CHAPTER XIII

Sunday, March 25.Start at 7:45A.M., halt at 1:45P.M.Make 24 kilometers. Highest temperature 32°, lowest 14°. Strong northeast wind all last night and until 4:30 to-day. Cloudy all the morning, no sun; a few drops of rain at midday. It clears in the afternoon. We walk all the way among little hillocks of dryhatabgraduallyincreasing from a few inches to eight feet in height as we near the well. The hillocks are interspersed with patches of sand strewn with bits of black broken stone. The sand gets gradually softer until it is moist a few inches under the surface.At 9:15 we sighted to the southwest about 3 kilometers away the sand-dunes of El Washka, a small well of the Zieghen group. At 9:30 we passed on our left Matan Bu Houh, the old well of Zieghen. We camped near the few date-trees that stand by the best well of the group, El Harrash.APPROACHING THE HILLS OF ARKENUThe explorer’s caravan nearing the first oasis that he discovered seven days’ journey south of Kufra. The photograph was taken in the morning, and in the foreground is seen a ray of sunshine coming from beyond the hills.In the desert a well does not mean a nicely excavated and stoned-up arrangement such as one finds in other parts of the world, with a bucket and windlass or a pump. In this part of the desert a well is a spot where the water is close to the surface and can be easily obtained by digging. It is just a damp patch of sand which the Bedouins scrape open with their hands, getting water at three or four feet down. Between the visits of caravans the sands drift over the place and choke the water-hole, so that each newcomer must clean it out for himself. But the joy of an ample supply of fresh water after days of having just enough for making tea, with no chance of a bath or even a shave, is sufficient reward for all the labor of digging out the well. If it has been a long journey the first thing to think of is the camels. After they have been watered and a good meal digested,washing is the most important item in the program. If the water is scarce, clothes have to wait until the next well, because the question of water for the trek has to be considered.As soon as the men have rested, sheepskins are filled and left for the night. Early next morning two or three men go to see which of the sheepskins has leaked and, if possible, detect the cause of the leakage. They also make a point of separating the bad sheepskins from the good ones, so that on the journey water should be taken on the first day or two from those which leak or are unreliable.The first night at a well, however tired the caravan may be, is always made the opportunity for great rejoicing, singing, and dancing. Before arriving at the well one’s idea of a rest has been at least four or five days’ stay and plenty of water to make up for past privation. Thoughts dwell on the pleasing idea of really having water to splash about with. Curiously enough, after a single day’s rest, a fever of restlessness gets hold of one again, and the luxury of abundance is left most eagerly for the privations of the road. No matter if it be a big well surrounded by a fertile oasis, full of the comforts of life, yet one returns with a sigh of contentment to the twelve hours’ trek and the lunch of dried dates.The well, when scraped out, is probably about thesize of a tea-table for two. The moist sand holds the walls together. Usually one leaves it alone a little for the sand to settle, but the water is always sandy, and it is too much bother to strain it. Not on one single occasion did I drink a glass of water that was not cloudy, and never did I see the bottom of my zinc cup while drinking. The filter which kind friends said I must take with me I never used at all until we got to the Sudan, and there the water was really bad; in an inhabited area you do not know what may have happened to it. And then when we tried to get this famous filter working, we found there were no washers for it, so that was the end of the story of the filter.Dirt in the desert, it may be necessary to remark, is quite different from dirt anywhere else. It is not unwholesome, for the sand is a clean thing, and the clothes of the Bedouins let in the air. Vermin is there, but it is inevitable, and the Bedouin pays no heed to it. I might have just had my bath, and then I would go and sit down for a glass of tea with my men and—well, you are bound to collect these things!CHAPTER XIIITHE CHANGING DESERT AND A CORRECTED MAPMonday, March 26.At El Harrash Well of the Zieghen group. Highest temperature 27°, lowest 6°. Fine and clear with northeast wind, which develops into a bad sand-storm at eleven. The storm continues until 6:30 in the evening, and the wind does not go down until two hours later.Our halt at Zeighen should have been only for a night, but the severe sand-storm kept us wind-bound for another day. Zieghen is merely a group of four wells, the two that we passed on Sunday, El Harrash, where we were camped, and another, Bu Zerraig, twenty kilometers to the east.During the day Bu Helega talked to Abdullahi about my coming to the desert.“You have audacity, you Egyptians,” he said. “For your bey to come twice to our country, which no stranger has visited before in my time, that is boldness. Why does he come here and leave all God’sbounty back there in Egypt, if not for some secret purpose? He comes to our unknown country to measure and map it, and, by God, not once but twice.”IN THE OPEN DESERTStudy of shadows cast by the camelsEven my good friend Bu Helega was suspicious of my intentions in penetrating into his country.I finally discovered the real basis of the antagonism of those who live in the desert to the coming of persons from the outside world. It is not religious fanaticism; it is merely the instinct of self-preservation. If a single stranger penetrated to Kufra, the cherished center of the life of their tribe, it would be, as the Bedouins say, “the camel’s nose inside the flap of the tent.” After him would come others, and the final outcome would be foreign domination. That would mean the loss of their independence and the paying of taxes. They can hardly be blamed for dreading either of those results.The changes produced by time in the desert, which we are accustomed to think of as eternally the same, are interesting. When Rohlfs passed to the westward of Zieghen on his way to Kufra in 1879 he reported a broad stretch of green vegetation here. To-day there is no extent of greenness, merely a great deal ofhatab, dead brushwood. Rohlfs’s statement, however, is confirmed by Bu Helega, who says that when he was a child his father used to takehim to Kufra when he went to get dates, because the Bedouins believe that the waters of Shekherra, the headquarters of the Zwayas near Jalo, are bad for children in the summer. Bu Helega used to be carried on his father’s back most of the way. It was in those days that the trip was made in three days and five nights, without halts. They gave the camels but one meal between Jalo and Zieghen; when they reached the latter place the beasts were fed on the green stuff that was growing there then. What has seemed like an error on Rohlfs’s part in describing so much vegetation at Zieghen is thus demonstrated to be merely the result of a difference in conditions after forty-five years. It is probably a variation in the water conditions in the soil which has turned the living shrubs into fire-wood.Our trek from Buttafal to Zieghen illustrated the uncertainties of desert travel. In spite of all the precautions that we could possibly think of, our fuel ran out, one camel died, and two others were so exhausted that they were to fail us soon. The food for the camels was used up also, and from Zieghen to Kufra they were fed on date-tree leaves, gathered at the former place, which was very poor food for them indeed.I picked up from a Bedouin a proverb with a cynical slant to it: “Your friend is like your femalecamel; one day she gives you milk, and the next she fails you.”On the two evenings at Zieghen I took observations of Polaris with the theodolite. When the observations were worked out I found that Zieghen was about a hundred kilometers farther to the east-northeast than Rohlfs had placed it. He did not visit the place and therefore could make no observations on the spot but relied on what he was told by the Bedouins. I found also that Zieghen is 310 meters above sea-level.Tuesday, March 27.Start at 8:15A.M., halt at 8P.M.Make 47 kilometers. Highest temperature 26°, lowest 8°. Fine and clear, cold strong northeast wind all day and all night. A few white clouds. From El Harrash Well the guide points out the direction of Kufra as being five degrees south of southeast. For two hours we walk amonghatab, which extends about 10 kilometers southeast of the well. Then we enter a region of soft sand, a little undulating. The undulations gradually increase until we get into the sand-dune country late in the afternoon.At 2:30 we sighted a range of sand-dunes to the east, with a few black stonegarasor small hills in between them. They were about twenty or thirty kilometers away and marched off to the southeast as far as we could see. Later there weregherds—sand-dunes—to the southwest as well, and at 5:30 thegherdsclosed in across our track and we definitely entered them. So far, however, they were not high or difficult to cross.The complete separation between the Bedouins and the Tebus on the march impressed me again. The blacks say that they do not like the Zwayas and fear them. The Tebu camels were well kept and better behaved than those of the Bedouins. Each Tebu camel had a lead-rope and did not run loose as the others did.In the afternoon we passed the landmark of Jebail El Fadeel. As with most desert landmarks, its name commemorates some one who lost his life there.El Fadeel was one of the best guides in the desert. He was going toward Kufra from Jalo with a caravan. Sand-storms of great severity swept down upon them. While there is no direct evidence of what happened, the testimony of what was finally found told the story eloquently. Fadeel’s eyes must have been badly affected by the driving sand. He bandaged them and, thus deprived of sight, had those who were with him describe the landmarks as they reached them. Nevertheless they missed the wells of Zieghen and tried to struggle on direct to Kufra. The desert took them in its relentless grip, and of the entire caravan but one camel survived. The beast struggled on to its home at Kufra, led by its infallibleinstinct. There it was recognized by the markings on its neck as belonging to El Fadeel. A rescue party followed the camel’s track back into the desert, but its help came too late. The bodies of the men lay stiff upon the sand, near the landmark now known by El Fadeel’s name, the bandage on the old guide’s eyes revealing the tragic truth.THE HILLS OF ARKENUThe first oasis that the explorer discovered on his way from Kufra to the Sudan; the camp can be easily discernedWednesday, March 28.There were heavy clouds all day, with little sunshine. It was cloudy too in the evening. A cold northeast wind developed at 8A.M.into a sand-storm lasting for three hours and a half. The cold wind continued on into the evening. A few drops of rain fell at 10:30P.M.We walked among sand-dunes for two hours, when we entered undulating country, covered with broken black stone. It was bad going for the camels. An hour later the black stone belt ended and we came into the sand-dunes again.At 11:30 in the forenoon the chain of the Hawayesh Hills were on our left and sand-dunes and black stonegarason our right. At 12:15 we passed on our left four kilometers away Goor El Makhzan landmark, hills of black stone ranging from fifty to one hundred and fifty meters in height. At 1:45 we passed the landmark of El Gara Wobentaha, whichmeans “thegaraand its daughter,” two sugar-loaf hills of appropriate proportions to suit the designation.I talked with some of the Bedouins about our losing our way in 1921. They showed no surprise. To these desert dwellers it is all a part of the day’s work, losing one’s way, one’s camels, one’s water, or one’s fuel.Thursday, March 29.The lowest temperature this day was not recorded, as the minimum thermometer was broken in the storm.The Hawayesh Hills were on our left until mid-afternoon. At 11:30 we entered soft and very undulating sand-dunes, difficult going for men and camels. At 1:30 we passed Garet El Sherif to the right, the biggest landmark we had yet seen. It was a ridge-shapedgara, one hundred and fifty meters long and about one hundred meters high, with three smaller ones beside it, two to the south and one to the north. At three we got into heavy dunes again and two hours later passed into flat country, with harder sand and patches of black stone. At 3:30 in the morning the worst sand-storm we had encountered began. It swept the tents from the moorings, and mine collapsed on top of me, smashing a few of my instruments and also the small chronometer.With the whole tent on top of me, weighted down with the constantly growing load of sand, I was threatened with suffocation, but fortunately I got hold of a tent-peg, with which I held the canvas away from my face. Some of the men tried to come to my assistance, but I shouted to them to put the sacks of flour and pieces of luggage on their tents and mine to keep them down. I lay in my uncomfortable position under the tent for two hours or so. The sand came hurtling through the gap in the tent like shot from a gun. The men and the camels suffered badly. Had the pole of my tent fallen a fraction of an inch to one side, it would have smashed my big chronometer, and then what a difference it would have made to the scientific results of the expedition!To the outside world the work of an explorer is either failure or success with a distinct line between them. To the explorer himself that line is very hazy. He may have won his way through, amassed all the information that he sought, be within a score of miles of his journey’s end; then, suddenly, his camels give out. He must abandon the best part of his luggage. Water and food take precedence; the boxes containing his scientific instruments, his records, have to be left behind. Maybe his plight is still worse, and he must sacrifice everything, even his own life. To the outside world he would be a failure; generous criticsmight even call him a glorious failure, but in any case he has failed. Yet how much is that failure akin to success! Sometimes on those long treks the man who fails has done more, has endured more hardships, than the man who succeeds. An explorer’s sympathy is rather with the man who has struggled and failed than with the man who succeeds, for only the explorer knows how the man who failed fought to preserve the fruits of his work.The Bedouins understood this. There is a trait in their character that surprised, even astounded me sometimes, until I grew to understand it. There was often no hilarity, no rejoicing when the day’s march came to its appointed end. “To-day we have arrived, but to-morrow—” they seem to say. Because you have succeeded to-day it is nothing to brag about. It was not by your skill; it was destiny. To-morrow you may start an easier journey and fail horribly. On my first long trip in the Libyan Desert in 1921, between the oases of Buseima (one of the Kufra group) and Kufra, a three days’ journey, we came across the remnants of a perished caravan. There was a hand still sticking out of the sands, the skin yellow like parchment. As we passed, one of the men went reverently and hid it with sand. A three days’ trip, and yet those men had lost their way and died of thirst.THE EXPLORER’S CAMP AT OUENATTHE CARAVAN APPROACHING THE GRANITE HILLS OF OUENATThere are many gruesome tales of the remnants of a caravan perishing within sight of the well. So far from being deterred from taking the same route, the Bedouin only says that it was God’s decree that they should die on the road. “Better the entrails of a bird than the darkness of the tomb,” one Bedouin told me, meaning that he preferred to be eaten by vultures.It was a very tiring day, what with the disturbance to our rest during the night and the heavy going through the soft dunes. But the men were cheerful because we were getting near to Kufra. The news that Bu Helega, who lived at Hawari, the first halting-place on the outskirts of Kufra, was going to slaughter a sheep and provide a feast was an added incentive.The camels were weak and thin, but three of them whose home is in Kufra led the way all day without being driven, in spite of the difficult walking over the dunes.At 6:45 we sighted Garet El Hawaria, the great landmark that indicates the approach to Kufra.Friday, March 30.We started at 7:45A.M., halted at 5:45P.M., made thirty-five kilometers, and arrived at Hawari. A few drops of rain fell in the late evening. The ground was flat, soft sand, undulating a trifle, and marked with patches of black andred stone. At 9:30 we entered upon the zone of red sand of Kufra. We came across pieces of petrified wood all day. At 1:15 we passed Garet El Hawaria, and at 3:30 sighted the date-trees of Hawari. An hour and a half later we entered the oasis and soon camped at Awadel.We had arrived at the first outpost of Kufra. This name was given in Rohlfs’s time to the four somewhat widely separated oases of Taiserbo, Buseima, Ribiana, and Kebabo—Rohlfs’s designation for the present-day Kufra—but now it is restricted to the last named.Hawari is the northernmost part of the present Kufra, a comparatively small oasis with the three villages of Hawari, Hawawira, and Awadel. Seventeen kilometers south lies El Taj, the seat of local government and the principal settlement. It is situated on a rocky cliff overlooking the depression of the oasis proper, which lies to the south and contains the villages of Jof, Boema, Buma, El Zurruk, El Talalib, and El Tollab.I had intended to go straight on to El Taj, the chief town of Kufra, the next day, but Bu Helega claimed the right of hospitality and insisted that I should stop a day at the oasis which is his home. After a good night’s rest—undisturbed by sand-storms or collapsing of tents—and a shave, I was quite ready todo full justice to the breakfast sent by the Bedouins of a caravan which had just arrived from Wadai. At the same time I gathered some interesting information which made me consider making a change in my plans.I sent a messenger on to El Taj with letters to Sayed El Abid, the cousin of Sayed Idris and the chief Senussi in Kufra, and to Jeddawi, Sayed Idris’s personalwakil.In the afternoon Zerwali escorted me to Hawari, where I was received at thezawiaby theikhwanand the notables of the town. After the usual words of welcome and exchange of compliments, I went to dinner at the house of Zerwali’s uncle. The Bedouin chiefs protested that I should not have come direct to Hawari but should have camped outside to give them an opportunity for a ceremonial reception. They had apparently heard how I was received at Jalo and would have liked to duplicate it for me here. I heard rumors of intrigues among some of the Zwaya chiefs, who were suspicious of my purpose in coming a second time to Kufra and, as a protest, had refused to attend the dinner. They were influential chiefs, and the news made me determined to press on to El Taj before they could send word there in prejudice of my coming.After the meal I rode home through the beautifulmoonlight and on my arrival found a difficult task before me. Egaila, Bu Helega’s eldest son, had been bitten by a scorpion. With more confidence in my medicine-chest than I had myself, Bu Helega asked that I should cure him. I took the anti-scorpion serum and went to the house, where I found the boy very ill indeed, burning with fever.At the last moment before leaving Cairo these serums had been included in my equipment, and a doctor friend, while he was shaking my hand and I was saying good-by to people all around me, explained to me (perhaps most lucidly) just how to employ the serums. It was the first time I had ever attempted that kind of injection, and I tried to conjure up the scene and recall fragments of those parting instructions, but it only struck me how different was that dimly lit room with the anxious friends and relatives watching my every movement from the hearty send-off when the serum had been added to my stock in trade.However, in spite of my doubts whether the case was not too far advanced for treatment, I administered the serum and went to my camp wondering what the outcome would be.Before long I heard a crowd approaching my tent with loud outcries which sounded hostile to my ears. Probably, I thought, the boy was already dead, andhis death would be laid at my door instead of at that of the scorpion.VALLEY OF ERDIWhile there remained many miles of travel for the expedition, after this valley was reached the long waterless desert treks were at an end. The march to El Obeid was by easy stages through fertile country from village to village.DESERT BREAKING INTO ROCK COUNTRY SOUTH OF OUENATI summoned my men to protect the box of instruments, which I suspected would be the first object of attack, and prepared myself for a hostile approach. It was a disturbing moment.But great was my relief when I detected in the cries of those who were coming a note rather of rejoicing than of hostility. Presently Bu Helega entered my tent and thanked me with impressive warmth for the relief which I had given his son.“It was like magic,” he declared with fervor, “Allah is great. That medicine of yours has made the boy well again.”In appropriate terms I answered, “Recovery comes from God.” Already the fever was abating and the boy evidently on his way to recovery. I thanked God internally for the good fortune which had attended my ministrations. If the boy had died, my position would have been a dangerous one. When my visitors had left, I went out into the moonlight for a walk among the graceful palms.CHAPTER XIVKUFRA: OLD FRIENDS AND A CHANGE OF PLANSunday, April 1.We started at 9:45A.M.and halted at 2P.M., making 17 kilometers, and arrived at El Taj. At 11:15 we entered a broken rocky country, very rolling, covered with patches of black and red sandstone until we reached Taj.Egaila came to help in loading the camels. He had quite recovered from his scorpion-bite and was to go with us to Taj. Breakfast was sent by Bu Helega for me and my men. When I protested that he should not have taken the trouble, he retorted that I should have given him an opportunity to provide the customary three days’ hospitality. A little later a slave-girl came from him with a huge bowl of rice, chicken, and eggs.She was evidently dressed especially for the occasion and was quite charming in her dainty attire of blue cloth with a red sash about her slim waist.I told her that we were starting at once and should not need the food.“You may need it on the way,” she replied shyly. “I cooked it myself.”“If that is the case,” I assured her, “I will accept it gladly.” She was obviously pleased and immediately went back for another bowl quite as large and inviting. I bowed to the inevitable and sent my thanks to her master.We were given a pleasant send-off by the people of Awadel, and I set out at the head of my caravan on Bu Helega’s horse. We needed no guide just now, for I knew the way myself.“Aye, the bey knows the way too well,” said Senussi Bu Hassan. “He will soon become a guide in this country of ours.”The approach to Kufra from the north has an element of surprise in it that makes it doubly interesting. We marched through a gently rolling country with an irregular ridge of no great height forming the horizon ahead of us. Suddenly the top of the ridge resolved itself into the outlines of a group of buildings, their walls hard to distinguish at any distance from the rocks and sands they match so well in color and in form. This was El Taj, the headquarters of the Senussi family in Kufra. As we entered the town, we saw that the ground dropped abruptly away beyond it, down to the valley of Kufra. This pleasant valley is a shallow, roughly shaped oval bowl, forty kilometers in extent on its long diameter and twenty kilometers on the shortone. It is dotted with palm-trees, and across it in an irregular line from northeast to southwest are strung the six settlements of Boema, Buma, Jof, Zurruk, Talalib, and Tollab. Close to Jof lie the blue shimmering waters of a fair-sized lake. At this mid-point in the sand-waste of the desert this expanse of water is both a boon and an aggravation. The mere sight of so much water brings refreshment to the eyes weary of looking at nothing but sand; but to the parched throat it is worse than a mirage to the vision, for its waters are salt.On our entry into Taj I was met cordially by old friends. Sayed El Abid, the cousin of Sayed Idris and the chief Senussi in Kufra, was ill with rheumatism, but Sidi Saleh El Baskari, thekaimakam, Sidi Mahmoud El Jeddawi, Sayed Idris’swakil, and severalikhwanbrought words of welcome from him and conducted me to the house of Sayed Idris where I was to stay. It was here that we had lived on the first trip to Kufra two years before, and immediately I felt at home.“You will have to initiate your men into the ways of Kufra,” said El Baskari whimsically. “Even Zerwali has not been here for thirteen years.”At once the hospitality began, with coffee brought by the commandant of the troops. I had just timefor a short rest before a slave came to take me to the house of Sayed El Abid for a meal. Led by the same messenger that came for us two years ago, I walked through the same streets, and entered the same wonderful house of the Senussi leader with a curious feeling as though time had stood still or gone back. El Abid’s house is a labyrinth of corridors, lined with doors behind which live the members of his family and his retainers. We passed into the familiar room whose spaces seemed more richly adorned than ever with gorgeous rugs, many-colored cushions, and stiffly embroidered brocades. On the walls hang the well-remembered collection of clocks, barometers, and thermometers in which my host takes naïve delight. The clocks, of which there are at least a dozen of assorted shapes and sizes, were all going strong.THE DESERT FROM THE HILLS OF OUENATOuenat is the bigger of the two oases which the explorer discovered. In the foreground is the explorer’s tent and camp. The hills are of granite and are about fifteen hundred feet high.Sidi Saleh came to bear me company and to apologize for the enforced absence of my host, Sayed El Abid. There was set before me a feast fit for the gods, or for mortals fresh from the monotonous living of the desert: lamb, rice, vegetables,mulukhiah, an Egyptian vegetable rather like spinach, delicious bread, sweet vinegar, milk, sweets, followed by coffee, milk with almond pulp beaten up in it, and finally the ceremonial three glasses of tea, flavored with amber, rose-water, and mint.When the meal was over and I had returned to my house, I had barely time to see about the disposition of my baggage and discuss the question of camels for the next stage of the journey when the slave came to conduct me again to El Abid’s house for dinner. El Baskari was again my host, a dignified, kindly figure in a beautifulgibbaof yellow and gold, having changed the classical soft Bedouintarbush, which he had been wearing, for a white silkkufiaand a green and goldegal.When this second meal had reached the point of scented tea and incense, suddenly the clocks began to strike, each with its own particular tone, the Arabic hour of three—which then meant nine by the standard of the outside world. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt myself back in Oxford with the hour striking in endless variety of tones from all the church towers of the university town.I went out into the moonlight with the fragrance of the rose-water and the incense lingering about me. I stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the waters of the lake and reflected on my former visit to Kufra when this was my goal. Now it was the beginning of the most interesting part of my journey. I heard the voices ofikhwanand students reading the “Hesb” in the evening quiet. Abdullahi slipped out of the shadows and stood beside me.“This is the night of half-Shaban” (meaning the middle of the month before Ramadan), he said in a low tone as of a man who thinks aloud. “God will grant the wishes of one who prays to-night.”For several minutes we two stood there silently. My face was toward the southeast, where lay an untrodden track and oases that are “lost.” But Abdullahi turned to the northeast, where lies Egypt and his family and children. I did not need to ask him for what he prayed.Monday, April 2.At Hawari I had been told by the Bedouin caravan from Wadai that a French patrol had come north as far as the well at Sarra over the main trade-route from Wadai to Kufra. This was the route I had intended at first to follow, but it seemed that only the small portion of it which lay between Sarra and Kufra remained unexplored. Again I had heard vague stories of the “lost” oases on the direct route south which I had planned some time to explore, although I knew that this direct route to Darfur in the Sudan was practically never used either by Bedouins or by Sudanese because of its supposed difficulties and dangers. The story of the French patrol turned my mind again to these oases, and I determined to try and find them rather than to follow my original plan.I set out decided to do all that was possible to explorethese lost oases, but, failing that, I was to cross the Libyan Desert by the beaten road through Wajunga and Wadai and then turn eastward toward Darfur.Zerwali and Suliman Bu Matari, a rich Zwaya merchant, came to discuss the trip southward. Bu Matari had discouraging counsel to offer as to the route I had now decided to take.“Eight years ago,” he said, “the last caravan to go that way—of which my brother Mohammed was the leader—was eaten up and slaughtered on the frontier of Darfur. They went, not as you wish to go, but by the easier route from Ouenat to Merega”—a small oasis about 290 kilometers southeast of Ouenat. “This journey you propose to make is through territory where no Bedouin has passed before. Thedaffa[a long waterless trek] between Ouenat and Erdi is a long and hazardous one. God be merciful to the caravan in such heat. Your camels will drop like birds before the hot south winds. Even if you get through safely, who knows how the inhabitants of the hills over there will receive you? Do not let your anxiety to travel fast overrule your wisdom and keep you from choosing the safe trade-route to Wajanga and Abeshe.”I thanked him for his advice; but I knew that I should not take it.THE KING OF OUENATHe is holding his Mohammedan rosary in his handAfter luncheon royally provided by El Abid, I went to visit his son Sharrufa. He is an intelligent young man, thirsting for knowledge. He has gone as far into the outside world as Benghazi and that by no means metropolitan community is still for him “the” city of the world. He apologized for the illness of his father, and I offered to send medicine which might possibly help him.Tuesday, April 3.It was very warm, with heavy clouds and a bad southwest wind. After luncheon as usual I went to visit Shams El Din, a cousin of Sharrufa, and his younger brother. The older boy is very intelligent and has eyes that seem to be asking questions of the world. They offered me three cups of milk with almond pulp and home-made jam. I knew that to refuse such an offer is to offend; so I left the house in a state of torpor. Dinner later at Sayed El Abid’s did not improve matters internally.Again I discussed the plan of going by way of Arkenu and Ouenat. I was more determined than ever. We would see what Bu Helega had to say when he arrived from Hawari.Wednesday, April 4.I was awakened by Jeddawi, who as usual brought me a pot of fragrant tea.This is comparative civilization, I thought, as I saw Ahmed preparing my shaving-kit. There areof course times when one welcomes the conveniences and comforts of civilization, but having trekked so far one feels more at home when on the move than when resting in an oasis.The early part of the day was spent in cutting down most of the wooden boxes and rearranging the luggage in preparation for the long trip south. It required particular care, since from now onward there would be no chance of changing the camels until our arrival at El Fasher in the Sudan, about 950 miles.The question of providing new shoes for the men of my caravan had to be attended to, as the Bedouin shoes that were made for them at Jalo had been worn out. Before lunch I had a visit from a few Zwaya chiefs, who came officially to pay their respects, and also unofficially to satisfy their curiosity and suspicion as to the size of my caravan and the equipment I was carrying, and if possible to find out what plans I had made for my journey to the Sudan.Lunch, as usual, at Sayed El Abid’s. I had the cheerful news that the medicine I gave to him had a good effect. The afternoon I spent in attending to the question of arms and ammunition. Later I took a long walk in order to make compass observations of the vicinity of Taj.Thursday, April 5.Zerwali had a long talk withBu Helega, who arrived in the night from Hawari. The latter refused point-blank to go to El Fasher by the Ouenat route.Bu Helega came to visit me and tried to persuade me to go by way of Wadai. When he saw that his advice would probably not be taken he became desperate. I had clearly pointed out to him that nothing could change my decision to cut across by the Ouenat route to El Fasher.“By God, it’s a dangerous route,” he said, “and many a caravan has been eaten up by the inhabitants of the hills on the way. They do not fear God, and they are under the authority of no man. They are like birds; they live on the tops of mountains, and you will have trouble with them.”“We are men, and we are believers,” I responded. “Our fate is in the hands of God. If our death is decreed, it may come on the beaten track to the nearest well.”“Many a Zwaya beard has been buried in those unknown parts,” he declared. “The people are treacherous, and they fear neither God nor man.”“May God’s mercy fall on those Zwayas who have lost their lives,” I replied. “Our lives are no more precious than theirs. Shall our courage be less?”“The water on this route is scarce and bad,” heargued again. “God has said, ‘Do not throw yourselves with your own hands unto destruction.’”“God will quench the thirst of the true believer,” I answered, “and will protect those who have faith in Him.”He felt himself in danger of being beaten in argument and shifted his ground.“None of my men are willing to accompany you on this route,” he asserted, “and I cannot send my camels either. It is sending them to death. If you find anybody who is willing to hire his camels I am ready to pay for them, but neither my men nor my camels are going to take you on this journey.”“Do what you like,” I retorted with spirit. “I am going by this route. It will be between you and Sayed Idris when he knows that Bu Helega has not kept his word.”There the argument rested. I had already learned that the few owners of camels at Kufra had been urged by Bu Helega and his men not to help me in my new plan. He hoped by so doing to force me to accept his plan of the safe route through Wadai.An enormous lunch was provided by Jeddawi. The three days of official hospitality of El Abid having ended yesterday, Jeddawi, as Idris’swakilat Kufra, can now entertain us.Bu Helega was about to leave, but I invited himto partake of our meal, and he accepted. He hoped still to persuade me to change my mind. I hoped even more strongly to convince the old man that the route was not as dangerous as he made it out to be. After the third glass of tea we parted, neither of us having succeeded in convincing the other. But I felt that my last words had an effect on him.THE EXPLORER’S KITCHEN IN A CAVEIt was very hot, and the party had to take shelter from the sunTHE ROCK VALLEY WELLS FOUND AT OUENATThey are full of rain-water every year, and as they are in small caves sheltered from the sun they keep the water during the greater part of the year.In the afternoon the slave came to tell me that his master, Sayed El Abid, would like to see me. I had already intimated that he need not be in a hurry to give me an audience, as I knew he was suffering badly from his gout and it was very difficult for him to come down to the reception-room. But he was not willing to have me think that he had violated the rules of hospitality by delaying the audience, and so he very kindly allowed me to see him in spite of his suffering.It was the first time that I had seen Sayed El Abid on this journey, and as I was ushered into his presence I thought that he might have come out of a gorgeous illustration of “The Thousand and One Nights.” He was dressed in a yellow silkkuftanembroidered with red braid, a rich white silkburnooscarelessly hung on his shoulders. On his head he wore a white turban with snow-white gauze flowing from the sides. This is the classical head-gear of the chiefs of the Senussi family. He carried in his hand a heavyebony stick with a massive silver head. He was a picture of simple and benign dignity, and no one would have suspected him of being the redoubtable warrior that he really is. He was sitting on a big upholstered arm-chair, and as I entered he tried to get up. I hastened to him, grasping his hand, and begged him not to make an effort to rise. He was suffering badly from his gout, and the conversation started easily on the subject of his ailment. He has been suffering for many years. At times at night, he said, when the pain is at its worst, “I pray to God that He may shorten the number of my days in this world, for I cannot even perform my prayers as I should.”We then discussed the question of my trip to the Sudan, and he too, I found, had been prevailed upon to urge me to take the safer route through Wadai. I pointed out to him that Sayed Idris was now in Egypt and that I had to hasten to my country to try to repay a little of the hospitality that had been lavished upon me by the Senussis. It was fortunate that the route to the Sudan through Ouenat is known to be shorter than that through Wadai.“You are a dear friend of ours,” he said; “and the Sayed, I am sure, would rather have you arrive in Egypt late and safe than hear that any harm had befallen you.”“Our fates are in the hands of God,” I replied; “our efforts are decreed by Him, and I carry with me the blessing of the Senussi masters.”I spoke with an air of determination. Sayed El Abid was pensive for a few moments. Slowly he raised his head and lifted his two hands toward heaven.“May God make your efforts succeed and send you back safe to your people,” he said, yielding to my desire. “You have visited the tomb of our grandfather at Jaghbub and thekubbaof Sidi El Mahdi here, and you have their blessings. ‘He who struggles and has faith is rewarded by God.’” He quoted from the Koran. We then read the “Fat-ha”; he gave me his blessing and again prayed that God might guide our steps and give me and my men fortitude. I felt very happy as I wound my way through the multitude of corridors and courtyards. I was relieved to know that I had an ally in Sayed El Abid, and that he would not prove an obstacle in my new plan of going to the Sudan by way of Ouenat.All the men of my caravan were there when I entered the house. One look at their faces told me with what suppressed excitement they had been waiting since my departure to Sayed El Abid to hear his verdict on the journey south. Slowly I made my way to my room and asked them to come in. I toohad to suppress my excitement; but mine was the excitement of success and not of expectation. There was a long pause before I could control my voice and make it as indifferent as it should be.“The Sayed has blessed our journey to Ouenat and has given me the ‘Fat-ha’ for it.”I dared not even look in the men’s faces.“We have the blessings of the Senussi masters with us, Sayed El Abid has assured me, and God will give us fortitude and success; and guidance comes from Him.”CHAPTER XVKUFRA: ITS PLACE ON THE MAPFriday, April 6.The day began with the arrival of an immense bowl of roses, gloriously fragrant, sent by Sayed El Abid. This is the way the desert belies its name every now and then. I defy the Riviera to produce anything finer than these, or more fragrant.It was Friday, the Moslem Sabbath, and I attended prayers at the mosque. The young Senussi princes were expected, and some of the Bedouins came in their best clothes, but side by side with the richest of silkkuftanswere the shabbiestjerds. Every one took off his slippers as they came in. I watched them for a while. There came a prosperous Zwaya or Majbari merchant with the crease still fresh in rich robes just removed from the chest, andkohlin his eyes, put in with amadwid(kohlstick) of ivory or brass. The prosperous man, maybe, has everything upon him new, and he smells strongly of scent, perhaps pure rose-water distilled in Kufra, orelse musk or other strong perfume from the Sudan. He enters in a dignified way and takes his place. There comes another, and hisjerdis tattered and his face bronzed and withered, not flabby, but he is no less dignified. Clothes play but a small part in this assembly because of the natural dignity and courage of these people, and those qualities are brought out in relief even more by the tatteredjerdthan by the fine silks and scents, which sometimes take away something of the personality of the individual.A slave comes. He is the favorite slave and confidant of one of the Senussi chiefs. His silks are as rich and even more vivid, and there is little to suggest servility. He feels his importance and walks with equally dignified grace through the ranks of the worshipers to take his place, maybe next to a dignitary, maybe next to a beggar. At the mosque the poor not only stand on level ground with the rich and the prosperous, but in a subtle way they have their revenge, for in the house of God the master is God and the beggar may feel as great or greater than the rich man since he is not submerged in the luxury of the world and forgetting God. The old and shabbyjerdis, to the Bedouin going into the mosque, as fit a garment for worship as silken brocades are proper raiment for a man going to see the Senussi chiefs.The worshipers are now ready. Themuezzinhas finished the call to prayer. There is a hush. The young Senussi princes are entering the mosque. They take the places that have been reserved for them. All eyes turn toward them, and, on account of their youth, they look a little shy and embarrassed. No one rises as they enter, for this is the House of God, wherein God alone is the master. Then theimammounts the pulpit and delivers his sermon. On the few occasions that I have been able to attend Friday prayers in an oasis mosque, the theme of the sermon has often been the same, advising the congregation to shun the world and its luxury and to prepare for a life of happiness in the next world by doing good. “Beware of the ornaments and the luxuries of this world, for they are very enticing. Once you fall a victim to them you lose your soul and stray farther from God. Draw nearer to God by doing good deeds and obeying his commands. This life will pass away. Only the next world is everlasting. Prepare yourselves for it, that you may be happy in eternity.”The interior of this mosque is beautiful in the simple dignity of its lines. The walls are bare, whitewashed, scrupulously clean. The floor is covered with rugs or with fiber matting. The worshipers squat cross-legged upon the floor in a very reverent attitude. There are perhaps two hundred of them,ranged in rows, all facing toward Mecca. There are some who count their prayers upon rosaries of amber beads; others, too poor to have rosaries, record the number of their prayers by opening and closing their fingers. There are some whose every movement betrays opulence and prosperity; others, Bedouins of the desert, have a far-away look. The most striking impression is the serenity and contentment written on their faces. Even upon the pinched and haggard face there is an expression of equanimity which shows that the man has accepted his fate. It is written there that he is living on the verge of starvation, yet he does not rebel.After lunch at El Abid’s, Soliman Bu Matari came again to talk about the trip south. He reported that Bu Helega and Mohammed, who was to be our guide, had met and talked things over, but Bu Helega was still unwilling to go.Abdullahi had spent the day at Jof, gathering what information he could about the Ouenat route and trying to find out if the Tebus would let me hire camels from them for the journey thither.After dinner at El Abid’s, I spent some time in Sayed Idris’s library, which he had instructed Jeddawi to throw open to me.Imagine a room of medium size filled with chests containing books. The ceiling is decorated in vividcolors, the work of an artist, a lover of the Senussis, who came from Tunis simply to do them a service, just as in medieval Europe painters and sculptors devoted their lives to adorning churches. Every bit of wood in the room has come from Egypt or Benghazi. There is a window open to the air with only wooden shutters as a protection against the sun.

At 9:15 we sighted to the southwest about 3 kilometers away the sand-dunes of El Washka, a small well of the Zieghen group. At 9:30 we passed on our left Matan Bu Houh, the old well of Zieghen. We camped near the few date-trees that stand by the best well of the group, El Harrash.

APPROACHING THE HILLS OF ARKENUThe explorer’s caravan nearing the first oasis that he discovered seven days’ journey south of Kufra. The photograph was taken in the morning, and in the foreground is seen a ray of sunshine coming from beyond the hills.

APPROACHING THE HILLS OF ARKENU

The explorer’s caravan nearing the first oasis that he discovered seven days’ journey south of Kufra. The photograph was taken in the morning, and in the foreground is seen a ray of sunshine coming from beyond the hills.

In the desert a well does not mean a nicely excavated and stoned-up arrangement such as one finds in other parts of the world, with a bucket and windlass or a pump. In this part of the desert a well is a spot where the water is close to the surface and can be easily obtained by digging. It is just a damp patch of sand which the Bedouins scrape open with their hands, getting water at three or four feet down. Between the visits of caravans the sands drift over the place and choke the water-hole, so that each newcomer must clean it out for himself. But the joy of an ample supply of fresh water after days of having just enough for making tea, with no chance of a bath or even a shave, is sufficient reward for all the labor of digging out the well. If it has been a long journey the first thing to think of is the camels. After they have been watered and a good meal digested,washing is the most important item in the program. If the water is scarce, clothes have to wait until the next well, because the question of water for the trek has to be considered.

As soon as the men have rested, sheepskins are filled and left for the night. Early next morning two or three men go to see which of the sheepskins has leaked and, if possible, detect the cause of the leakage. They also make a point of separating the bad sheepskins from the good ones, so that on the journey water should be taken on the first day or two from those which leak or are unreliable.

The first night at a well, however tired the caravan may be, is always made the opportunity for great rejoicing, singing, and dancing. Before arriving at the well one’s idea of a rest has been at least four or five days’ stay and plenty of water to make up for past privation. Thoughts dwell on the pleasing idea of really having water to splash about with. Curiously enough, after a single day’s rest, a fever of restlessness gets hold of one again, and the luxury of abundance is left most eagerly for the privations of the road. No matter if it be a big well surrounded by a fertile oasis, full of the comforts of life, yet one returns with a sigh of contentment to the twelve hours’ trek and the lunch of dried dates.

The well, when scraped out, is probably about thesize of a tea-table for two. The moist sand holds the walls together. Usually one leaves it alone a little for the sand to settle, but the water is always sandy, and it is too much bother to strain it. Not on one single occasion did I drink a glass of water that was not cloudy, and never did I see the bottom of my zinc cup while drinking. The filter which kind friends said I must take with me I never used at all until we got to the Sudan, and there the water was really bad; in an inhabited area you do not know what may have happened to it. And then when we tried to get this famous filter working, we found there were no washers for it, so that was the end of the story of the filter.

Dirt in the desert, it may be necessary to remark, is quite different from dirt anywhere else. It is not unwholesome, for the sand is a clean thing, and the clothes of the Bedouins let in the air. Vermin is there, but it is inevitable, and the Bedouin pays no heed to it. I might have just had my bath, and then I would go and sit down for a glass of tea with my men and—well, you are bound to collect these things!

THE CHANGING DESERT AND A CORRECTED MAP

Monday, March 26.At El Harrash Well of the Zieghen group. Highest temperature 27°, lowest 6°. Fine and clear with northeast wind, which develops into a bad sand-storm at eleven. The storm continues until 6:30 in the evening, and the wind does not go down until two hours later.

Our halt at Zeighen should have been only for a night, but the severe sand-storm kept us wind-bound for another day. Zieghen is merely a group of four wells, the two that we passed on Sunday, El Harrash, where we were camped, and another, Bu Zerraig, twenty kilometers to the east.

During the day Bu Helega talked to Abdullahi about my coming to the desert.

“You have audacity, you Egyptians,” he said. “For your bey to come twice to our country, which no stranger has visited before in my time, that is boldness. Why does he come here and leave all God’sbounty back there in Egypt, if not for some secret purpose? He comes to our unknown country to measure and map it, and, by God, not once but twice.”

IN THE OPEN DESERTStudy of shadows cast by the camels

IN THE OPEN DESERT

Study of shadows cast by the camels

Even my good friend Bu Helega was suspicious of my intentions in penetrating into his country.

I finally discovered the real basis of the antagonism of those who live in the desert to the coming of persons from the outside world. It is not religious fanaticism; it is merely the instinct of self-preservation. If a single stranger penetrated to Kufra, the cherished center of the life of their tribe, it would be, as the Bedouins say, “the camel’s nose inside the flap of the tent.” After him would come others, and the final outcome would be foreign domination. That would mean the loss of their independence and the paying of taxes. They can hardly be blamed for dreading either of those results.

The changes produced by time in the desert, which we are accustomed to think of as eternally the same, are interesting. When Rohlfs passed to the westward of Zieghen on his way to Kufra in 1879 he reported a broad stretch of green vegetation here. To-day there is no extent of greenness, merely a great deal ofhatab, dead brushwood. Rohlfs’s statement, however, is confirmed by Bu Helega, who says that when he was a child his father used to takehim to Kufra when he went to get dates, because the Bedouins believe that the waters of Shekherra, the headquarters of the Zwayas near Jalo, are bad for children in the summer. Bu Helega used to be carried on his father’s back most of the way. It was in those days that the trip was made in three days and five nights, without halts. They gave the camels but one meal between Jalo and Zieghen; when they reached the latter place the beasts were fed on the green stuff that was growing there then. What has seemed like an error on Rohlfs’s part in describing so much vegetation at Zieghen is thus demonstrated to be merely the result of a difference in conditions after forty-five years. It is probably a variation in the water conditions in the soil which has turned the living shrubs into fire-wood.

Our trek from Buttafal to Zieghen illustrated the uncertainties of desert travel. In spite of all the precautions that we could possibly think of, our fuel ran out, one camel died, and two others were so exhausted that they were to fail us soon. The food for the camels was used up also, and from Zieghen to Kufra they were fed on date-tree leaves, gathered at the former place, which was very poor food for them indeed.

I picked up from a Bedouin a proverb with a cynical slant to it: “Your friend is like your femalecamel; one day she gives you milk, and the next she fails you.”

On the two evenings at Zieghen I took observations of Polaris with the theodolite. When the observations were worked out I found that Zieghen was about a hundred kilometers farther to the east-northeast than Rohlfs had placed it. He did not visit the place and therefore could make no observations on the spot but relied on what he was told by the Bedouins. I found also that Zieghen is 310 meters above sea-level.

Tuesday, March 27.Start at 8:15A.M., halt at 8P.M.Make 47 kilometers. Highest temperature 26°, lowest 8°. Fine and clear, cold strong northeast wind all day and all night. A few white clouds. From El Harrash Well the guide points out the direction of Kufra as being five degrees south of southeast. For two hours we walk amonghatab, which extends about 10 kilometers southeast of the well. Then we enter a region of soft sand, a little undulating. The undulations gradually increase until we get into the sand-dune country late in the afternoon.

At 2:30 we sighted a range of sand-dunes to the east, with a few black stonegarasor small hills in between them. They were about twenty or thirty kilometers away and marched off to the southeast as far as we could see. Later there weregherds—sand-dunes—to the southwest as well, and at 5:30 thegherdsclosed in across our track and we definitely entered them. So far, however, they were not high or difficult to cross.

The complete separation between the Bedouins and the Tebus on the march impressed me again. The blacks say that they do not like the Zwayas and fear them. The Tebu camels were well kept and better behaved than those of the Bedouins. Each Tebu camel had a lead-rope and did not run loose as the others did.

In the afternoon we passed the landmark of Jebail El Fadeel. As with most desert landmarks, its name commemorates some one who lost his life there.

El Fadeel was one of the best guides in the desert. He was going toward Kufra from Jalo with a caravan. Sand-storms of great severity swept down upon them. While there is no direct evidence of what happened, the testimony of what was finally found told the story eloquently. Fadeel’s eyes must have been badly affected by the driving sand. He bandaged them and, thus deprived of sight, had those who were with him describe the landmarks as they reached them. Nevertheless they missed the wells of Zieghen and tried to struggle on direct to Kufra. The desert took them in its relentless grip, and of the entire caravan but one camel survived. The beast struggled on to its home at Kufra, led by its infallibleinstinct. There it was recognized by the markings on its neck as belonging to El Fadeel. A rescue party followed the camel’s track back into the desert, but its help came too late. The bodies of the men lay stiff upon the sand, near the landmark now known by El Fadeel’s name, the bandage on the old guide’s eyes revealing the tragic truth.

THE HILLS OF ARKENUThe first oasis that the explorer discovered on his way from Kufra to the Sudan; the camp can be easily discerned

THE HILLS OF ARKENU

The first oasis that the explorer discovered on his way from Kufra to the Sudan; the camp can be easily discerned

Wednesday, March 28.There were heavy clouds all day, with little sunshine. It was cloudy too in the evening. A cold northeast wind developed at 8A.M.into a sand-storm lasting for three hours and a half. The cold wind continued on into the evening. A few drops of rain fell at 10:30P.M.

We walked among sand-dunes for two hours, when we entered undulating country, covered with broken black stone. It was bad going for the camels. An hour later the black stone belt ended and we came into the sand-dunes again.

At 11:30 in the forenoon the chain of the Hawayesh Hills were on our left and sand-dunes and black stonegarason our right. At 12:15 we passed on our left four kilometers away Goor El Makhzan landmark, hills of black stone ranging from fifty to one hundred and fifty meters in height. At 1:45 we passed the landmark of El Gara Wobentaha, whichmeans “thegaraand its daughter,” two sugar-loaf hills of appropriate proportions to suit the designation.

I talked with some of the Bedouins about our losing our way in 1921. They showed no surprise. To these desert dwellers it is all a part of the day’s work, losing one’s way, one’s camels, one’s water, or one’s fuel.

Thursday, March 29.The lowest temperature this day was not recorded, as the minimum thermometer was broken in the storm.

The Hawayesh Hills were on our left until mid-afternoon. At 11:30 we entered soft and very undulating sand-dunes, difficult going for men and camels. At 1:30 we passed Garet El Sherif to the right, the biggest landmark we had yet seen. It was a ridge-shapedgara, one hundred and fifty meters long and about one hundred meters high, with three smaller ones beside it, two to the south and one to the north. At three we got into heavy dunes again and two hours later passed into flat country, with harder sand and patches of black stone. At 3:30 in the morning the worst sand-storm we had encountered began. It swept the tents from the moorings, and mine collapsed on top of me, smashing a few of my instruments and also the small chronometer.

With the whole tent on top of me, weighted down with the constantly growing load of sand, I was threatened with suffocation, but fortunately I got hold of a tent-peg, with which I held the canvas away from my face. Some of the men tried to come to my assistance, but I shouted to them to put the sacks of flour and pieces of luggage on their tents and mine to keep them down. I lay in my uncomfortable position under the tent for two hours or so. The sand came hurtling through the gap in the tent like shot from a gun. The men and the camels suffered badly. Had the pole of my tent fallen a fraction of an inch to one side, it would have smashed my big chronometer, and then what a difference it would have made to the scientific results of the expedition!

To the outside world the work of an explorer is either failure or success with a distinct line between them. To the explorer himself that line is very hazy. He may have won his way through, amassed all the information that he sought, be within a score of miles of his journey’s end; then, suddenly, his camels give out. He must abandon the best part of his luggage. Water and food take precedence; the boxes containing his scientific instruments, his records, have to be left behind. Maybe his plight is still worse, and he must sacrifice everything, even his own life. To the outside world he would be a failure; generous criticsmight even call him a glorious failure, but in any case he has failed. Yet how much is that failure akin to success! Sometimes on those long treks the man who fails has done more, has endured more hardships, than the man who succeeds. An explorer’s sympathy is rather with the man who has struggled and failed than with the man who succeeds, for only the explorer knows how the man who failed fought to preserve the fruits of his work.

The Bedouins understood this. There is a trait in their character that surprised, even astounded me sometimes, until I grew to understand it. There was often no hilarity, no rejoicing when the day’s march came to its appointed end. “To-day we have arrived, but to-morrow—” they seem to say. Because you have succeeded to-day it is nothing to brag about. It was not by your skill; it was destiny. To-morrow you may start an easier journey and fail horribly. On my first long trip in the Libyan Desert in 1921, between the oases of Buseima (one of the Kufra group) and Kufra, a three days’ journey, we came across the remnants of a perished caravan. There was a hand still sticking out of the sands, the skin yellow like parchment. As we passed, one of the men went reverently and hid it with sand. A three days’ trip, and yet those men had lost their way and died of thirst.

THE EXPLORER’S CAMP AT OUENATTHE CARAVAN APPROACHING THE GRANITE HILLS OF OUENAT

THE EXPLORER’S CAMP AT OUENAT

THE CARAVAN APPROACHING THE GRANITE HILLS OF OUENAT

There are many gruesome tales of the remnants of a caravan perishing within sight of the well. So far from being deterred from taking the same route, the Bedouin only says that it was God’s decree that they should die on the road. “Better the entrails of a bird than the darkness of the tomb,” one Bedouin told me, meaning that he preferred to be eaten by vultures.

It was a very tiring day, what with the disturbance to our rest during the night and the heavy going through the soft dunes. But the men were cheerful because we were getting near to Kufra. The news that Bu Helega, who lived at Hawari, the first halting-place on the outskirts of Kufra, was going to slaughter a sheep and provide a feast was an added incentive.

The camels were weak and thin, but three of them whose home is in Kufra led the way all day without being driven, in spite of the difficult walking over the dunes.

At 6:45 we sighted Garet El Hawaria, the great landmark that indicates the approach to Kufra.

Friday, March 30.We started at 7:45A.M., halted at 5:45P.M., made thirty-five kilometers, and arrived at Hawari. A few drops of rain fell in the late evening. The ground was flat, soft sand, undulating a trifle, and marked with patches of black andred stone. At 9:30 we entered upon the zone of red sand of Kufra. We came across pieces of petrified wood all day. At 1:15 we passed Garet El Hawaria, and at 3:30 sighted the date-trees of Hawari. An hour and a half later we entered the oasis and soon camped at Awadel.

We had arrived at the first outpost of Kufra. This name was given in Rohlfs’s time to the four somewhat widely separated oases of Taiserbo, Buseima, Ribiana, and Kebabo—Rohlfs’s designation for the present-day Kufra—but now it is restricted to the last named.

Hawari is the northernmost part of the present Kufra, a comparatively small oasis with the three villages of Hawari, Hawawira, and Awadel. Seventeen kilometers south lies El Taj, the seat of local government and the principal settlement. It is situated on a rocky cliff overlooking the depression of the oasis proper, which lies to the south and contains the villages of Jof, Boema, Buma, El Zurruk, El Talalib, and El Tollab.

I had intended to go straight on to El Taj, the chief town of Kufra, the next day, but Bu Helega claimed the right of hospitality and insisted that I should stop a day at the oasis which is his home. After a good night’s rest—undisturbed by sand-storms or collapsing of tents—and a shave, I was quite ready todo full justice to the breakfast sent by the Bedouins of a caravan which had just arrived from Wadai. At the same time I gathered some interesting information which made me consider making a change in my plans.

I sent a messenger on to El Taj with letters to Sayed El Abid, the cousin of Sayed Idris and the chief Senussi in Kufra, and to Jeddawi, Sayed Idris’s personalwakil.

In the afternoon Zerwali escorted me to Hawari, where I was received at thezawiaby theikhwanand the notables of the town. After the usual words of welcome and exchange of compliments, I went to dinner at the house of Zerwali’s uncle. The Bedouin chiefs protested that I should not have come direct to Hawari but should have camped outside to give them an opportunity for a ceremonial reception. They had apparently heard how I was received at Jalo and would have liked to duplicate it for me here. I heard rumors of intrigues among some of the Zwaya chiefs, who were suspicious of my purpose in coming a second time to Kufra and, as a protest, had refused to attend the dinner. They were influential chiefs, and the news made me determined to press on to El Taj before they could send word there in prejudice of my coming.

After the meal I rode home through the beautifulmoonlight and on my arrival found a difficult task before me. Egaila, Bu Helega’s eldest son, had been bitten by a scorpion. With more confidence in my medicine-chest than I had myself, Bu Helega asked that I should cure him. I took the anti-scorpion serum and went to the house, where I found the boy very ill indeed, burning with fever.

At the last moment before leaving Cairo these serums had been included in my equipment, and a doctor friend, while he was shaking my hand and I was saying good-by to people all around me, explained to me (perhaps most lucidly) just how to employ the serums. It was the first time I had ever attempted that kind of injection, and I tried to conjure up the scene and recall fragments of those parting instructions, but it only struck me how different was that dimly lit room with the anxious friends and relatives watching my every movement from the hearty send-off when the serum had been added to my stock in trade.

However, in spite of my doubts whether the case was not too far advanced for treatment, I administered the serum and went to my camp wondering what the outcome would be.

Before long I heard a crowd approaching my tent with loud outcries which sounded hostile to my ears. Probably, I thought, the boy was already dead, andhis death would be laid at my door instead of at that of the scorpion.

VALLEY OF ERDIWhile there remained many miles of travel for the expedition, after this valley was reached the long waterless desert treks were at an end. The march to El Obeid was by easy stages through fertile country from village to village.DESERT BREAKING INTO ROCK COUNTRY SOUTH OF OUENAT

VALLEY OF ERDI

While there remained many miles of travel for the expedition, after this valley was reached the long waterless desert treks were at an end. The march to El Obeid was by easy stages through fertile country from village to village.

DESERT BREAKING INTO ROCK COUNTRY SOUTH OF OUENAT

I summoned my men to protect the box of instruments, which I suspected would be the first object of attack, and prepared myself for a hostile approach. It was a disturbing moment.

But great was my relief when I detected in the cries of those who were coming a note rather of rejoicing than of hostility. Presently Bu Helega entered my tent and thanked me with impressive warmth for the relief which I had given his son.

“It was like magic,” he declared with fervor, “Allah is great. That medicine of yours has made the boy well again.”

In appropriate terms I answered, “Recovery comes from God.” Already the fever was abating and the boy evidently on his way to recovery. I thanked God internally for the good fortune which had attended my ministrations. If the boy had died, my position would have been a dangerous one. When my visitors had left, I went out into the moonlight for a walk among the graceful palms.

KUFRA: OLD FRIENDS AND A CHANGE OF PLAN

Sunday, April 1.We started at 9:45A.M.and halted at 2P.M., making 17 kilometers, and arrived at El Taj. At 11:15 we entered a broken rocky country, very rolling, covered with patches of black and red sandstone until we reached Taj.

Egaila came to help in loading the camels. He had quite recovered from his scorpion-bite and was to go with us to Taj. Breakfast was sent by Bu Helega for me and my men. When I protested that he should not have taken the trouble, he retorted that I should have given him an opportunity to provide the customary three days’ hospitality. A little later a slave-girl came from him with a huge bowl of rice, chicken, and eggs.

She was evidently dressed especially for the occasion and was quite charming in her dainty attire of blue cloth with a red sash about her slim waist.

I told her that we were starting at once and should not need the food.

“You may need it on the way,” she replied shyly. “I cooked it myself.”

“If that is the case,” I assured her, “I will accept it gladly.” She was obviously pleased and immediately went back for another bowl quite as large and inviting. I bowed to the inevitable and sent my thanks to her master.

We were given a pleasant send-off by the people of Awadel, and I set out at the head of my caravan on Bu Helega’s horse. We needed no guide just now, for I knew the way myself.

“Aye, the bey knows the way too well,” said Senussi Bu Hassan. “He will soon become a guide in this country of ours.”

The approach to Kufra from the north has an element of surprise in it that makes it doubly interesting. We marched through a gently rolling country with an irregular ridge of no great height forming the horizon ahead of us. Suddenly the top of the ridge resolved itself into the outlines of a group of buildings, their walls hard to distinguish at any distance from the rocks and sands they match so well in color and in form. This was El Taj, the headquarters of the Senussi family in Kufra. As we entered the town, we saw that the ground dropped abruptly away beyond it, down to the valley of Kufra. This pleasant valley is a shallow, roughly shaped oval bowl, forty kilometers in extent on its long diameter and twenty kilometers on the shortone. It is dotted with palm-trees, and across it in an irregular line from northeast to southwest are strung the six settlements of Boema, Buma, Jof, Zurruk, Talalib, and Tollab. Close to Jof lie the blue shimmering waters of a fair-sized lake. At this mid-point in the sand-waste of the desert this expanse of water is both a boon and an aggravation. The mere sight of so much water brings refreshment to the eyes weary of looking at nothing but sand; but to the parched throat it is worse than a mirage to the vision, for its waters are salt.

On our entry into Taj I was met cordially by old friends. Sayed El Abid, the cousin of Sayed Idris and the chief Senussi in Kufra, was ill with rheumatism, but Sidi Saleh El Baskari, thekaimakam, Sidi Mahmoud El Jeddawi, Sayed Idris’swakil, and severalikhwanbrought words of welcome from him and conducted me to the house of Sayed Idris where I was to stay. It was here that we had lived on the first trip to Kufra two years before, and immediately I felt at home.

“You will have to initiate your men into the ways of Kufra,” said El Baskari whimsically. “Even Zerwali has not been here for thirteen years.”

At once the hospitality began, with coffee brought by the commandant of the troops. I had just timefor a short rest before a slave came to take me to the house of Sayed El Abid for a meal. Led by the same messenger that came for us two years ago, I walked through the same streets, and entered the same wonderful house of the Senussi leader with a curious feeling as though time had stood still or gone back. El Abid’s house is a labyrinth of corridors, lined with doors behind which live the members of his family and his retainers. We passed into the familiar room whose spaces seemed more richly adorned than ever with gorgeous rugs, many-colored cushions, and stiffly embroidered brocades. On the walls hang the well-remembered collection of clocks, barometers, and thermometers in which my host takes naïve delight. The clocks, of which there are at least a dozen of assorted shapes and sizes, were all going strong.

THE DESERT FROM THE HILLS OF OUENATOuenat is the bigger of the two oases which the explorer discovered. In the foreground is the explorer’s tent and camp. The hills are of granite and are about fifteen hundred feet high.

THE DESERT FROM THE HILLS OF OUENAT

Ouenat is the bigger of the two oases which the explorer discovered. In the foreground is the explorer’s tent and camp. The hills are of granite and are about fifteen hundred feet high.

Sidi Saleh came to bear me company and to apologize for the enforced absence of my host, Sayed El Abid. There was set before me a feast fit for the gods, or for mortals fresh from the monotonous living of the desert: lamb, rice, vegetables,mulukhiah, an Egyptian vegetable rather like spinach, delicious bread, sweet vinegar, milk, sweets, followed by coffee, milk with almond pulp beaten up in it, and finally the ceremonial three glasses of tea, flavored with amber, rose-water, and mint.

When the meal was over and I had returned to my house, I had barely time to see about the disposition of my baggage and discuss the question of camels for the next stage of the journey when the slave came to conduct me again to El Abid’s house for dinner. El Baskari was again my host, a dignified, kindly figure in a beautifulgibbaof yellow and gold, having changed the classical soft Bedouintarbush, which he had been wearing, for a white silkkufiaand a green and goldegal.

When this second meal had reached the point of scented tea and incense, suddenly the clocks began to strike, each with its own particular tone, the Arabic hour of three—which then meant nine by the standard of the outside world. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt myself back in Oxford with the hour striking in endless variety of tones from all the church towers of the university town.

I went out into the moonlight with the fragrance of the rose-water and the incense lingering about me. I stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the waters of the lake and reflected on my former visit to Kufra when this was my goal. Now it was the beginning of the most interesting part of my journey. I heard the voices ofikhwanand students reading the “Hesb” in the evening quiet. Abdullahi slipped out of the shadows and stood beside me.

“This is the night of half-Shaban” (meaning the middle of the month before Ramadan), he said in a low tone as of a man who thinks aloud. “God will grant the wishes of one who prays to-night.”

For several minutes we two stood there silently. My face was toward the southeast, where lay an untrodden track and oases that are “lost.” But Abdullahi turned to the northeast, where lies Egypt and his family and children. I did not need to ask him for what he prayed.

Monday, April 2.At Hawari I had been told by the Bedouin caravan from Wadai that a French patrol had come north as far as the well at Sarra over the main trade-route from Wadai to Kufra. This was the route I had intended at first to follow, but it seemed that only the small portion of it which lay between Sarra and Kufra remained unexplored. Again I had heard vague stories of the “lost” oases on the direct route south which I had planned some time to explore, although I knew that this direct route to Darfur in the Sudan was practically never used either by Bedouins or by Sudanese because of its supposed difficulties and dangers. The story of the French patrol turned my mind again to these oases, and I determined to try and find them rather than to follow my original plan.

I set out decided to do all that was possible to explorethese lost oases, but, failing that, I was to cross the Libyan Desert by the beaten road through Wajunga and Wadai and then turn eastward toward Darfur.

Zerwali and Suliman Bu Matari, a rich Zwaya merchant, came to discuss the trip southward. Bu Matari had discouraging counsel to offer as to the route I had now decided to take.

“Eight years ago,” he said, “the last caravan to go that way—of which my brother Mohammed was the leader—was eaten up and slaughtered on the frontier of Darfur. They went, not as you wish to go, but by the easier route from Ouenat to Merega”—a small oasis about 290 kilometers southeast of Ouenat. “This journey you propose to make is through territory where no Bedouin has passed before. Thedaffa[a long waterless trek] between Ouenat and Erdi is a long and hazardous one. God be merciful to the caravan in such heat. Your camels will drop like birds before the hot south winds. Even if you get through safely, who knows how the inhabitants of the hills over there will receive you? Do not let your anxiety to travel fast overrule your wisdom and keep you from choosing the safe trade-route to Wajanga and Abeshe.”

I thanked him for his advice; but I knew that I should not take it.

THE KING OF OUENATHe is holding his Mohammedan rosary in his hand

THE KING OF OUENAT

He is holding his Mohammedan rosary in his hand

After luncheon royally provided by El Abid, I went to visit his son Sharrufa. He is an intelligent young man, thirsting for knowledge. He has gone as far into the outside world as Benghazi and that by no means metropolitan community is still for him “the” city of the world. He apologized for the illness of his father, and I offered to send medicine which might possibly help him.

Tuesday, April 3.It was very warm, with heavy clouds and a bad southwest wind. After luncheon as usual I went to visit Shams El Din, a cousin of Sharrufa, and his younger brother. The older boy is very intelligent and has eyes that seem to be asking questions of the world. They offered me three cups of milk with almond pulp and home-made jam. I knew that to refuse such an offer is to offend; so I left the house in a state of torpor. Dinner later at Sayed El Abid’s did not improve matters internally.

Again I discussed the plan of going by way of Arkenu and Ouenat. I was more determined than ever. We would see what Bu Helega had to say when he arrived from Hawari.

Wednesday, April 4.I was awakened by Jeddawi, who as usual brought me a pot of fragrant tea.

This is comparative civilization, I thought, as I saw Ahmed preparing my shaving-kit. There areof course times when one welcomes the conveniences and comforts of civilization, but having trekked so far one feels more at home when on the move than when resting in an oasis.

The early part of the day was spent in cutting down most of the wooden boxes and rearranging the luggage in preparation for the long trip south. It required particular care, since from now onward there would be no chance of changing the camels until our arrival at El Fasher in the Sudan, about 950 miles.

The question of providing new shoes for the men of my caravan had to be attended to, as the Bedouin shoes that were made for them at Jalo had been worn out. Before lunch I had a visit from a few Zwaya chiefs, who came officially to pay their respects, and also unofficially to satisfy their curiosity and suspicion as to the size of my caravan and the equipment I was carrying, and if possible to find out what plans I had made for my journey to the Sudan.

Lunch, as usual, at Sayed El Abid’s. I had the cheerful news that the medicine I gave to him had a good effect. The afternoon I spent in attending to the question of arms and ammunition. Later I took a long walk in order to make compass observations of the vicinity of Taj.

Thursday, April 5.Zerwali had a long talk withBu Helega, who arrived in the night from Hawari. The latter refused point-blank to go to El Fasher by the Ouenat route.

Bu Helega came to visit me and tried to persuade me to go by way of Wadai. When he saw that his advice would probably not be taken he became desperate. I had clearly pointed out to him that nothing could change my decision to cut across by the Ouenat route to El Fasher.

“By God, it’s a dangerous route,” he said, “and many a caravan has been eaten up by the inhabitants of the hills on the way. They do not fear God, and they are under the authority of no man. They are like birds; they live on the tops of mountains, and you will have trouble with them.”

“We are men, and we are believers,” I responded. “Our fate is in the hands of God. If our death is decreed, it may come on the beaten track to the nearest well.”

“Many a Zwaya beard has been buried in those unknown parts,” he declared. “The people are treacherous, and they fear neither God nor man.”

“May God’s mercy fall on those Zwayas who have lost their lives,” I replied. “Our lives are no more precious than theirs. Shall our courage be less?”

“The water on this route is scarce and bad,” heargued again. “God has said, ‘Do not throw yourselves with your own hands unto destruction.’”

“God will quench the thirst of the true believer,” I answered, “and will protect those who have faith in Him.”

He felt himself in danger of being beaten in argument and shifted his ground.

“None of my men are willing to accompany you on this route,” he asserted, “and I cannot send my camels either. It is sending them to death. If you find anybody who is willing to hire his camels I am ready to pay for them, but neither my men nor my camels are going to take you on this journey.”

“Do what you like,” I retorted with spirit. “I am going by this route. It will be between you and Sayed Idris when he knows that Bu Helega has not kept his word.”

There the argument rested. I had already learned that the few owners of camels at Kufra had been urged by Bu Helega and his men not to help me in my new plan. He hoped by so doing to force me to accept his plan of the safe route through Wadai.

An enormous lunch was provided by Jeddawi. The three days of official hospitality of El Abid having ended yesterday, Jeddawi, as Idris’swakilat Kufra, can now entertain us.

Bu Helega was about to leave, but I invited himto partake of our meal, and he accepted. He hoped still to persuade me to change my mind. I hoped even more strongly to convince the old man that the route was not as dangerous as he made it out to be. After the third glass of tea we parted, neither of us having succeeded in convincing the other. But I felt that my last words had an effect on him.

THE EXPLORER’S KITCHEN IN A CAVEIt was very hot, and the party had to take shelter from the sunTHE ROCK VALLEY WELLS FOUND AT OUENATThey are full of rain-water every year, and as they are in small caves sheltered from the sun they keep the water during the greater part of the year.

THE EXPLORER’S KITCHEN IN A CAVEIt was very hot, and the party had to take shelter from the sun

THE EXPLORER’S KITCHEN IN A CAVE

It was very hot, and the party had to take shelter from the sun

THE ROCK VALLEY WELLS FOUND AT OUENATThey are full of rain-water every year, and as they are in small caves sheltered from the sun they keep the water during the greater part of the year.

THE ROCK VALLEY WELLS FOUND AT OUENAT

They are full of rain-water every year, and as they are in small caves sheltered from the sun they keep the water during the greater part of the year.

In the afternoon the slave came to tell me that his master, Sayed El Abid, would like to see me. I had already intimated that he need not be in a hurry to give me an audience, as I knew he was suffering badly from his gout and it was very difficult for him to come down to the reception-room. But he was not willing to have me think that he had violated the rules of hospitality by delaying the audience, and so he very kindly allowed me to see him in spite of his suffering.

It was the first time that I had seen Sayed El Abid on this journey, and as I was ushered into his presence I thought that he might have come out of a gorgeous illustration of “The Thousand and One Nights.” He was dressed in a yellow silkkuftanembroidered with red braid, a rich white silkburnooscarelessly hung on his shoulders. On his head he wore a white turban with snow-white gauze flowing from the sides. This is the classical head-gear of the chiefs of the Senussi family. He carried in his hand a heavyebony stick with a massive silver head. He was a picture of simple and benign dignity, and no one would have suspected him of being the redoubtable warrior that he really is. He was sitting on a big upholstered arm-chair, and as I entered he tried to get up. I hastened to him, grasping his hand, and begged him not to make an effort to rise. He was suffering badly from his gout, and the conversation started easily on the subject of his ailment. He has been suffering for many years. At times at night, he said, when the pain is at its worst, “I pray to God that He may shorten the number of my days in this world, for I cannot even perform my prayers as I should.”

We then discussed the question of my trip to the Sudan, and he too, I found, had been prevailed upon to urge me to take the safer route through Wadai. I pointed out to him that Sayed Idris was now in Egypt and that I had to hasten to my country to try to repay a little of the hospitality that had been lavished upon me by the Senussis. It was fortunate that the route to the Sudan through Ouenat is known to be shorter than that through Wadai.

“You are a dear friend of ours,” he said; “and the Sayed, I am sure, would rather have you arrive in Egypt late and safe than hear that any harm had befallen you.”

“Our fates are in the hands of God,” I replied; “our efforts are decreed by Him, and I carry with me the blessing of the Senussi masters.”

I spoke with an air of determination. Sayed El Abid was pensive for a few moments. Slowly he raised his head and lifted his two hands toward heaven.

“May God make your efforts succeed and send you back safe to your people,” he said, yielding to my desire. “You have visited the tomb of our grandfather at Jaghbub and thekubbaof Sidi El Mahdi here, and you have their blessings. ‘He who struggles and has faith is rewarded by God.’” He quoted from the Koran. We then read the “Fat-ha”; he gave me his blessing and again prayed that God might guide our steps and give me and my men fortitude. I felt very happy as I wound my way through the multitude of corridors and courtyards. I was relieved to know that I had an ally in Sayed El Abid, and that he would not prove an obstacle in my new plan of going to the Sudan by way of Ouenat.

All the men of my caravan were there when I entered the house. One look at their faces told me with what suppressed excitement they had been waiting since my departure to Sayed El Abid to hear his verdict on the journey south. Slowly I made my way to my room and asked them to come in. I toohad to suppress my excitement; but mine was the excitement of success and not of expectation. There was a long pause before I could control my voice and make it as indifferent as it should be.

“The Sayed has blessed our journey to Ouenat and has given me the ‘Fat-ha’ for it.”

I dared not even look in the men’s faces.

“We have the blessings of the Senussi masters with us, Sayed El Abid has assured me, and God will give us fortitude and success; and guidance comes from Him.”

KUFRA: ITS PLACE ON THE MAP

Friday, April 6.The day began with the arrival of an immense bowl of roses, gloriously fragrant, sent by Sayed El Abid. This is the way the desert belies its name every now and then. I defy the Riviera to produce anything finer than these, or more fragrant.

It was Friday, the Moslem Sabbath, and I attended prayers at the mosque. The young Senussi princes were expected, and some of the Bedouins came in their best clothes, but side by side with the richest of silkkuftanswere the shabbiestjerds. Every one took off his slippers as they came in. I watched them for a while. There came a prosperous Zwaya or Majbari merchant with the crease still fresh in rich robes just removed from the chest, andkohlin his eyes, put in with amadwid(kohlstick) of ivory or brass. The prosperous man, maybe, has everything upon him new, and he smells strongly of scent, perhaps pure rose-water distilled in Kufra, orelse musk or other strong perfume from the Sudan. He enters in a dignified way and takes his place. There comes another, and hisjerdis tattered and his face bronzed and withered, not flabby, but he is no less dignified. Clothes play but a small part in this assembly because of the natural dignity and courage of these people, and those qualities are brought out in relief even more by the tatteredjerdthan by the fine silks and scents, which sometimes take away something of the personality of the individual.

A slave comes. He is the favorite slave and confidant of one of the Senussi chiefs. His silks are as rich and even more vivid, and there is little to suggest servility. He feels his importance and walks with equally dignified grace through the ranks of the worshipers to take his place, maybe next to a dignitary, maybe next to a beggar. At the mosque the poor not only stand on level ground with the rich and the prosperous, but in a subtle way they have their revenge, for in the house of God the master is God and the beggar may feel as great or greater than the rich man since he is not submerged in the luxury of the world and forgetting God. The old and shabbyjerdis, to the Bedouin going into the mosque, as fit a garment for worship as silken brocades are proper raiment for a man going to see the Senussi chiefs.

The worshipers are now ready. Themuezzinhas finished the call to prayer. There is a hush. The young Senussi princes are entering the mosque. They take the places that have been reserved for them. All eyes turn toward them, and, on account of their youth, they look a little shy and embarrassed. No one rises as they enter, for this is the House of God, wherein God alone is the master. Then theimammounts the pulpit and delivers his sermon. On the few occasions that I have been able to attend Friday prayers in an oasis mosque, the theme of the sermon has often been the same, advising the congregation to shun the world and its luxury and to prepare for a life of happiness in the next world by doing good. “Beware of the ornaments and the luxuries of this world, for they are very enticing. Once you fall a victim to them you lose your soul and stray farther from God. Draw nearer to God by doing good deeds and obeying his commands. This life will pass away. Only the next world is everlasting. Prepare yourselves for it, that you may be happy in eternity.”

The interior of this mosque is beautiful in the simple dignity of its lines. The walls are bare, whitewashed, scrupulously clean. The floor is covered with rugs or with fiber matting. The worshipers squat cross-legged upon the floor in a very reverent attitude. There are perhaps two hundred of them,ranged in rows, all facing toward Mecca. There are some who count their prayers upon rosaries of amber beads; others, too poor to have rosaries, record the number of their prayers by opening and closing their fingers. There are some whose every movement betrays opulence and prosperity; others, Bedouins of the desert, have a far-away look. The most striking impression is the serenity and contentment written on their faces. Even upon the pinched and haggard face there is an expression of equanimity which shows that the man has accepted his fate. It is written there that he is living on the verge of starvation, yet he does not rebel.

After lunch at El Abid’s, Soliman Bu Matari came again to talk about the trip south. He reported that Bu Helega and Mohammed, who was to be our guide, had met and talked things over, but Bu Helega was still unwilling to go.

Abdullahi had spent the day at Jof, gathering what information he could about the Ouenat route and trying to find out if the Tebus would let me hire camels from them for the journey thither.

After dinner at El Abid’s, I spent some time in Sayed Idris’s library, which he had instructed Jeddawi to throw open to me.

Imagine a room of medium size filled with chests containing books. The ceiling is decorated in vividcolors, the work of an artist, a lover of the Senussis, who came from Tunis simply to do them a service, just as in medieval Europe painters and sculptors devoted their lives to adorning churches. Every bit of wood in the room has come from Egypt or Benghazi. There is a window open to the air with only wooden shutters as a protection against the sun.

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