Chapter IX: Sand-Storms and the Road to Jalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hassanein Bey is mounted on his Arab horse, Baraka]

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

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

So Ali sings:

“I went singing

And all men turned to hear me.

It is Khadra

Who draws the song from my soul.

Red is her cheek like spilt blood;

Slim and round she is like a reed.

None so young, none so old

Not to know her.

If I meet her in the way,

I will flaunt her—

Like a scarf upon my spear.”

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

“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,

Thy mouth flows honey

Over teeth of ivory.

Thy waist is slender

Like the lion’s running in the chase.

Wilt thou have me?

Or thinkest thou of another?

Thy form is rounded like a whip—

To lie on thy breast

Were to be in Paradise.

Love cannot be hidden,

But Fate is in the hands of God.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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