Chapter XI: Strange Camp-Fires

When mankind pack up their goods and chattels in dunnage bags and bits of boxes and take to the open road, the life that ensues is that of the nomad, whether the wanderings are from place to place within the bounds of civilisation or beyond recognised frontiers. In either case the quality of adventure is there to quicken the pulses; for the instinct to explore is in all of us, whether the field be far-flung or near at hand. And while it is true that, in minor walks, light-hearted travel may have little purpose in its conception beyond that of pleasure, particularly at the onset, there is nevertheless reason why the smallest of these nomadic propensities should be thoughtfully considered since there is a very tangible utility in them, insomuch that travel of any kind is disposed to enlarge one’s notion of the world as a whole, while, at the same time, it broadcasts the character of a race; which shall be judged of repute or disrepute, abroad, according to the conduct of those who, wittingly or unwittingly, carry the standard far afield.

These are small words, and may convey little or nothing of a mighty subject that will, one day, surely be our tremendous concern. For the kingdom of mankind is rapidly enlarging; and the time has come when it is fast being realised that insular completeness is over-narrow to withstand the rising flood alone. Wherefore it is no longer sufficient for any individual or country to look upon the prospect from comfortable doorstep and cry: “All is well.” Rather should each of us desire to see beyond, and comprehend the composition of the comradeship of the world as a whole, and build therefrom the character that shall fit us to sit by the fireside of any race, knowing, in the end, that we are welcomed, and have laboured faithfully to play the part of broad-minded men.

And it is significant that, along the highways of the world, a vastly important part of the history of Races and Empires has been written, and not only may wise men build for strength within their abodes, but also along all paths that lead to them.

Wherefore the Open Road may lead toward a goal, and nomadic restlessness be more than mere inherent instinct.

However, to return to the subject of travel in the Sahara, we, as islanders, can clearly comprehend the vastness of the oceans, and the importance of the routes across them, and thereby understand the conditions that confront the inhabitants of the shores and in the “ports” of the Sahara who seek, at times, to find passage across the grim, silent wastes of the desert. But ocean and desert to-day present diverse phases of travel. The one has all that modern science and civilisation can command to make travel easy, while the other remains unchanged from the darkest ages, and is wholly primitive.

It is with the latter that this narrative has to deal in endeavour to give a few impressions of camp-fires I have known in out-of-the-way places while moving through the land, living as a nomad, carrying trivial possessions by the aid of humble beasts of burden, and camping wherever chance befell when the sun swung into the western sky—a life where one experiences the rugged edge of existence and comes to be vastly content with little pleasures, since these occur but seldom.

I

One of the rarest occurrences in the Sahara is rain, and the nomads tell that they have known seven years and even ten years pass without any in some localities. Twice, on the trail, I have witnessed the coming of the greatest boon that the Sahara can know; on 3rd August 1920, and again on 13th July 1922. They were memorable occurrences, and one is herein described as an incident of outdoor life not readily forgotten.

We were camped for a few days on a small, rocky knoll on the bank of a dry, deep-channelled river-bed. For months past the heat of the desert had waxed greater and greater, until the weather had become unbearably stifling and oppressive. There was no relief in the surroundings; a wasteland of sad colourings, made up of pale sand and occasional sun-bleached grass tufts. It was the kind of environment that drives men to madness if the mind is not occupied.

There was a subdued tenseness abroad; and almost a gesture of mute appeal, for in truth the whole land was overstrained and panting for relief—and rains were due, if they were to come this year.

For an evening or two heat lightning lit the eastern horizon, and a few distant clouds hung about. . . . And then the great gift of the gods was delivered.

The big storm descended with astonishing suddenness, one early afternoon, and in no time the clear blue sky and sun-flooded land became transformed into a dark inferno of raging elements.

Our first warning of impending events came from a huge, ominous cloud that rolled over the land from the south-west, like a low black column of bush-fire smoke. It was the vanguard dust-churnings of a mighty hurricane, and with something of consternation the frail encampment prepared to crouch before the onslaught. But we had barely time to bundle valued possessions under canvas, and run round tent-ropes to test their security, before a fierce gale, filled with stinging dust and sand, swooped hungrily upon camp. And then the battle raged. All hands struggled to keep the tents intact, orders were bawled that went unheard, for they were torn at the point of utterance and ruthlessly tossed into the vortex of the storm. Lurid lightning flashed and thunder roared above our heads; followed by a hissing deluge of torrential rains. Still we battled with unruly ropes and canvas that buffeted in the gale like ship-sails fouled in a treacherous wind, while all were drenched to the skin, and water literally streamed from our thin clothing. Matches, maps, notes—everything that happened to be in my pockets—was drowned to clammy pulp.

Camp-fires hissed and spluttered, and were quickly quenched; and in no time the tranquil camp of half an hour ago was no more than a skeleton of bedraggled possessions and woebegone occupants.

Meanwhile the whole aspect of the country rapidly changed. Miniature streams began to form and gurgle all about us, and grew at an alarming pace. A low murmuring arose in the hills behind and drew nearer and nearer until we witnessed the remarkable sight of a foam-crested, rolling billow advancing down the hitherto empty river-bed. Like a sea-wave on a long, sandy beach it rolled on its way, except that there was no moment when it would break and subside. Impelled by the weight of water behind, it passed our camp hurrying southward, leaving a full river in its wake.

Soon the stream was breast-high; and already soaked beyond the caring, some of the natives, in high glee at the wonderful sight of flowing water, plunged into the stream for a frolic. In the mêlée, Sakari, one of my followers, lost his fez and crossed to the opposite bank to try to recover it. The water was rising so rapidly that when he came to recross, about fifteen minutes later, the stream was a tumbling torrent that nothing could live in; and so he had to sit and shiver on the opposite bank, until the flood subsided some hours later.

At the time of this incident rivers of water were flowing on three sides of the knoll. Immediately to the west ran the true river; on the east, parallel to the river, a waterfall tumbled off a small plateau, and thereafter swung in a broad, shallow stream across our south front over the completely swamped-out picketing ground of our camels. And still the torrential rains kept on.

Then came a time when we grew actively alarmed for the safety of our camp and baggage, and anxiously stood watching the river rise till it threatened to overflow even the high, rocky banks. Slowly the water crept up and up, till part of the bank actually overflowed, and water flooded into the tent nearest the brink. With all haste it was dismantled and removed. A rise of a foot, and everything we possessed would be in the flood and swept away. Gravely we watched the issue. The head camel-man, Elatu, advised trying to move everything away at once along a narrow neck on the north side. It seemed too late for that, and we held on.

And these were the critical moments that saw the tide turn in our favour. For a tantalising period the water appeared, to our anxious eyes, to pause and hold to the one mark—then slowly it was noticed to recede, uncertainly, then decidedly, until we breathed thankfully in relief. A memorable moment was past.

The sky cleared at sundown; and the storm ceased.

Whereupon there was a glorious uplifting of spirits, and sheer delight in the exhilarating new-found freshness of earth and sky, and wealth of bountiful rain.

Masters joked as they changed into dry clothing, camp-boys and camel-men sang their native songs and laughed, while they ran from place to place to marvel at the quantity of water.

“Great rain for our country,” declared the Tuaregs. “Soon our lean camels shall have plenty to eat: Allah be praised!”

And to look upon the flooded land and think that only some hours before we had dug in the river-bed, and dug in vain, in search of good water; that was almost like a far-off dream.

In the dusk, when enough firewood had been salvaged, camp-fires were kindled, and we sat around the golden glow of their friendly warmth to still the shiverings of unaccustomed dampness. And in the hearts of all there was a rich and unusual exuberance because of the rare events of the day that had gifted succour for the present to the Great Lone Land of Thirst.

II

At another time the scene shifts from the abnormal back to the normal parched dryness, and I look out upon desert that is clothed in the character by which it is best known and recognised: _an awe-inspiring, sun-mastered immensity of sand and stone; secret as eternity_, and filled with the stillness and brooding melancholy of a place of the dead.

The moment happens to be one of uneasiness. There are shadows of storm aslant the trail, and we hasten the caravan forward. But only with temporary purpose, knowing full well that nothing can stay the unleashing of the pent-up furies of the elements that already whisper and cry in their eagerness to descend in one great avalanche of whirling madness.

The black columns of a sandstorm are approaching. For our puny caravan there is no escape. Distant at first, it draws within the range of minutes and moments; and then, swift as the flight of keen-winged birds, and swifter than the flames of a forest fire, the terrifying storm overtakes us.

At once there is faltering and trembling before the shock. Vain are shouts to urge the camels onward. One or two flop instantly to the ground, while others struggle to keep their balance. . . . In a moment more all have broken from the line to crowd in panic with backs to the seething, stinging sand. We have completely halted—the camels have mutinied; and no power on earth can induce them to move while the storm continues.

We are caught in the sandstorm with a vengeance. There is no shelter whatever. Dazed, blinded men, working as in a shroud of dense smoke, grope for knot-ends and relieve the camels of their loads. These, banked as barricades, and the camels, are our only protection. But little they avail, for soon the encampment is literally buried.

We huddle together, blinded, spluttering and choking, not daring to speak or expose ourselves further to the awful blizzard. It is trial enough to sit still, for, whatever the covering of protection, fine dust penetrates to the inmost recesses to sting eyes and lips, already smarting and swollen, and fill our throats and nostrils.

Effort is absolutely futile, and we turn dormant as stones that wait the passing of time under unhappy exposure. Indeed, except for agitations beneath our coverings when pain becomes unbearable, we lie as in our graves. And all the while the sand-burdened blizzard seethed and boiled and rushed ever onward; darkening the day almost to night, and fogging the landscape so that eye could not see more than a yard within the haze.

Hour succeeded hour . . . and the day passed. . . . and there was no camp-fire, no food, and no happiness, for the wrath of Allah continued through the land.

III

Again, with rude storms past, the elements lapse drearily to their accustomed routine, governed, without heart, by the Power of the Sun.

And it is under those conditions that the traveller in the desert must chiefly toil, or, failing to toil, sink beneath the weight of undermining, brain-drugging heat and monotony.

Wherefore a commonplace day finds me toiling the sand in a God-forgotten recess of the world. I have killed some meat for the camp, but that hardly interests me. I am aware that I am “off colour”—almost ill. But I am more disturbed still by the knowledge that I am weary, and not so strong as I was; and that slowly, insidiously, the sun is sapping my life-blood.

A Tuareg stranger is with my follower, who carries the gazelle. I hear the man being told exaggerated stories of my shooting capabilities:

“He kills whether they stand or run.”

And again:

“If a man walk for two days this white man still fit to reach him with gun.”

I wanly smile; in no mood for laughter.

Slowly we trudge toward camp. It is about noon, and desperately hot. But I am thinking neither of the remorseless sting of the sun nor of the desolation of Africa: _I am wondering if I dare break into one of our last bottles of whisky if I go under again with fever_. It is the priceless medicine of the exhausted and malaria-stricken, and the meagre store cannot last to the end.

On entering camp, however, my thoughts are turned into other channels. The camels have just been watered, and recline on the sand. About half of them have sores to be doctored, ugly, suppurating saddle wounds and foot wounds, fly-ridden and ill healing; so bad that every now and then they claim a victim in death. For an hour I work with scissors and knife among filth and disinfectant: crude, intimate surgery that might have turned me sick if it had not been a daily task for a long time.

The animals were then turned loose to find what scrub they could about the old well-head. But soon they lay down in the hot sun, _for there was next to nothing to eat_.

Elatu, the head camel-man, had gravely told me, while we worked together over the wounds, his fears and doubts of the land we travelled, and his fears and doubts of the well-being of our beasts of burden. We had camped that morning at _water_, but he advised that we should not stay through the day, because there was no fit pasturage for our weary, used-up camels.

Wherefore, after a meal that I barely touched, except to gulp down cup after cup of tea, we reloaded the tired camels in the small hours of the afternoon and continued slowly on our way.

Ten hours later we wearily camped, and men scarcely spoke while, in the deep darkness, they unburdened the camels, and laid themselves down to rest . . . and then the kindly hand of night was mercifully laid upon the cares of an impoverished band.

IV

The caravan is in want of water, and desperately anxious to find it. Having lately detected a frayed rope and some pellets of wasted camel-dung, we are fairly certain that an old trail has been picked up.

Some hours later we become sure of water ahead when we pass a number of heaps of stones piled by human hands; the Token Stones of grateful wayfarers who have slaked their thirst in the desert, and surreptitiously left behind this expression of their thanks. The Tuaregs say that most of these token heaps are the work of slaves, who, in the past, in this way endeavoured to mark the places of water over the route they were borne as captives, in case they should ever escape. Nevertheless, few nomads of the land to-day, having drunk their fill, will pass from place of water without stooping to add further stones to the piles that sit, like symbols of some weird religion, in their path.

Two camels shoot ahead of the line. Wild, saddle-perfect Tuaregs ride them to water at a swinging trot. They mean to return, with goatskins of water, to slake the pressing thirst of the men, long before we camp.

The noon hours recede, but not the oven heat, and slowly under that weight, the long span of the afternoon drags on.

Towards dusk the journey ends, and our column moves into a curious narrow declivity that finishes in a quarry-like space. We descend, and are lost from the landscape above. There is no sign of water or living soul; but the cliffs and dishevelled rocks of the den are literally covered with strange drawings and writings. With whisperings of awe one of the men who had gone in front tells that we are in a secret place of water that he has recognised. “Not many know of it,” he assures me. “A few of my people, and robbers from Ahaggar; but not the robbers from Tibesti. You are the first white man who has seen it.”

“But where is the water?” I exclaim, scanning the rocks and the sand carpet beneath my feet.

He beckoned me to go with him, and we proceeded until we came to the closed end, or _cul-de-sac_ of the defile. Picking the way among giant boulders until the straight cliff base was reached, my camel-man then halted and pointed with a smile to a dark hole in the wall at the ground’s edge, no larger than the den of hyena or jackal. “_Ama!_” he exclaimed.

I sat down and lit my pipe; the place was unusual and uncanny. “Water in there, Mohammed? How the devil do you get it out? Go back and bring Sili with a waterskin, and ask Sakari to give you a candle: I want to have a look.”

When he got back we wormed our way into the hole. Past the entrance there was a cavern where a man could stand stooping. Crossing it, another long tunnel led to a further cave, lower than the first, and there, in the bowels of the earth, gleaming in the candle-light, lay a black pool of water, clean, clear, and deliciously cool.

In that mysterious haven of secrecy we camped beside water in abundance . . . and thus it came to pass that the camp-fires of the white man lit the eerie, strangely scrawled cliffs of Inzanenet as the fires of those on many an escapade had often done before, if tales of the land be true.

And owls and bats and ghoul-like shadows were companions through the night, but the white vulture that points the places of water and human dwelling, marked not the sky by day, since even from him of the outer world the secret of the cave was hidden.

V

Strangers have drifted into camp.

The caravan, at the time, is settled among a sea of wonderful sand-dunes; _Erg_ land of the Sahara. We have found, in lake-like basins between the dunes, some good _Alwat_ for the camels, and are inclined to delay so that the animals may benefit.

Hitherto no sign of human life had been seen—and now these men, who have followed in on our tracks.

Their camels are splendid, and elaborately saddled. They dismount on a dune crest overlooking the camp. There are four of them. The senior is a small, sharp-eyed man dressed like a prosperous Arab, while the others are tall, strangely gross-looking, and less dignified.

Ordinarily their presence would be accepted without question, but my suspicions are aroused because they are curiously furtive, and have suddenly appeared in a wild region where not expected.

Joining us, they profess to be traders, and have a few trivial things about their persons to offer. Questioned as to where they have come from, and whence proceeding, their answers are evasive and contradictory. However, we elicit the information that the name of the senior man is Myram, and that he is a native of Ghat.

They remained some hours; long enough to appraise all we possessed, and our strength. In the evening they departed, heading north.

They were no sooner gone than my camel-men came forward to ask me to be careful through the night. “Those men were robbers,” they declared; “there will be others at hand.”

However, a wakeful watchful night passed uneventfully. It may have been that the camp was too well armed, or too alert; in any case, we saw no living soul again.[18]

And thereafter we spent some days among the dunes—perhaps the most beautiful and most mystical environment that one may find in the Sahara; and always the colours and shadows of morn and eve were infinite and superb.

Nevertheless, the influence of these gigantic scenes of sand sometimes affects the travel-stained imagination; particularly when there is no escape from constant sameness over a prolonged period. A good illustration of how it engrosses and depresses one’s thoughts, even in sleep, is contained in a dream of Glover’s.

“I dreamt, last night, that you had received a message from the French saying that your journey had all been a mistake, and that you could not continue across the Sahara. The message went on to say that they were very sorry about the disappointment to you, but if you cared to wait you could continue north _next year_. You answered, ‘All right, we will wait,’ and settled to camp among the awful sand. Then I clearly saw both of us sitting there through an eternity—waiting, always waiting. _And as we sat more and more sand dust covered us!_—until I saw quite six inches piled upon your shoulders and arms.

“And at last I seemed to rise up and scream—_‘This is awful!’ We cannot wait here longer; the dust will rise and rise for ever!’_”

So that in more ways than one, camp-fires in the _Ergs_ hold mysterious dangers.

CHAPTER XII

FEATHERS, AND THE PLACES THEY FREQUENT