intermediaries both between man and man and between tribe and tribe. The letter to the people of Wajanga already quoted clearly illustrates how the Grand Senussi laid down this office of peace-making as the duty of the Senussi brothers. It was developed and made even more important by his great son, El Mahdi.The importance of these aspects of the Senussi rule in maintaining the tranquillity and well-being of the people of the Libyan Desert can scarcely be overestimated.CHAPTER VIITHE PEACE OF JAGHBUBON the afternoon of the second day after the meeting with Sayed Idris we saw the snow-whitekubba(dome) of the mosque at Jaghbub rising before us. In proper Bedouin fashion we camped a short distance from the town and sent a messenger ahead to announce our arrival. Two hours later he returned to say that they were ready to receive us. The caravan went forward, and as it approached the walls we fired our rifles in the air. We were met at the gate by Sidi Hussein, thewakil, or representative of Sayed Idris in the town, accompanied by a group ofikhwan, who are teachers in the school. The students lined up along the way and gave a cheer as we went through. The warmth of the welcome aroused an echo in our hearts.Entering Jaghbub was to me like coming home. Two years before it had been close to the finish of our journey; now it stood as a starting-point, one ofseveral, it is true, but still a starting-point, on the greater journey that was to come. The first time at Jaghbub had been marked by the reaction that comes when the long trek is over. Now I was expectant and excited. Journey’s end and trek’s beginning are both great moments, but the emotions they arouse are not the same.I was impatient to start again. But one month and four days were to pass before I took the road, for there were no camels waiting for me. Before leaving Sollum I had sent a man, Sayed Ali El Seati, by the direct route to Jaghbub to hire camels and have them waiting when I should arrive over the longer route by way of Siwa. But Ali had apparently vanished into thin air. He had gone as far as Jedabia, I learned, without success, for none of the Bedouins on the way from Sollum would let him have the beasts I wanted. At Jedabia, too, he had found no camels available. I waited two weeks with no sign of Ali. Then I discovered that the reason he could get no camels was because the road from Jaghbub to Jalo was used exclusively by Bedouins of the Zwaya and Majabra tribes, and no other Bedouins dared to venture upon it.Though I was eager to get going again, I could not resist the charm and peace of the place in which I found myself immured. Jaghbub is a center ofeducation and religion. There is no trade there and no cultivation of the soil, except for some small bits of oases where former slaves, who had been freed by Sayed El Mahdi when he moved to Kufra, grew vegetables and a few dates. The life of the town centers about the mosque, which is large enough to hold five or six hundred persons, and the school, which is the center of religious education for the Senussis. Near the mosque are a few houses belonging to the Senussi family and theikhwan; and scattered about both within and without the walls are a number of private houses. Buildings with rooms for some two or three hundred students are also grouped near the mosque.Jaghbub had reached the height of its importance when Sayed Ibn Ali, the Grand Senussi, made it the center of the brotherhood. When his son, Sayed El Mahdi, succeeded him, the importance of the town continued for about a dozen years until he transferred the center of the brotherhood’s activities to Kufra. Then when Sayed Ahmed El Sherif, as guardian of young Sayed Idris, was in control, Jaghbub again flourished as the capital. Its importance has fluctuated through the years with the presence or absence of the heads of the family within its walls. If Sayed Idris were to make it again the seat of the Senussi rule, in two months the school and the town would be overflowing with members of thebrotherhood, with students, and with pious visitors to the shrine of the Grand Senussi.But at the time of my visit there were only eighty young Bedouins—from eight to fifteen years of age—studying under theikhwan. If there had been more teachers there would have been more students. But at the time of our visit the head of the Senussi family, whom we had met on his way to Egypt, had his headquarters in Jedabia, far to the westward.In an inner room of the mosque a beautifully wrought cage of brass incloses the tomb where lies the body of that great man, who sought for his people a pure, austere, and rigidly simple form of Islam, untainted by contact with the outside world. To this shrine every adherent of the brotherhood who can accomplish the journey comes to pay homage and to renew his vows. The students of the school come to Jaghbub with one of two purposes, either to fit themselves to becomeikhwan, the brothers of the fraternity, or simply to go back to their homes in the oases educated men with a right to spiritual leadership in their communities.Except for the annoying problem of getting camels to take my expedition to Jalo, about 350 kilometers away to the westward, my life in Jaghbub was one of peaceful reflection and preparation for the undertaking before me.THE COURTYARD OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUBThe mosque was founded eighty years ago by Sayed Ibn Ali El Senussi, the founder of the Senussi sect, which is followed by all the Bedouins of Cyrenaica.The desert demands and induces a quite different attitude of mind and of spirit from the bustling life of the city. As I wandered about the little town and out into the oasis around it, or stood in the cool, shadowed spaces of the mosque, or sat at times in the tower above it in conversation with learned Bedouins, watching the night fall over the milk-whitekubbaand the brown mass of buildings it dominates, there dropped away from me all the worries and perplexities and problems that the sophisticated life of crowded places brings in its train. Day after day passed, with a morning’s walk, midday prayers in the mosque, a quiet meal, a little work with my instruments or cameras, afternoon prayers, another walk, a meal, followed by the distribution to my men of friendly glasses of tea according to the Bedouin custom, again prayers, and, after quiet contemplation of the evening sky with its peaceful stars, retirement to sleep such as the harassed city dweller does not know.Among all theikhwanwhom I met and talked with at Jaghbub, there was one who particularly interested me, for he would neither sit and talk with me himself nor could I learn from his brotherikhwanthe reason for his strange aloofness. At length, by chance, I learned the story of Sidi Adam Bu Gmaira.Sidi Adam is a withered old man with a refinedproud face and a bitter twist to his mouth. Life has not been kind to him in his old age. On my first visit to Jaghbub I stayed at his empty house for three days. I had no chance then of a long conversation with him. This time he came to see me on the evening of my arrival to welcome me back to Jaghbub. I felt that a tragedy lay behind this old man. He is one of the Barassa tribe, one of the élite among the Bedouins, and he is as proud as any of them; yet he does not accept his fate, and for some time I wondered how it was that he, a Bedouin, had not learned to do so. All around me at Jaghbub were types of benevolent humanity. Sidi Adam alone stood out distinct from his brethren, a tragic picture of beaten pride.Late one evening, as I was coming back from the mosque after prayers, I found Mabrouk, an old slave of Sidi El Mahdi’s. “Peace be on you and the blessing of God,” I greeted him.“And on you, my master, and God’s mercy and blessing,” he replied.I sat down with him, and we began talking about the little patch of cultivation to which he was attending. “Ei!” he exclaimed; “we have not much food, but by the blessing of Sidi El Mahdi the little we have is as great as abundance anywhere else.”Just then a frail, tall figure in a white robe flittedlike a ghost across the courtyard. It was Adam Bu Gmaira. “There goes Sidi Adam,” I said, pointing after him. “He was not looking well when he came to see me to-day. What ails him, I wonder?”“Nay, it is not his health, my master. It is an unlucky man who incurs the displeasure of our masters”—meaning the Senussi chiefs. “The poor man is suffering for his brother’s bad faith.”It was then that the story of Bu Gmaira was unfolded to me by Mabrouk.Sidi Bu Seif Bu Gmaira, Adam’s brother, was at one time the trusted and all-powerfulwakilof Sidi El Mahdi at Jaghbub. When he was quite a child a wall fell on him and smashed in his head. The great Sidi El Senussi, founder of the sect, was fortunately near-by. He took the child’s head and bandaged it together, saying, “This head will one day be a fountain of knowledge and enlightenment.” His prophecy came true. Bu Seif’s father sent the child to Jaghbub when the Grand Senussi settled there and left him to study at the mosque of Jaghbub. He became the leadingikhwanand great professor of Jaghbub. He was also a poet of no small merit. After the death of the Grand Senussi, Sidi El Mahdi took him up and made him his solewakilat Jaghbub when he left for Kufra, intrusting him with all his property and the management thereof. But God willed that heshould become an example to the otherikhwanof one who betrays theasyad’s[master’s] trust. He ran with the world and was seduced by her. He squandered much of Sidi El Mahdi’s property and sold many of his slaves, putting the money in his own pocket. It was decreed that he should be punished. He wrote a letter to a big governor in Egypt telling him that Sidi El Mahdi was away at Kufra, that there was no one at Jaghbub to defend it, and that it was an opportune moment to occupy the place. (Why he did this is inconceivable as nobody ever had any desire to occupy Jaghbub, but doubtless Bu Seif thought he might get something out of it.)At that time Sidi Mohammed El Abid El Senussi, a nephew of El Mahdi, was staying at Jaghbub. He heard that Bu Seif had written a letter and was sending it to Egypt and that he had arranged for a messenger to take it across the frontier after nightfall. El Abid at once despatched twoikhwanto waylay the messenger and bring him back the letter. Two days later the messenger was brought. El Abid saw the letter but said nothing to Bu Seif. He simply ordered a caravan to be prepared for Kufra and asked Bu Seif to accompany him. The latter tried to excuse himself on account of old age and health, but El Abid insisted. He had no alternative but to go. So they set out on the silent journey across the desert,and on arrival at Kufra the letter was shown by El Abid to Sidi El Mahdi.A CLOISTER AT THE MOSQUE OF JAGHBUBTHE DOME OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUBThe mosque is built on the same lines as the dome at Medina. It is always kept clean and whitewashed and forms a distant landmark for all those approaching Jaghbub.On the Friday following their arrival after the midday prayers at the mosque of Taj in Kufra, Sidi El Mahdi called together all theikhwan, including Bu Seif. “Sidi Bu Seif, thou knowest what thou hast done.” There was a hush. Everybody in the mosque tingled with excitement, knowing there was something to come. “But we shall not punish thee. Thou shalt live; thou shalt draw thy pay and thy rations according to custom. God alone will punish those who have betrayed our trust. But thou shalt read aloud to this gathering ofikhwanthe letter which thou hast written with thine own hand.”Bu Seif had no alternative but to read the letter. Theikhwanwere silent, though there was much surprise, for this was thought to be the most trusted man of Sayed El Mahdi.“Henceforward thou shalt be relieved of the trouble of looking after our affairs,” said Sidi El Mahdi, dismissing him. Bu Seif was then led to his house a sick man. He died a few days later. His two sons died in the following few months. His remaining two daughters were taken in marriage by members of the Senussi family. All his books—and it is said he possessed the best library in the Senussi circle—and his property were taken by the Senussi family. Theonly remaining man of his family is Adam, his brother, who had inherited the empty house at Jaghbub and the stigma attaching thereto. With the death of Adam the family will be extinct.CHAPTER VIIIMEALS AND MEDICINEAT intervals there were pleasant marks of hospitality from the Senussi leaders at Jaghbub.There are various forms of hospitality among the Bedouins, depending upon the rank both of the host and of the guest and upon the circumstances of the given case. When a traveler comes to an oasis or a town in the desert he has with him his own caravan, provided with all the necessities of living. He does not put up at a hotel or go to a friend’s house to live but sets up his own establishment, either pitching his tents and making a camp, or perhaps, as happened to me at Jaghbub, at Jalo, and again at Kufra, occupying a house put at his disposal by some one in the place. Then comes the question of entertainment and honor from the dignitaries of the community. They may either invite one to luncheon or to dinner in their own houses or send a meal to the guest at his own house or camp. The first form of hospitality I shall describe when we reach Jalo, where I was entertainedby twelve or fifteen notables in turn. The second form was that which I received at Jaghbub. This variety of hospitality may be extended from three to seven days, depending upon the respective ranks of host and guest.Several days after my arrival Sidi Ibrahim and Sidi Mohi Eddin, young sons of Sayed Ahmed, the former guardian of Sayed Idris, who is now in Angora, boys of thirteen and fifteen years of age, made thebeau gesteof showing me hospitality. There arrived at my house a Bedouin of the Barassa tribe, with two slaves laden with food. They set before me a feast of at least a score of dishes, and I was bidden to eat. The representative of my hosts sat courteously by, himself not touching a morsel, while I tasted the dishes in turn; no mortal man could eat them all and live. It was his function as deputy host to see that I lacked nothing to make the meal a satisfying and pleasant one, and to entertain me with conversation while I ate. The men of his tribe are the aristocrats of the desert, tall, erect, handsome, proud and with the spirit and courage of lions. A Barassy, if he were alone in the midst of an alien tribe, would not hesitate to meet an insult or a discourtesy with instant challenge and to fight the whole lot single-handed if it came to that.Under his solicitously attentive eye, and waitedon by the slaves who accompanied him, I ate my meal. I am not sure that I can remember the full tale of the dishes that were set before me, but they ran something like this: a rich meat soup, made with butter and rice; a great dish of boiled meat; a big bowl of rice with bits of meat in it; eggs, hard-boiled, fried, and made into an omelet with onions and herbs; tripe; meat in tomato sauce; meat croquettes; sausages; vegetable marrows;bamiaor okra;mulukhia, an Egyptian vegetable with a peculiar flavor of its own; marrows stuffed with rice and bits of meat;kus-kus, a distinctively Arab dish made of flour and steamed; a salad; a kind of blanc-mange or pudding of corn-flour and milk; Bedouin pancakes with honey; a sweet pudding of rice; a delicate kind of pastry made of flour with raisins and almonds. This last is an Egyptian dish rather than one native to the desert. The slave who had cooked my meal, knowing me to be an Egyptian, had put forth her best energies to please me and as a climax had provided this Egyptian delicacy. At home we call itsadd-el-hanak, “that which fills the mouth.” It fills the soul of the epicure with joy as well.THE EXPLORER’S CARAVAN CAUGHT IN A SAND-STORMIn the Bedouin cuisine meat predominates, generally lamb or mutton. True hospitality without meat is impossible for the desert-dweller to imagine. It is the key-stone of the structure not only of Bedouinhospitality but of Bedouin living, except of course when one is on the trek and cannot get it. A guest must be given meat, and it must be meat specially provided for him. When a Bedouin invites one to dine with him, he slaughters a sheep expressly for his visitor. As a rule he will neither prepare the meal nor even kill the animal until one has arrived, in order that there may be no doubt that the preparations were made expressly for the guest. He carries his courtesy to the point of asking a guest, on his arrival to partake of a meal, to lend him a knife with which to slaughter a sheep, for hospitality demands that the guest shall be convinced that full honor is being done him.The great variety of dishes on the Bedouin menu, when a friend or a stranger is being formally entertained, is the essence of the ceremony. The greater the number the better the host and the higher the honor he is able to pay the partaker of the meal.Bedouin entertaining concentrates itself upon food, for in the desert there is nothing to be had in the way of pleasure except eating. In the primitive surroundings of an oasis, to eat is the whole story.Two incidents of that month in Jaghbub interested me as illustrating how, with all their differences, the East and the West are often humorously alike. The one incident was comic, but the other had pathos in it as well as humor.I had given instructions that no one who came to my house in quest of medicine should ever be turned away. Sidi Zwela, anikhwan, had appealed for help for his cough, and I had given him a bottle of cough-syrup. Two days later he appeared again. He said the first few doses had done him so much good that he had quickly finished the bottle. Might he have another bottle? Abdullahi, who was present at the interview, after his departure growled out a cynical comment: “Yes, he found it sweet and pleasant to the taste. He takes it as a delicacy and not as a medicine.” The comment was probably accurate. More than one child I had heard of during my years in England whose cough persisted strangely so long as the cough-medicine was sweet and tasty.I am afraid that my men used to boast about the things that could be done with what we had among our stores. The Baskari, after Ahmed had been pulling his leg about my having medicine for everything, came to me to ask for something to cure a slave-girl of absent-mindedness. I could only reply that from my experience in various lands to keep a servant from forgetting was as easy as to prevent water from sinking into the sand.The second incident involved two men as different as day and night. There came to my house one day a slave of thewakilsent by his master to consult me.It was a matter about which Sidi Hussein could not approach me in person. Bedouin etiquette forbids a man to talk to another about his wife, or even about any particular woman who is not known to both of them. But a slave could say for him what his dignity forbade him to speak in person. The slave’s message was that the wife of thewakilhad borne no children, which was a keen disappointment to the husband. Surely, his master thought, I must have, in my medicine-chest filled with the wonders of the science of the West, some remedy for the poor woman’s childless state.My thoughts went straight back to my last days at Oxford. An old college servant was an excellent fellow, but most inordinately shy. He came to me one day as I was preparing for the journey home, and with a tremendous summoning of his courage proffered a request.“If you would allow me, sir,” he said, “to ask a favor? My wife and I have no children. The doctor can’t help us; he has nothing to suggest. Now, sir, back in that country of yours, I’ve heard it said, they have wonderful talismans that will do all kinds of things. I’m not one who has believed much in having to do with magic, but this is a very special case. Do you think you might find me a talisman and send it on? If it’s not asking too much, sir?”DESERT SANDS COVERING DATE-TREESIn a few years if the wind continues in the same direction the trees will be embedded forever in the sandsIn the face of his anxiety and the courageous breaking down of the barriers of his shyness, I could only answer gravely but sympathetically that I would do what I could. But the necessity did not arise. He had died, remembered by Balliol men past and present, before I came to Oxford again.In the case of Sidi Hussein, however, I could not put the matter off. The slave was waiting for an answer, and doubtless his master was waiting for him. I thought quickly. I gave the slave half a bottle of Horlick’s malted milk tablets, with solemn instructions that three were to be taken by the lady each day until all were gone.When the slave had left, I reflected on the amusing parallel between the two cases. There in Oxford, the West, having exhausted all that its science had to offer on behalf of the universal desire for offspring, had tried to draw upon the spiritual resources of the East. Here in Jaghbub, the East, finding all its spiritual appeals of no avail, had turned to the science of the West for aid. East or West, we alike believe in the miraculous power of the unknown.But all this pleasant peaceful life and courteous hospitality did not produce camels. I sent messengers out into the surrounding country in quest of the beasts, making my offers of money for their hire larger and larger as time went on, but I could get nofavorable responses. I invoked the aid of Sidi Hussein, but he professed himself powerless. I sent a messenger back to Siwa with a telegram to Sayed Idris in Egypt, informing him of my predicament and asking his aid. As soon as could be expected, a reply came directing Sidi Hussein to give me all the assistance in his power. Still thewakilseemed to be unable to help me.At last, when things began to seem hopeless, a Zwaya caravan arrived from Jalo on its way to Siwa for dates. I wanted those camels, but of course their owners had no desire to turn back without the dates they had come for. However, a way was found to persuade them, for I communicated to them, through Sidi Hussein, the news that an order had been issued by the Egyptian Government forbidding Zwayas to enter Egyptian territory until they had composed their differences with the Awlad Ali, who live in Egypt, and with whom they had a feud. Since they could not go to Siwa, which is in Egypt, without fear of punishment, there they were stranded at Jaghbub, with nothing to do but go back the way they came. That was precisely the way I wanted them to go. The combined effect of the order of the Egyptian Government, of the message from Sayed Idris, of the persuasions of Sidi Hussein, and of the promise of exorbitant prices for hire of their camels, which they succeededin dragging out of me because of my necessity, finally made them agree to take me to Jalo.The quiet days of contemplation under the shadows of the whitekubbaand the anxious days of striving for the means of continuing my journey came at last to an end. On February 22, thirty-four days after I had entered Jaghbub, I turned my face to the westward and set out for Jalo.CHAPTER IXSAND-STORMS AND THE ROAD TO JALOI LEFT Jaghbub in accordance with the best tradition. It was a day of sand-storm. The Bedouins say that to start a journey in a sand-storm is good luck. I am not sure, though, that they are not making a virtue of necessity. It is as though an Italian were to say that it is good luck to set out when the sun is shining or a Scotsman when it is raining! Sand-storms are a commonplace in the desert, but as an experience there is nothing commonplace about them.The day dawns with a clear sky and no hint of storm or wind. The desert smiles upon our setting out, and the caravan moves forward cheerfully. Before long a refreshing breeze comes up from nowhere and goes whispering over the sands. Almost imperceptibly it strengthens, but still there is nothing unpleasant in its blowing. Then one looks down at one’s feet, and the surface of the desert is curiouslychanged. It is as though the surface were underlaid with steam-pipes with thousands of orifices through which tiny jets of steam are puffing out. The sand leaps in little spurts and whirls. Inch by inch the disturbance rises as the wind increases its force. It seems as though the whole surface of the desert were rising in obedience to some up-thrusting force beneath. Larger pebbles strike against the shins, the knees, the thighs. The spray of dancing sand-grains climbs the body till it strikes the face and goes over the head. The sky is shut out; all but the nearest camels fade from view; the universe is filled with hurtling, pelting, stinging, biting legions of torment. Well for the traveler then if the wind is blowing at his back! The torture of the driving sand against his face is bitter. He can scarcely keep his eyes open, and yet he dare not let them close, for one thing worse than the stinging of the sand-grains is to lose one’s way.THE ZIEGHEN WELLThe first well reached in nine days’ trekking from Jalo on the way to Kufra. The well, which is a water-hole, is only marked by a dim patch of sand, which the caravans scrape as they go along. Water is found at four or five feet deep. The fact that this well is so indistinctly marked makes it easy to miss it entirely unless the guide is a very good one.A HALT IN THE DESERTThe caravan on its way to Kufra from Jalo. Note change from sandy ground to grass.Fortunately the wind comes in driving gusts, spaced in groups of three or four, with a few seconds of blessed lull after each group. While the gusts are making their assault, one turns one’s face away, pulls one side of one’skufiaforward like a screen, and almost holds one’s breath. When the lull comes, one puts thekufiaback, takes a quick look about to see that one has kept one’s bearings, then swiftly prepares for the next attack.It is as though some great monster of fabled size and unearthly power were puffing out these hurtling blasts of sand upon the traveler’s head. The sound is that of a giant hand drawing rough fingers in regular rhythm across tightly stretched silk.When the sand-storm comes there is nothing to do but to push doggedly on. Around any stationary object, whether it might be a post, a camel, or a man, the eager sands swiftly gather, piling up and up until there remains only a smoothly rounded heap. If it is torture to go on, it is death itself to halt.A sand-storm is likely to be at its worst for five or six hours. While it persists, a caravan can only keep going, with careful vigilance that the direction be not missed. When the storm is at its fiercest, the camels will be scarcely moving, but their instinct tells them that it is death to halt. How instinctively wise they are is shown by the fact that when it begins to rain they sense no such danger and will immediately stand still and even lie down.The storm drives the sand into everything one possesses. It fills clothes, food, baggage, instruments, everything. It searches out every weak spot in one’s armor. One feels it, breathes it, eats it, drinks it—and hates it. The finest particles even penetrate the pores of the skin, setting up a distressing irritation.There are certain rules about the behavior of sand-storms which every Bedouin knows and is quite ready to tell the stranger to the desert. The wind that makes the storm will rise with the day or go to sleep with the sun. There will be no sand-storm at night when there is a moon. A sand-storm never joins the afternoon and evening. These are excellent rules; but on our trek to Jalo every one of them was broken! We had storms when the moon was shining and storms when the night was dark. We had storms that began before dawn and storms that did not pause till long after the sun was set. We had storms that not only joined afternoon and evening but wiped out the line of demarcation between them. We had little storms and great storms, the worst I had yet seen; storms that were short and storms that were long; storms by day and storms by night. But even under this interminable bombardment, I did not lose the spell of the desert’s charm. Sometimes at evening, when we had been battling doggedly against the flying squadrons of the sand for hours, the wind would stop dead as if a master had put up a peremptory finger. Then for an hour or so the fine dust would settle slowly down like a falling mist. But afterward the moon would rise, and under the pale magic of its flooding light the desert would put on a new personality. Had there been a sand-storm? Whocould remember? Could this peaceful expanse of loveliness ever be cruel? Who could believe it?The trek to Jalo was therefore not an easy one. The sand-storms were a constant annoyance and sometimes a menace. The latter part of the way led through a country of sand-dunes, and the caravan had to go winding about among them. To keep one’s course straight to the proper point of the compass in spite of those wrigglings and twistings takes all one’s skill and attention at the best of times. When a sand-storm is torturing and blinding the whole caravan, the task becomes a staggering one. Nevertheless we pushed steadily on, making on the whole good time of it.In spite of the viciousness of the attacking sands there were hours of pleasure on this trek.Memorable were the genial evenings when we were all gathered around the fire ofhatabfor our after-dinner glasses of tea. Then stories would begin to go around. Old Moghaib, with the firelight playing on the gray hairs of his shaggy beard, would begin by telling bits of Zwaya history when his grandfather used to go to Wadai to fight the black tribes and bring back camels and slaves. Saleh would follow with a tale of the great profits that his cousin had made on his last trip to Wadai, when he did not have to fight anybody but brought back leather, ostrich-feathers,and ivory to sell in Barka, which is the Arabic name for Cyrenaica.THE ARMED MEN OF THE CARAVANHassanein Bey is mounted on his Arab horse, BarakaThen I would turn to Ali and demand a love-song. He was a poet of sorts and betrothed to Hussein’s sister. If the girl is anything like her brother, the boy is not doing badly for himself. Ali would look to his uncle for permission to comply with my request and find the old man busy with his rosary and pretending to be oblivious of the turn that matters had taken. It does not befit the dignity of a gray-haired Bedouin to sit and hear love-songs from the younger generation. But his respect for me keeps him from leaving the gathering.Finally he mutters in his beard, “Sing to the bey, since he likes to hear our Bedouin songs.” Ali’s pleasant voice rises on the evening air, and the beads of old Moghaib’s rosary fall through his fingers with the deliberate regularity characteristic of a man who is conscious of nothing but his devotions.So Ali sings:“I went singingAnd all men turned to hear me.It is KhadraWho draws the song from my soul.Red is her cheek like spilt blood;Slim and round she is like a reed.None so young, none so oldNot to know her.If I meet her in the way,I will flaunt her—Like a scarf upon my spear.”As his voice dies away, is it my imagination, or are the rosary beads in Moghaib’s fingers moving a little faster? After a pause Ali sings again:“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,Thy mouth flows honeyOver teeth of ivory.Thy waist is slenderLike the lion’s running in the chase.Wilt thou have me?Or thinkest thou of another?Thy form is rounded like a whip—To lie on thy breastWere to be in Paradise.Love cannot be hidden,But Fate is in the hands of God.”There is silence in the camp, except for the murmur of the dying fire and the clicking of the rosary. But the rhythm of the beads is significantly changed now. Toward the end of Ali’s song Moghaib’s fingers had stopped dead for a moment and then hurried nervously on as though to deny that they had halted. The old man had been a great lover in histime, and the boy’s song had stirred his blood with memories. Perhaps it was fortunate for others around that fire that they had no clicking rosary-beads to betray them.After Bu Salama Well, which is a day’s trek from Jaghbub, we were going through a region where there were remains of a petrified forest. At intervals we passed great blocks of stone erect like guideposts along the way. Ages ago they had been living trees, but now the forces of nature had transferred them from the vegetable kingdom to the mineral. A few smaller bits of petrified wood were scattered about, but most of those were hidden beneath the sand. The larger tree sections had remained visible because the etiquette of the desert demands that any one passing such a fallen landmark shall set it erect again. It is also good form, on a newly traveled track, to build little piles of stones at intervals as notice to later comers that here lies the way. Sometimes one comes upon a tree or a shrub on which hang shreds and patches of clothing, and there one is under obligation to add a thread or a fragment from his own outfit. These accumulating tokens confirm the tree as a landmark to later comers and afford the encouragement of the thought that others have been this way before. In the dead waste and monotony of the desert any evidence of the passingof one’s fellow-man is a cheering incident. The sight of camel-dung, of the bleached bones of a camel, or even the skeleton of an unfortunate traveler are welcome to the eye, for at least they show that a caravan had passed that way.Shortly after leaving Jaghbub we came upon a different kind of landmark. It consisted of a row of small sand hillocks like ant-hills stretching across the track. It is called Alam Bu Zafar, the Bu Zafar landmark, and it is the sign and symbol of a pleasant Bedouin custom. On any trek, the new-comers to that particular route are expected to slaughter a sheep for those in the caravan who have come that way before. The custom is called Bu Zafar. If the novices do not awaken promptly to their responsibilities, the veterans give them a hint. One or two of them dash ahead of the caravan and build a row of sand-piles across the way. When the caravan reaches the significant landmark, they call out suggestively, “Bu Zafar, Bu Zafar.” Invariably the hint is taken, a sheep is slaughtered, and the ceremonial feast is held.In our caravan there were several who had not gone over this route before, including myself. I bought a sheep before leaving Jaghbub so that we who were new to this route might give Bu Zafar to the old-timers. The Alam Bu Zafar that we cameupon, therefore, was not of our making, but left by some other caravan.HAPPY TEBUS AT KUFRAA BIDIYAT FAMILYWe were fortunate in finding grazing for our camels almost every day until we reached Jalo. Sometimes, it is true, we had to go out of our way to reach the patches of green among the sand-dunes, but we always found them. Three kinds of vegetation grow sparsely and in infrequent spots in this part of the desert.Belbalis a grayish green bush, whose foliage is not good eating for the camels. It grows only in the vicinity of a well. Ordinarily the camels will not touch it, but if very hungry they will. Then unceasing vigilance is necessary to save oneself from the annoyance of having a sick camel on one’s hands.Damranis a similar bush, but with darker foliage and with brown stems which make good fuel when dried. This is excellent food for the camels, and they eat it eagerly. The third variety of vegetation isnisha, which grows in tufts of thin leaves up to a foot high. This too makes good grazing. It is only in the winter months, however, when the scanty rains come, that these plants are available. No Bedouin would think of making a journey between Jalo and Jaghbub in summer without carrying a supply of fodder for his camels.On the tenth day from Jaghbub we reached the well of Hesaila, the first water after Bu Salama. Itwas marked by a few trees and small green bushes, and after we had scooped out the drifted sand with our hands, the water seemed good. But the after-effects were not so pleasant.Two days later we found ourselves on the outskirts of the Oasis of Jalo. Before we could enter, a messenger came rushing to meet us. He carried a letter from Sidi Mohammed El Zerwali, theikhwan, who had been directed by Sayed Idris to accompany us to Kufra, asking me to camp outside until they could prepare to receive us properly. Sayed Idris, before he had left Jalo two months before, had told them that I was on the way and directed that I should be shown all possible courtesy. They had expected us long before this, and when we did not come they decided that I had changed my plans.We withdrew a short distance from the town and camped. A few hours later an impressive group of a score or more of Bedouins came out and drew themselves up in a long line before the village of Lobba, one of the two villages that make up Jalo. Dressed in our cleanest and most ceremonial clothes, and my men provided with ammunition for the complimentary salute, we went forward. I approached and shook hands with Sidi Senussi Gader Bouh, thekaimakamor governor of the district, the members of the Council of Jalo, and other prominent citizens. Thekaimakammade a speech of welcome, to which I replied. My men fired their guns in salute, and we passed into the town.I went to the house which was put at my disposal, and received a visit of ceremony from the Council of Jalo and from Sidi El Fadeel, the uncle of Sayed Idris. After dinner with Senussi Gader Bouh, I spent the evening in discussing plans for the trip with Sidi Zerwali.CHAPTER XAT THE OASIS OF JALOJALO is one of the most important oases in Cyrenaica. It lies about 240 kilometers from the Mediterranean at its nearest point, beyond Jedabia, and about 600 kilometers from Kufra, which is directly south. The oasis is not only the largest producer of dates in all the province, but it is the trade outlet for the products of Wadai and Darfur which come through Kufra. Everything from the outside world that goes to Kufra passes through Jalo.“The desert is a sea,” said El Bishari, a prominent chieftain of the Majabra tribe, “and Jalo is its port.” It was at the height of its importance something like thirty years ago when El Mahdi maintained the Senussi capital at Kufra. In those days caravans of two or three hundred camels came and went between Jalo and the south each week, but when I was there the traffic had shrunk to less than a tenthof that. In summer, however, it is swollen by the demands of the date harvest.

Left][RightPANORAMA OF JAGHBUB

Left]

[RightPANORAMA OF JAGHBUB

[Right

PANORAMA OF JAGHBUB

El Mahdi also extended the circle of influence of the Senussis in many directions.Ikhwanwere sent out to establishzawiasfrom Morocco as far east as Persia. But his greatest work was in the desert, among the Bedouins and the black tribes south of Kufra. He made the Senussis not only a spiritual power in those regions, and a powerful influence for peace and amity among the tribes, but a strong mercantile organization under whose stimulus trade developed and flourished. In the last years of his life he undertook to extend the influence of the brotherhood to the southward in person. He had gone to Geru south of Kufra when his death came suddenly in the year 1900.

The sons of El Mahdi were then minors, and his nephew Sayed Ahmed was made the head of the brotherhood. He was the guardian of Sayed Idris, who, as the eldest son of El Mahdi, was his legitimate successor.

The new head of the Senussis made an abrupt departure from the policies of his predecessors. He sought to combine temporal and spiritual power. When the Italians took over Cyrenaica and Tripoli from the Turks, Sayed Ahmed attempted to unite his spiritual power as head of the brotherhood with the remnants of temporal and military power left by the Turks. Then the Great War broke out, and he allowed himself to be persuaded by Turkish and German emissaries to attack the western frontier of Egypt. The effort was a complete failure, and Sayed Ahmed was compelled to go to Constantinople in a German submarine.

The third of the Senussi leaders saw things differently from the Grand Senussi and his son. They had realized that a spiritual leader cannot be beaten on his own ground, whereas if he takes the field in quest of temporal supremacy it requires only a few military reverses to destroy his prestige. The power of Sayed Ibn Ali El Senussi and Sayed El Mahdi lay in themselves and in the spiritual influence that radiated from them. Sayed Ahmed surrendered thisinfluence to rely upon arms, ammunition, and circumstances. When these failed, there was nothing left.

From the hands of Sayed Ahmed the Senussi leadership fell to the lineal successor, Sayed Idris. He derives a considerable part of the prestige which he undoubtedly possesses from the fact that he is the son of El Mahdi. But even without that advantage his own personal qualities would be an adequate foundation for success in the important position to which he has been called. He combines gentleness of disposition with firmness of character to a high degree. He has the loyal allegiance and support not only of the Senussiikhwanbut of the people of the Libyan Desert.

In 1917 an agreement was entered into by the Italian Government with Sayed Idris, as head of the Senussi brotherhood, by which his right to administer the affairs of the oases of Jalo, Aujila, Jedabia, and Kufra was expressly recognized. This agreement was again ratified two years later at Regima. Unfortunately in 1923 a misunderstanding between the parties to this agreement caused it to lapse. It is to be hoped, however, that a new arrangement will be entered into between Sayed Idris and the Italian authorities which will restore to these oases of the Libyan Desert their peace and prosperity.

There can be no question that the influence of theSenussi brotherhood upon the lives of the people of that region is good. Theikhwanof the Senussis are not only the teachers of the people, both in the field of religion and of general knowledge, but judges and intermediaries both between man and man and between tribe and tribe. The letter to the people of Wajanga already quoted clearly illustrates how the Grand Senussi laid down this office of peace-making as the duty of the Senussi brothers. It was developed and made even more important by his great son, El Mahdi.

The importance of these aspects of the Senussi rule in maintaining the tranquillity and well-being of the people of the Libyan Desert can scarcely be overestimated.

THE PEACE OF JAGHBUB

ON the afternoon of the second day after the meeting with Sayed Idris we saw the snow-whitekubba(dome) of the mosque at Jaghbub rising before us. In proper Bedouin fashion we camped a short distance from the town and sent a messenger ahead to announce our arrival. Two hours later he returned to say that they were ready to receive us. The caravan went forward, and as it approached the walls we fired our rifles in the air. We were met at the gate by Sidi Hussein, thewakil, or representative of Sayed Idris in the town, accompanied by a group ofikhwan, who are teachers in the school. The students lined up along the way and gave a cheer as we went through. The warmth of the welcome aroused an echo in our hearts.

Entering Jaghbub was to me like coming home. Two years before it had been close to the finish of our journey; now it stood as a starting-point, one ofseveral, it is true, but still a starting-point, on the greater journey that was to come. The first time at Jaghbub had been marked by the reaction that comes when the long trek is over. Now I was expectant and excited. Journey’s end and trek’s beginning are both great moments, but the emotions they arouse are not the same.

I was impatient to start again. But one month and four days were to pass before I took the road, for there were no camels waiting for me. Before leaving Sollum I had sent a man, Sayed Ali El Seati, by the direct route to Jaghbub to hire camels and have them waiting when I should arrive over the longer route by way of Siwa. But Ali had apparently vanished into thin air. He had gone as far as Jedabia, I learned, without success, for none of the Bedouins on the way from Sollum would let him have the beasts I wanted. At Jedabia, too, he had found no camels available. I waited two weeks with no sign of Ali. Then I discovered that the reason he could get no camels was because the road from Jaghbub to Jalo was used exclusively by Bedouins of the Zwaya and Majabra tribes, and no other Bedouins dared to venture upon it.

Though I was eager to get going again, I could not resist the charm and peace of the place in which I found myself immured. Jaghbub is a center ofeducation and religion. There is no trade there and no cultivation of the soil, except for some small bits of oases where former slaves, who had been freed by Sayed El Mahdi when he moved to Kufra, grew vegetables and a few dates. The life of the town centers about the mosque, which is large enough to hold five or six hundred persons, and the school, which is the center of religious education for the Senussis. Near the mosque are a few houses belonging to the Senussi family and theikhwan; and scattered about both within and without the walls are a number of private houses. Buildings with rooms for some two or three hundred students are also grouped near the mosque.

Jaghbub had reached the height of its importance when Sayed Ibn Ali, the Grand Senussi, made it the center of the brotherhood. When his son, Sayed El Mahdi, succeeded him, the importance of the town continued for about a dozen years until he transferred the center of the brotherhood’s activities to Kufra. Then when Sayed Ahmed El Sherif, as guardian of young Sayed Idris, was in control, Jaghbub again flourished as the capital. Its importance has fluctuated through the years with the presence or absence of the heads of the family within its walls. If Sayed Idris were to make it again the seat of the Senussi rule, in two months the school and the town would be overflowing with members of thebrotherhood, with students, and with pious visitors to the shrine of the Grand Senussi.

But at the time of my visit there were only eighty young Bedouins—from eight to fifteen years of age—studying under theikhwan. If there had been more teachers there would have been more students. But at the time of our visit the head of the Senussi family, whom we had met on his way to Egypt, had his headquarters in Jedabia, far to the westward.

In an inner room of the mosque a beautifully wrought cage of brass incloses the tomb where lies the body of that great man, who sought for his people a pure, austere, and rigidly simple form of Islam, untainted by contact with the outside world. To this shrine every adherent of the brotherhood who can accomplish the journey comes to pay homage and to renew his vows. The students of the school come to Jaghbub with one of two purposes, either to fit themselves to becomeikhwan, the brothers of the fraternity, or simply to go back to their homes in the oases educated men with a right to spiritual leadership in their communities.

Except for the annoying problem of getting camels to take my expedition to Jalo, about 350 kilometers away to the westward, my life in Jaghbub was one of peaceful reflection and preparation for the undertaking before me.

THE COURTYARD OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUBThe mosque was founded eighty years ago by Sayed Ibn Ali El Senussi, the founder of the Senussi sect, which is followed by all the Bedouins of Cyrenaica.

THE COURTYARD OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUB

The mosque was founded eighty years ago by Sayed Ibn Ali El Senussi, the founder of the Senussi sect, which is followed by all the Bedouins of Cyrenaica.

The desert demands and induces a quite different attitude of mind and of spirit from the bustling life of the city. As I wandered about the little town and out into the oasis around it, or stood in the cool, shadowed spaces of the mosque, or sat at times in the tower above it in conversation with learned Bedouins, watching the night fall over the milk-whitekubbaand the brown mass of buildings it dominates, there dropped away from me all the worries and perplexities and problems that the sophisticated life of crowded places brings in its train. Day after day passed, with a morning’s walk, midday prayers in the mosque, a quiet meal, a little work with my instruments or cameras, afternoon prayers, another walk, a meal, followed by the distribution to my men of friendly glasses of tea according to the Bedouin custom, again prayers, and, after quiet contemplation of the evening sky with its peaceful stars, retirement to sleep such as the harassed city dweller does not know.

Among all theikhwanwhom I met and talked with at Jaghbub, there was one who particularly interested me, for he would neither sit and talk with me himself nor could I learn from his brotherikhwanthe reason for his strange aloofness. At length, by chance, I learned the story of Sidi Adam Bu Gmaira.

Sidi Adam is a withered old man with a refinedproud face and a bitter twist to his mouth. Life has not been kind to him in his old age. On my first visit to Jaghbub I stayed at his empty house for three days. I had no chance then of a long conversation with him. This time he came to see me on the evening of my arrival to welcome me back to Jaghbub. I felt that a tragedy lay behind this old man. He is one of the Barassa tribe, one of the élite among the Bedouins, and he is as proud as any of them; yet he does not accept his fate, and for some time I wondered how it was that he, a Bedouin, had not learned to do so. All around me at Jaghbub were types of benevolent humanity. Sidi Adam alone stood out distinct from his brethren, a tragic picture of beaten pride.

Late one evening, as I was coming back from the mosque after prayers, I found Mabrouk, an old slave of Sidi El Mahdi’s. “Peace be on you and the blessing of God,” I greeted him.

“And on you, my master, and God’s mercy and blessing,” he replied.

I sat down with him, and we began talking about the little patch of cultivation to which he was attending. “Ei!” he exclaimed; “we have not much food, but by the blessing of Sidi El Mahdi the little we have is as great as abundance anywhere else.”

Just then a frail, tall figure in a white robe flittedlike a ghost across the courtyard. It was Adam Bu Gmaira. “There goes Sidi Adam,” I said, pointing after him. “He was not looking well when he came to see me to-day. What ails him, I wonder?”

“Nay, it is not his health, my master. It is an unlucky man who incurs the displeasure of our masters”—meaning the Senussi chiefs. “The poor man is suffering for his brother’s bad faith.”

It was then that the story of Bu Gmaira was unfolded to me by Mabrouk.

Sidi Bu Seif Bu Gmaira, Adam’s brother, was at one time the trusted and all-powerfulwakilof Sidi El Mahdi at Jaghbub. When he was quite a child a wall fell on him and smashed in his head. The great Sidi El Senussi, founder of the sect, was fortunately near-by. He took the child’s head and bandaged it together, saying, “This head will one day be a fountain of knowledge and enlightenment.” His prophecy came true. Bu Seif’s father sent the child to Jaghbub when the Grand Senussi settled there and left him to study at the mosque of Jaghbub. He became the leadingikhwanand great professor of Jaghbub. He was also a poet of no small merit. After the death of the Grand Senussi, Sidi El Mahdi took him up and made him his solewakilat Jaghbub when he left for Kufra, intrusting him with all his property and the management thereof. But God willed that heshould become an example to the otherikhwanof one who betrays theasyad’s[master’s] trust. He ran with the world and was seduced by her. He squandered much of Sidi El Mahdi’s property and sold many of his slaves, putting the money in his own pocket. It was decreed that he should be punished. He wrote a letter to a big governor in Egypt telling him that Sidi El Mahdi was away at Kufra, that there was no one at Jaghbub to defend it, and that it was an opportune moment to occupy the place. (Why he did this is inconceivable as nobody ever had any desire to occupy Jaghbub, but doubtless Bu Seif thought he might get something out of it.)

At that time Sidi Mohammed El Abid El Senussi, a nephew of El Mahdi, was staying at Jaghbub. He heard that Bu Seif had written a letter and was sending it to Egypt and that he had arranged for a messenger to take it across the frontier after nightfall. El Abid at once despatched twoikhwanto waylay the messenger and bring him back the letter. Two days later the messenger was brought. El Abid saw the letter but said nothing to Bu Seif. He simply ordered a caravan to be prepared for Kufra and asked Bu Seif to accompany him. The latter tried to excuse himself on account of old age and health, but El Abid insisted. He had no alternative but to go. So they set out on the silent journey across the desert,and on arrival at Kufra the letter was shown by El Abid to Sidi El Mahdi.

A CLOISTER AT THE MOSQUE OF JAGHBUBTHE DOME OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUBThe mosque is built on the same lines as the dome at Medina. It is always kept clean and whitewashed and forms a distant landmark for all those approaching Jaghbub.

A CLOISTER AT THE MOSQUE OF JAGHBUB

THE DOME OF THE MOSQUE AT JAGHBUB

The mosque is built on the same lines as the dome at Medina. It is always kept clean and whitewashed and forms a distant landmark for all those approaching Jaghbub.

On the Friday following their arrival after the midday prayers at the mosque of Taj in Kufra, Sidi El Mahdi called together all theikhwan, including Bu Seif. “Sidi Bu Seif, thou knowest what thou hast done.” There was a hush. Everybody in the mosque tingled with excitement, knowing there was something to come. “But we shall not punish thee. Thou shalt live; thou shalt draw thy pay and thy rations according to custom. God alone will punish those who have betrayed our trust. But thou shalt read aloud to this gathering ofikhwanthe letter which thou hast written with thine own hand.”

Bu Seif had no alternative but to read the letter. Theikhwanwere silent, though there was much surprise, for this was thought to be the most trusted man of Sayed El Mahdi.

“Henceforward thou shalt be relieved of the trouble of looking after our affairs,” said Sidi El Mahdi, dismissing him. Bu Seif was then led to his house a sick man. He died a few days later. His two sons died in the following few months. His remaining two daughters were taken in marriage by members of the Senussi family. All his books—and it is said he possessed the best library in the Senussi circle—and his property were taken by the Senussi family. Theonly remaining man of his family is Adam, his brother, who had inherited the empty house at Jaghbub and the stigma attaching thereto. With the death of Adam the family will be extinct.

MEALS AND MEDICINE

AT intervals there were pleasant marks of hospitality from the Senussi leaders at Jaghbub.

There are various forms of hospitality among the Bedouins, depending upon the rank both of the host and of the guest and upon the circumstances of the given case. When a traveler comes to an oasis or a town in the desert he has with him his own caravan, provided with all the necessities of living. He does not put up at a hotel or go to a friend’s house to live but sets up his own establishment, either pitching his tents and making a camp, or perhaps, as happened to me at Jaghbub, at Jalo, and again at Kufra, occupying a house put at his disposal by some one in the place. Then comes the question of entertainment and honor from the dignitaries of the community. They may either invite one to luncheon or to dinner in their own houses or send a meal to the guest at his own house or camp. The first form of hospitality I shall describe when we reach Jalo, where I was entertainedby twelve or fifteen notables in turn. The second form was that which I received at Jaghbub. This variety of hospitality may be extended from three to seven days, depending upon the respective ranks of host and guest.

Several days after my arrival Sidi Ibrahim and Sidi Mohi Eddin, young sons of Sayed Ahmed, the former guardian of Sayed Idris, who is now in Angora, boys of thirteen and fifteen years of age, made thebeau gesteof showing me hospitality. There arrived at my house a Bedouin of the Barassa tribe, with two slaves laden with food. They set before me a feast of at least a score of dishes, and I was bidden to eat. The representative of my hosts sat courteously by, himself not touching a morsel, while I tasted the dishes in turn; no mortal man could eat them all and live. It was his function as deputy host to see that I lacked nothing to make the meal a satisfying and pleasant one, and to entertain me with conversation while I ate. The men of his tribe are the aristocrats of the desert, tall, erect, handsome, proud and with the spirit and courage of lions. A Barassy, if he were alone in the midst of an alien tribe, would not hesitate to meet an insult or a discourtesy with instant challenge and to fight the whole lot single-handed if it came to that.

Under his solicitously attentive eye, and waitedon by the slaves who accompanied him, I ate my meal. I am not sure that I can remember the full tale of the dishes that were set before me, but they ran something like this: a rich meat soup, made with butter and rice; a great dish of boiled meat; a big bowl of rice with bits of meat in it; eggs, hard-boiled, fried, and made into an omelet with onions and herbs; tripe; meat in tomato sauce; meat croquettes; sausages; vegetable marrows;bamiaor okra;mulukhia, an Egyptian vegetable with a peculiar flavor of its own; marrows stuffed with rice and bits of meat;kus-kus, a distinctively Arab dish made of flour and steamed; a salad; a kind of blanc-mange or pudding of corn-flour and milk; Bedouin pancakes with honey; a sweet pudding of rice; a delicate kind of pastry made of flour with raisins and almonds. This last is an Egyptian dish rather than one native to the desert. The slave who had cooked my meal, knowing me to be an Egyptian, had put forth her best energies to please me and as a climax had provided this Egyptian delicacy. At home we call itsadd-el-hanak, “that which fills the mouth.” It fills the soul of the epicure with joy as well.

THE EXPLORER’S CARAVAN CAUGHT IN A SAND-STORM

In the Bedouin cuisine meat predominates, generally lamb or mutton. True hospitality without meat is impossible for the desert-dweller to imagine. It is the key-stone of the structure not only of Bedouinhospitality but of Bedouin living, except of course when one is on the trek and cannot get it. A guest must be given meat, and it must be meat specially provided for him. When a Bedouin invites one to dine with him, he slaughters a sheep expressly for his visitor. As a rule he will neither prepare the meal nor even kill the animal until one has arrived, in order that there may be no doubt that the preparations were made expressly for the guest. He carries his courtesy to the point of asking a guest, on his arrival to partake of a meal, to lend him a knife with which to slaughter a sheep, for hospitality demands that the guest shall be convinced that full honor is being done him.

The great variety of dishes on the Bedouin menu, when a friend or a stranger is being formally entertained, is the essence of the ceremony. The greater the number the better the host and the higher the honor he is able to pay the partaker of the meal.

Bedouin entertaining concentrates itself upon food, for in the desert there is nothing to be had in the way of pleasure except eating. In the primitive surroundings of an oasis, to eat is the whole story.

Two incidents of that month in Jaghbub interested me as illustrating how, with all their differences, the East and the West are often humorously alike. The one incident was comic, but the other had pathos in it as well as humor.

I had given instructions that no one who came to my house in quest of medicine should ever be turned away. Sidi Zwela, anikhwan, had appealed for help for his cough, and I had given him a bottle of cough-syrup. Two days later he appeared again. He said the first few doses had done him so much good that he had quickly finished the bottle. Might he have another bottle? Abdullahi, who was present at the interview, after his departure growled out a cynical comment: “Yes, he found it sweet and pleasant to the taste. He takes it as a delicacy and not as a medicine.” The comment was probably accurate. More than one child I had heard of during my years in England whose cough persisted strangely so long as the cough-medicine was sweet and tasty.

I am afraid that my men used to boast about the things that could be done with what we had among our stores. The Baskari, after Ahmed had been pulling his leg about my having medicine for everything, came to me to ask for something to cure a slave-girl of absent-mindedness. I could only reply that from my experience in various lands to keep a servant from forgetting was as easy as to prevent water from sinking into the sand.

The second incident involved two men as different as day and night. There came to my house one day a slave of thewakilsent by his master to consult me.It was a matter about which Sidi Hussein could not approach me in person. Bedouin etiquette forbids a man to talk to another about his wife, or even about any particular woman who is not known to both of them. But a slave could say for him what his dignity forbade him to speak in person. The slave’s message was that the wife of thewakilhad borne no children, which was a keen disappointment to the husband. Surely, his master thought, I must have, in my medicine-chest filled with the wonders of the science of the West, some remedy for the poor woman’s childless state.

My thoughts went straight back to my last days at Oxford. An old college servant was an excellent fellow, but most inordinately shy. He came to me one day as I was preparing for the journey home, and with a tremendous summoning of his courage proffered a request.

“If you would allow me, sir,” he said, “to ask a favor? My wife and I have no children. The doctor can’t help us; he has nothing to suggest. Now, sir, back in that country of yours, I’ve heard it said, they have wonderful talismans that will do all kinds of things. I’m not one who has believed much in having to do with magic, but this is a very special case. Do you think you might find me a talisman and send it on? If it’s not asking too much, sir?”

DESERT SANDS COVERING DATE-TREESIn a few years if the wind continues in the same direction the trees will be embedded forever in the sands

DESERT SANDS COVERING DATE-TREES

In a few years if the wind continues in the same direction the trees will be embedded forever in the sands

In the face of his anxiety and the courageous breaking down of the barriers of his shyness, I could only answer gravely but sympathetically that I would do what I could. But the necessity did not arise. He had died, remembered by Balliol men past and present, before I came to Oxford again.

In the case of Sidi Hussein, however, I could not put the matter off. The slave was waiting for an answer, and doubtless his master was waiting for him. I thought quickly. I gave the slave half a bottle of Horlick’s malted milk tablets, with solemn instructions that three were to be taken by the lady each day until all were gone.

When the slave had left, I reflected on the amusing parallel between the two cases. There in Oxford, the West, having exhausted all that its science had to offer on behalf of the universal desire for offspring, had tried to draw upon the spiritual resources of the East. Here in Jaghbub, the East, finding all its spiritual appeals of no avail, had turned to the science of the West for aid. East or West, we alike believe in the miraculous power of the unknown.

But all this pleasant peaceful life and courteous hospitality did not produce camels. I sent messengers out into the surrounding country in quest of the beasts, making my offers of money for their hire larger and larger as time went on, but I could get nofavorable responses. I invoked the aid of Sidi Hussein, but he professed himself powerless. I sent a messenger back to Siwa with a telegram to Sayed Idris in Egypt, informing him of my predicament and asking his aid. As soon as could be expected, a reply came directing Sidi Hussein to give me all the assistance in his power. Still thewakilseemed to be unable to help me.

At last, when things began to seem hopeless, a Zwaya caravan arrived from Jalo on its way to Siwa for dates. I wanted those camels, but of course their owners had no desire to turn back without the dates they had come for. However, a way was found to persuade them, for I communicated to them, through Sidi Hussein, the news that an order had been issued by the Egyptian Government forbidding Zwayas to enter Egyptian territory until they had composed their differences with the Awlad Ali, who live in Egypt, and with whom they had a feud. Since they could not go to Siwa, which is in Egypt, without fear of punishment, there they were stranded at Jaghbub, with nothing to do but go back the way they came. That was precisely the way I wanted them to go. The combined effect of the order of the Egyptian Government, of the message from Sayed Idris, of the persuasions of Sidi Hussein, and of the promise of exorbitant prices for hire of their camels, which they succeededin dragging out of me because of my necessity, finally made them agree to take me to Jalo.

The quiet days of contemplation under the shadows of the whitekubbaand the anxious days of striving for the means of continuing my journey came at last to an end. On February 22, thirty-four days after I had entered Jaghbub, I turned my face to the westward and set out for Jalo.

SAND-STORMS AND THE ROAD TO JALO

I LEFT Jaghbub in accordance with the best tradition. It was a day of sand-storm. The Bedouins say that to start a journey in a sand-storm is good luck. I am not sure, though, that they are not making a virtue of necessity. It is as though an Italian were to say that it is good luck to set out when the sun is shining or a Scotsman when it is raining! Sand-storms are a commonplace in the desert, but as an experience there is nothing commonplace about them.

The day dawns with a clear sky and no hint of storm or wind. The desert smiles upon our setting out, and the caravan moves forward cheerfully. Before long a refreshing breeze comes up from nowhere and goes whispering over the sands. Almost imperceptibly it strengthens, but still there is nothing unpleasant in its blowing. Then one looks down at one’s feet, and the surface of the desert is curiouslychanged. It is as though the surface were underlaid with steam-pipes with thousands of orifices through which tiny jets of steam are puffing out. The sand leaps in little spurts and whirls. Inch by inch the disturbance rises as the wind increases its force. It seems as though the whole surface of the desert were rising in obedience to some up-thrusting force beneath. Larger pebbles strike against the shins, the knees, the thighs. The spray of dancing sand-grains climbs the body till it strikes the face and goes over the head. The sky is shut out; all but the nearest camels fade from view; the universe is filled with hurtling, pelting, stinging, biting legions of torment. Well for the traveler then if the wind is blowing at his back! The torture of the driving sand against his face is bitter. He can scarcely keep his eyes open, and yet he dare not let them close, for one thing worse than the stinging of the sand-grains is to lose one’s way.

THE ZIEGHEN WELLThe first well reached in nine days’ trekking from Jalo on the way to Kufra. The well, which is a water-hole, is only marked by a dim patch of sand, which the caravans scrape as they go along. Water is found at four or five feet deep. The fact that this well is so indistinctly marked makes it easy to miss it entirely unless the guide is a very good one.A HALT IN THE DESERTThe caravan on its way to Kufra from Jalo. Note change from sandy ground to grass.

THE ZIEGHEN WELL

The first well reached in nine days’ trekking from Jalo on the way to Kufra. The well, which is a water-hole, is only marked by a dim patch of sand, which the caravans scrape as they go along. Water is found at four or five feet deep. The fact that this well is so indistinctly marked makes it easy to miss it entirely unless the guide is a very good one.

A HALT IN THE DESERTThe caravan on its way to Kufra from Jalo. Note change from sandy ground to grass.

A HALT IN THE DESERT

The caravan on its way to Kufra from Jalo. Note change from sandy ground to grass.

Fortunately the wind comes in driving gusts, spaced in groups of three or four, with a few seconds of blessed lull after each group. While the gusts are making their assault, one turns one’s face away, pulls one side of one’skufiaforward like a screen, and almost holds one’s breath. When the lull comes, one puts thekufiaback, takes a quick look about to see that one has kept one’s bearings, then swiftly prepares for the next attack.

It is as though some great monster of fabled size and unearthly power were puffing out these hurtling blasts of sand upon the traveler’s head. The sound is that of a giant hand drawing rough fingers in regular rhythm across tightly stretched silk.

When the sand-storm comes there is nothing to do but to push doggedly on. Around any stationary object, whether it might be a post, a camel, or a man, the eager sands swiftly gather, piling up and up until there remains only a smoothly rounded heap. If it is torture to go on, it is death itself to halt.

A sand-storm is likely to be at its worst for five or six hours. While it persists, a caravan can only keep going, with careful vigilance that the direction be not missed. When the storm is at its fiercest, the camels will be scarcely moving, but their instinct tells them that it is death to halt. How instinctively wise they are is shown by the fact that when it begins to rain they sense no such danger and will immediately stand still and even lie down.

The storm drives the sand into everything one possesses. It fills clothes, food, baggage, instruments, everything. It searches out every weak spot in one’s armor. One feels it, breathes it, eats it, drinks it—and hates it. The finest particles even penetrate the pores of the skin, setting up a distressing irritation.

There are certain rules about the behavior of sand-storms which every Bedouin knows and is quite ready to tell the stranger to the desert. The wind that makes the storm will rise with the day or go to sleep with the sun. There will be no sand-storm at night when there is a moon. A sand-storm never joins the afternoon and evening. These are excellent rules; but on our trek to Jalo every one of them was broken! We had storms when the moon was shining and storms when the night was dark. We had storms that began before dawn and storms that did not pause till long after the sun was set. We had storms that not only joined afternoon and evening but wiped out the line of demarcation between them. We had little storms and great storms, the worst I had yet seen; storms that were short and storms that were long; storms by day and storms by night. But even under this interminable bombardment, I did not lose the spell of the desert’s charm. Sometimes at evening, when we had been battling doggedly against the flying squadrons of the sand for hours, the wind would stop dead as if a master had put up a peremptory finger. Then for an hour or so the fine dust would settle slowly down like a falling mist. But afterward the moon would rise, and under the pale magic of its flooding light the desert would put on a new personality. Had there been a sand-storm? Whocould remember? Could this peaceful expanse of loveliness ever be cruel? Who could believe it?

The trek to Jalo was therefore not an easy one. The sand-storms were a constant annoyance and sometimes a menace. The latter part of the way led through a country of sand-dunes, and the caravan had to go winding about among them. To keep one’s course straight to the proper point of the compass in spite of those wrigglings and twistings takes all one’s skill and attention at the best of times. When a sand-storm is torturing and blinding the whole caravan, the task becomes a staggering one. Nevertheless we pushed steadily on, making on the whole good time of it.

In spite of the viciousness of the attacking sands there were hours of pleasure on this trek.

Memorable were the genial evenings when we were all gathered around the fire ofhatabfor our after-dinner glasses of tea. Then stories would begin to go around. Old Moghaib, with the firelight playing on the gray hairs of his shaggy beard, would begin by telling bits of Zwaya history when his grandfather used to go to Wadai to fight the black tribes and bring back camels and slaves. Saleh would follow with a tale of the great profits that his cousin had made on his last trip to Wadai, when he did not have to fight anybody but brought back leather, ostrich-feathers,and ivory to sell in Barka, which is the Arabic name for Cyrenaica.

THE ARMED MEN OF THE CARAVANHassanein Bey is mounted on his Arab horse, Baraka

THE ARMED MEN OF THE CARAVAN

Hassanein Bey is mounted on his Arab horse, Baraka

Then I would turn to Ali and demand a love-song. He was a poet of sorts and betrothed to Hussein’s sister. If the girl is anything like her brother, the boy is not doing badly for himself. Ali would look to his uncle for permission to comply with my request and find the old man busy with his rosary and pretending to be oblivious of the turn that matters had taken. It does not befit the dignity of a gray-haired Bedouin to sit and hear love-songs from the younger generation. But his respect for me keeps him from leaving the gathering.

Finally he mutters in his beard, “Sing to the bey, since he likes to hear our Bedouin songs.” Ali’s pleasant voice rises on the evening air, and the beads of old Moghaib’s rosary fall through his fingers with the deliberate regularity characteristic of a man who is conscious of nothing but his devotions.

So Ali sings:

“I went singingAnd all men turned to hear me.It is KhadraWho draws the song from my soul.Red is her cheek like spilt blood;Slim and round she is like a reed.None so young, none so oldNot to know her.If I meet her in the way,I will flaunt her—Like a scarf upon my spear.”

“I went singing

And all men turned to hear me.

It is Khadra

Who draws the song from my soul.

Red is her cheek like spilt blood;

Slim and round she is like a reed.

None so young, none so old

Not to know her.

If I meet her in the way,

I will flaunt her—

Like a scarf upon my spear.”

As his voice dies away, is it my imagination, or are the rosary beads in Moghaib’s fingers moving a little faster? After a pause Ali sings again:

“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,Thy mouth flows honeyOver teeth of ivory.Thy waist is slenderLike the lion’s running in the chase.Wilt thou have me?Or thinkest thou of another?Thy form is rounded like a whip—To lie on thy breastWere to be in Paradise.Love cannot be hidden,But Fate is in the hands of God.”

“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,

Thy mouth flows honey

Over teeth of ivory.

Thy waist is slender

Like the lion’s running in the chase.

Wilt thou have me?

Or thinkest thou of another?

Thy form is rounded like a whip—

To lie on thy breast

Were to be in Paradise.

Love cannot be hidden,

But Fate is in the hands of God.”

There is silence in the camp, except for the murmur of the dying fire and the clicking of the rosary. But the rhythm of the beads is significantly changed now. Toward the end of Ali’s song Moghaib’s fingers had stopped dead for a moment and then hurried nervously on as though to deny that they had halted. The old man had been a great lover in histime, and the boy’s song had stirred his blood with memories. Perhaps it was fortunate for others around that fire that they had no clicking rosary-beads to betray them.

After Bu Salama Well, which is a day’s trek from Jaghbub, we were going through a region where there were remains of a petrified forest. At intervals we passed great blocks of stone erect like guideposts along the way. Ages ago they had been living trees, but now the forces of nature had transferred them from the vegetable kingdom to the mineral. A few smaller bits of petrified wood were scattered about, but most of those were hidden beneath the sand. The larger tree sections had remained visible because the etiquette of the desert demands that any one passing such a fallen landmark shall set it erect again. It is also good form, on a newly traveled track, to build little piles of stones at intervals as notice to later comers that here lies the way. Sometimes one comes upon a tree or a shrub on which hang shreds and patches of clothing, and there one is under obligation to add a thread or a fragment from his own outfit. These accumulating tokens confirm the tree as a landmark to later comers and afford the encouragement of the thought that others have been this way before. In the dead waste and monotony of the desert any evidence of the passingof one’s fellow-man is a cheering incident. The sight of camel-dung, of the bleached bones of a camel, or even the skeleton of an unfortunate traveler are welcome to the eye, for at least they show that a caravan had passed that way.

Shortly after leaving Jaghbub we came upon a different kind of landmark. It consisted of a row of small sand hillocks like ant-hills stretching across the track. It is called Alam Bu Zafar, the Bu Zafar landmark, and it is the sign and symbol of a pleasant Bedouin custom. On any trek, the new-comers to that particular route are expected to slaughter a sheep for those in the caravan who have come that way before. The custom is called Bu Zafar. If the novices do not awaken promptly to their responsibilities, the veterans give them a hint. One or two of them dash ahead of the caravan and build a row of sand-piles across the way. When the caravan reaches the significant landmark, they call out suggestively, “Bu Zafar, Bu Zafar.” Invariably the hint is taken, a sheep is slaughtered, and the ceremonial feast is held.

In our caravan there were several who had not gone over this route before, including myself. I bought a sheep before leaving Jaghbub so that we who were new to this route might give Bu Zafar to the old-timers. The Alam Bu Zafar that we cameupon, therefore, was not of our making, but left by some other caravan.

HAPPY TEBUS AT KUFRAA BIDIYAT FAMILY

HAPPY TEBUS AT KUFRA

A BIDIYAT FAMILY

We were fortunate in finding grazing for our camels almost every day until we reached Jalo. Sometimes, it is true, we had to go out of our way to reach the patches of green among the sand-dunes, but we always found them. Three kinds of vegetation grow sparsely and in infrequent spots in this part of the desert.Belbalis a grayish green bush, whose foliage is not good eating for the camels. It grows only in the vicinity of a well. Ordinarily the camels will not touch it, but if very hungry they will. Then unceasing vigilance is necessary to save oneself from the annoyance of having a sick camel on one’s hands.

Damranis a similar bush, but with darker foliage and with brown stems which make good fuel when dried. This is excellent food for the camels, and they eat it eagerly. The third variety of vegetation isnisha, which grows in tufts of thin leaves up to a foot high. This too makes good grazing. It is only in the winter months, however, when the scanty rains come, that these plants are available. No Bedouin would think of making a journey between Jalo and Jaghbub in summer without carrying a supply of fodder for his camels.

On the tenth day from Jaghbub we reached the well of Hesaila, the first water after Bu Salama. Itwas marked by a few trees and small green bushes, and after we had scooped out the drifted sand with our hands, the water seemed good. But the after-effects were not so pleasant.

Two days later we found ourselves on the outskirts of the Oasis of Jalo. Before we could enter, a messenger came rushing to meet us. He carried a letter from Sidi Mohammed El Zerwali, theikhwan, who had been directed by Sayed Idris to accompany us to Kufra, asking me to camp outside until they could prepare to receive us properly. Sayed Idris, before he had left Jalo two months before, had told them that I was on the way and directed that I should be shown all possible courtesy. They had expected us long before this, and when we did not come they decided that I had changed my plans.

We withdrew a short distance from the town and camped. A few hours later an impressive group of a score or more of Bedouins came out and drew themselves up in a long line before the village of Lobba, one of the two villages that make up Jalo. Dressed in our cleanest and most ceremonial clothes, and my men provided with ammunition for the complimentary salute, we went forward. I approached and shook hands with Sidi Senussi Gader Bouh, thekaimakamor governor of the district, the members of the Council of Jalo, and other prominent citizens. Thekaimakammade a speech of welcome, to which I replied. My men fired their guns in salute, and we passed into the town.

I went to the house which was put at my disposal, and received a visit of ceremony from the Council of Jalo and from Sidi El Fadeel, the uncle of Sayed Idris. After dinner with Senussi Gader Bouh, I spent the evening in discussing plans for the trip with Sidi Zerwali.

AT THE OASIS OF JALO

JALO is one of the most important oases in Cyrenaica. It lies about 240 kilometers from the Mediterranean at its nearest point, beyond Jedabia, and about 600 kilometers from Kufra, which is directly south. The oasis is not only the largest producer of dates in all the province, but it is the trade outlet for the products of Wadai and Darfur which come through Kufra. Everything from the outside world that goes to Kufra passes through Jalo.

“The desert is a sea,” said El Bishari, a prominent chieftain of the Majabra tribe, “and Jalo is its port.” It was at the height of its importance something like thirty years ago when El Mahdi maintained the Senussi capital at Kufra. In those days caravans of two or three hundred camels came and went between Jalo and the south each week, but when I was there the traffic had shrunk to less than a tenthof that. In summer, however, it is swollen by the demands of the date harvest.

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