Chapter XIV: Kufra: Old Friends and a Change of Plan

_Sunday, April 1._ We started at 9:45 A.M. and halted at 2 P.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 short one. 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, the _kaimakam_, Sidi Mahmoud El Jeddawi, Sayed Idris’s _wakil_, and several _ikhwan_ brought 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 time for 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.

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 beautiful _gibba_ of yellow and gold, having changed the classical soft Bedouin _tarbush_, which he had been wearing, for a white silk _kufia_ and a green and gold _egal_.

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 of _ikhwan_ and 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 explore these 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. The _daffa_ [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.

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 are of 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 with Bu 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,” he argued 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’s _wakil_ at Kufra, can now entertain us.

Bu Helega was about to leave, but I invited him to 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.

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

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 silk _kuftan_ embroidered with red braid, a rich white silk _burnoos_ carelessly 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 heavy ebony 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 the _kubba_ of 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 too had 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.”