Chapter XXI: Journey’s End

SLEEP came slowly to me that first night at Furawia. I was excited as I had not been since saying good-by to Lieutenant Bather at Sollum and beginning the journey. Now I was in touch again with the outside world and the journey was really over, even though it would still be a month or more before I should exchange my caravan for other methods of travel. The “lost” oases of Arkenu and Ouenat were no longer lost, and, if my observations proved to be as accurate as I hoped they were, a good map could now be made of this strip of the Libyan Desert from Jalo to Furawia.

We spent three full days at Furawia getting used to the damp climate we had come into and trying to get enough to eat to keep us from feeling miserable. Dark clouds hovered over our heads much of the time, and every day it rained. My men gorged themselves with mutton, but the lack of sugar for the tea and other provisions rather took the edge off their enjoyment of these feasts.

On June 6 we started south in the afternoon and climbed slowly out of the valley. We passed many flocks of sheep and cattle going home, followed by slim girls and boys clad in nothing but a loin-cloth or strings of beads.

It was quite different from the desert we had come through. We were following a beaten track and passing frequently small villages of straw huts, women carrying _hatab_, and other signs of habitation.

Near one of the villages I told the caravan to go ahead and pointed out to them where we would camp. I followed with my horse. There were a few points of interest geographically, and I had to take some observations. As I was nearing the camp I heard voices curiously upraised, a mixture between men wailing and singing. My first thought was that some of the men of the caravan had got into trouble with the natives. I spurred on my horse and as I was approaching the camp my mind was relieved, for I heard the _tom-tom_ of the drum and women’s voices singing. It was just after sunset, and in the dusk I could not distinguish clearly the crowd that was moving toward me, but soon one of my men came rushing up to tell me they had had the most cordial reception from the men and women of the village, who insisted on coming out to receive “the _sheikh_ of the caravan.” He had hardly broken this news to me when a bevy of young girls, some singing, others dancing, surrounded my horse, who responded as befitted a Bedouin horse and started prancing. The women raised _lu-lias_, and I was urged by my Bedouins to empty gunpowder. The crowd made way for my horse, and I walked him a short distance off, turned around, came rushing back, and pulled him up dead. By that time I had got out my rifle, and as my horse stopped dead I fired my shot, in Bedouin fashion, at the feet of the first row of beautiful damsels. They were half frightened and half delighted. Then six of them surrounded the horse, circling round me, and gave me the _shabaal_; that is to say, with a sudden twist of the head they whirled their tresses toward me as a woman of southern Europe might throw a rose. In response, I put my finger on each girl’s forehead and, holding my rifle high in the air, twirled it round her head, crying “_Abshir bil kheir!_” (“Rejoice in the bounty of God!”). We then formed ourselves into a procession and proceeded to the camp. The moment they saw me coming surrounded by all those girls the Bedouins fired in the air in honor of the occasion. The Bedouin is very chivalrous, and such is his idea of honoring the ladies. Afterward I distributed scent to all the girls, who went away very happy, and it was a most cheerful evening in the camp.

The next day we reached Um Buru, thirty-eight kilometers from Furawia. We camped near the well, and the next morning I was awakened early by sounds of cattle and sheep coming to water. An hour later a busy market was being held alongside our camp. We had unwittingly pitched our tents close by the big tree that marked the center of the market-place. Only women took part in the market, bringing butter, leather, mats, maize, cotton, and salt, which they bartered with each other without the use of money. Meanwhile the men lay about at their ease and did nothing. As I watched such a scene as this and others not unlike in the villages of the Sudan, I found myself wondering whether the black women were not after all better off as slaves in a Bedouin household. Here they do all the work that is done, caring for cattle and sheep, doing the housework, and preparing meals and making the favorite beverage _merissa_ for their men, carrying on the business of the market—everything. As slaves they would have only certain circumscribed duties and some opportunity for leisure. As I turned this over in my mind, however, I seemed to catch something in the sound of their talk and their laughter that slaves do not have. Perhaps there is something in the feeling of liberty after all, even when it is accompanied by drudgery.

The governor of the Darfur Province and his staff welcome the explorer to the capital of the province]

We stopped at Um Buru for two days. Abdel Rahman Jeddu, _wakil_ of Mohammedin, the head of the Zaghawa tribe, visited me and brought sheep and chicken as _diafa_. On the second day we were given an official welcome, the _wakil_ coming with a retinue of retainers on horseback beating drums. Mohammedin’s family, in the absence of the master of the household, sent a lunch of _asida_, vegetables, _merissa_, and pastry.

The next stage of our journey was a five days’ trek to Kuttum, 129 kilometers to the southward. The weather was generally good, though hot, with an occasional shower. We traveled as usual in the early morning and late afternoon. There was a beaten track with fairly good going, through hilly country covered with dry grass and small trees. At intervals there were patches which had been burnt in preparation for being cultivated.

On the third day my messenger to El Fasher arrived, with two companions, but it was a disappointing meeting. It had taken him five days instead of four to reach his destination, and he had not brought the answer to my letter back with him. It was waiting for me, he said, in the possession of a soldier at Mutarrig Well, twelve hours’ journey from where we were. The soldier also had provisions for us, but they did us little immediate good at that distance.

There was little for dinner when we camped that night. After dinner I sent our guide off post-haste with orders to ride all night and until he reached Mutarrig. There he was to tell the soldier to come to us as fast as he could.

We started before four the next morning, and in an hour the men came rushing to me with the news that there was a soldier ahead on a camel. In a few minutes I had a letter from Charles Dupuis, acting Governor of Darfur, in the absence of Saville Pasha who had resigned from the service, and a small supply of rice, flour, tea, and sugar. I was especially pleased to be handed a supply of cigarettes.

I had not smoked since soon after leaving Erdi. At Ouenat I had suddenly realized that there were only a few cigarettes left. I then laid down a strict rule for myself: one cigarette a day after dinner. It was hard work waiting all day for that brief smoke, but it was worth it when the moment came. I would get into a sheltered corner, light the precious cigarette, and shield it carefully from any breath of wind that might make it burn ever so slightly faster. When the few cigarettes were gone, there was nothing left but memories and expectation. Now at last the expectation was gratified with a vengeance, for I smoked until my throat was sore.

Bukara, with a handful of the newly arrived cigarettes, put on his long-tasseled red _tarboosh_, got on the guide’s horse, and did a little _fantasia_ of joy. But it was when we camped at the government rest-house at Marahig that general rejoicing broke loose with singing and dancing. The corporal, looking on while the men set the sugar-loaf on the ground and executed a wild dance about it, thought us all a little mad.

“Why all this rejoicing?” he demanded.

“Because for a month we have had no sugar, and now our tea is sweetened again,” said Abdullahi.

Until one has tried going without any sugar whatever, one does not realize how keenly it will be missed.

The corporal shook his head and smiled. “I must return at once to Kuttum and bring you more provisions,” he said. “We never realized that you were so short of food.” Before he left he was kind enough to go to a camp near-by and bring us a sheep and butter, which were to be paid for by the _moawin_ of Kuttum, since the seller refused to accept Egyptian paper money. The corporal then left with letters from me for Mr. Dupuis and the _moawin_, the deputy Governor of Kuttum.

The provisions which he had brought us were good as far as they went, but we should very soon be in need of more. I decided to push on at once. We made our midday halt at the government rest-house at Marahig Well and our stop for the night only a few kilometers farther on. The camels were in very bad condition. The backs and sides of some of them were sore and bleeding, and two camels refused to move until their loads were taken off. It rained for an hour that evening, but it could not dampen our spirits. The men sang and danced around a big fire. The humidity and the smell of the wet grass reminded me of my walks in English country.

We made an early start the next morning in order to reach Mutarrig Well for the midday halt. We lunched at the rest-house near the well and received a visit from the _sheikh_ of Mutarrig, who brought a few chickens as _diafa_. He wanted us to stop the night so that he could entertain us properly the next day, but I felt the necessity of going on as fast as possible.

The camels were getting steadily worse. We had to leave one of them with the _sheikh_ of the village on the understanding that if it recovered he was to get a quarter of the price it brought when sold, while if it died he was not to be held responsible.

An hour and a half after starting the next day another soldier on horseback appeared. He brought a letter from the _moawin_ of Kuttum and a small quantity of rice and sugar. They are gratefully received, for once more we were on short rations and without sugar for our tea. I gave him a letter to take back to Kuttum. A little later we camped in the small valley of Boa. In the afternoon, soon after we had started again, it came on to rain with a strong southeast wind, and I thought it might be wise to camp until the storm was over. But through my glasses I made out ahead of us the row of straw huts of the Markas—the government house—of Kuttum, and spurred on by the sight we drove the camels faster.

Soon a group of horsemen were seen approaching us, and my Bedouins impulsively raised a cheer. When I recognized the uniform of Sudanese troops, it was the most cheering sight that I had seen for many weeks. Riad Abu Akla Effendi and Nasr El Din Shaddad Effendi, the two _moawins_ of Kuttum, approached with a detachment of ten soldiers, the _kadi_, the head clerk, and other officials and notables of Kuttum. I shook hands warmly with them all, and under their escort the caravan moved on through the village. As we approached, the Markas women clothed in white and beating drums greeted us with singing and “lu-lias.” We settled ourselves in and about the rest-house, and the women came again to offer greetings. In a long line they sang and danced, much to the delight of my Bedouins, who asked permission to empty gunpowder in acknowledgment of the courtesy. I could not refuse my consent, and one by one, beginning with Bukara, the men performed the ceremony of singeing the girls’ slippers. The Sudanese women were not so accustomed to the Bedouin manner of paying homage as the girls of the northern desert, and flinched a little as the powder flashed at their feet. But they accepted it all in good part, the whole line swaying and dancing to the rhythm of the drums while one by one my men singled them out for the “slipper-singeing honor.” It was a wonderful reception, and the pleasure of it dispersed like magic the fatigue and lassitude of the journey.

More hospitality was to come. Four sheep, butter, and fresh vegetables, to say nothing of sugar, were brought to us as _diafa_ from the _moawins_ and officials, and we spent a pleasant evening feasting.

Our arrival at Kuttum at this particular moment had seemed to the inhabitants there an especially auspicious one, for we came with the first rain of the season.

We stopped there for two days, entertained generously by the _moawins_ in the absence of the inspector, Mr. Arkell, who was at El Fasher.

One afternoon we attended a soccer match between two teams of soldiers. It was played with energy if not with finesse. At times a player, striving to give the ball an especially vigorous kick, would miss it and send his Sudanese slipper shooting high into the air. The _camaraderie_ between officers and men, playing this not exactly gentle game together, was interesting to see.

Dinner that night with Riad Effendi and Nasr El Din Effendi, the _moawins_, was the first meal I had eaten in a house since leaving Kufra. My hosts gave me Egyptian newspapers to read, the first I had seen in nearly six months.

We left Kuttum at six o’clock on the morning of June 17, cheered by the generous hospitality we had enjoyed and the friendly send-off our friends gave us. The two days’ journey to El Fasher was a joy-ride. We all felt the thrill and exhilaration of getting in touch with the world again.

But as I went to bed on the eighteenth I realized with a stab of regret that this was my last day in the real desert. I thought how I should miss my men and my camels, the desolateness and the beauty, the solitude and the companionship; in two words, the desert and its life. I thanked God for His guidance across this vast expanse of pathless sand and found myself adding a prayer, half wistfully, that I might come back to it again.

I had given orders for an early start the next morning. In their eagerness my men somewhat exaggerated my idea of “early,” but I was excited myself and did not mind getting under way at half-past two.

Three hours’ march from El Fasher we camped to make preparations for entering the place. We all shaved and put on our best clothes. Mr. Dupuis had sent a supply of white cloth to Kuttum for us, and my men were able to appear once more in decent raiment. They crowded around my remnant of a mirror to see how they looked. Rifles were cleaned, and the luggage, which was in a very shabby state, was tidied as much as possible. I wished that I might be able to do something for the camels as well, which were thin and dejected-looking. But rest and attention to their sore backs were what they needed, and we had no time or facilities for giving them that. Nevertheless they too seemed to be infected with the spirit of eagerness felt by all of us and walked forward briskly. Abdullahi and Zerwali got into their silks, and the caravan moved gaily toward its destination.

As we reached the outskirts of El Fasher, cheers of rejoicing rose throughout the caravan. A cavalcade of men in khaki was coming toward us. I put spurs to Baraka, and he responded willingly. He saw the horses before us, pricked his ears forward, and dashed toward them.

The capital of Darfur Province]

Mr. Dupuis came forward on his horse to meet me, and we shook hands warmly. The greetings were repeated by the English and Egyptian officers of his staff, and we went on to his house, a part of which he generously made over to me and the men of my caravan. The weary camels were promptly taken in hand by Bimbashi Andas, who gave them food, water, and the medical treatment for their wounds they so much needed.

The officer in charge of the wireless station kindly got me the exact Greenwich time from Paris by radio. I was pleased to discover that my chronometer had lost only twenty-three minutes and twenty-three seconds in eight months.

For ten days I was the guest of Mr. Dupuis and was lavishly entertained by the officers and officials of the garrison, both English and my own compatriots, and the notables of the town. Hospitality was showered upon me, and every kind of assistance that could possibly be needed was eagerly rendered. This was civilization again. I enjoyed once more the luxuries of life, especially vegetables and fruits. It is only when one has gone through the austere régime of the desert that one looks upon these things as luxuries and not necessities. There was in particular a brand of prunes, the pride of Major Smith, and of peculiar lusciousness. He called them “If Winter Comes,” and I have never tasted their like anywhere.

At last the day came when I must take leave of my companions of the trek from Kufra. When Bukara and his brother and Hamid and Senussi Bu Jaber came to my room to say good-by, it was a moment full of real emotion and crowded with memories. These rugged men of the desert burst into tears, and I found my own eyes wet. We had been through thick and thin together and came out fast friends. I could never wish for better companions on a journey into desolate regions, more able, more manly, or more loyal.

We read the “Fat-ha,” the sound of the familiar sacred phrases punctuated by Bukara’s sobbing. I exchanged a final handclasp with each of them, and we parted, to meet one day, I hope, in that desert that I love as much as they.

One more camel-trek before me eastward to El Obeid. There I took train for Khartum and thence home to Cairo, where I arrived on August 1, 1923.

I had been away from home seven months and twenty-three days, having trekked twenty-two hundred miles across the desert by caravan.

I had determined finally the position of the Zieghen Wells and of Kufra on the map of Africa, in the placing of which there had been hitherto errors of one hundred and of forty-five kilometers respectively.

I had also had the great good fortune to put the “lost” oases of Arkenu and Ouenat definitely on the map of the Libyan Desert.

To A. M. H.

I crave no statue in a public street,

Nor page of history to give my name:

A desert flower on my winding sheet

Is all I ask to mark the way I came.

There were no jewels buried in the sand,

The treasure that I sought was little worth:

I went—but oh, how few will understand—

To tread an unworn carpet of the earth.

Wide spaces called me, and the way was free;

Feet falter not upon a road unknown:

How languish, one who, looking back, can see—

A thousand miles—no footsteps but his own?

Not half a hundred voyagings for gold

Could make me rich as many times I’ve been

When, weary-eyed, I’ve watched the dawn unfold

And spread soft radiances o’er a desert scene.

Thoughts were my treasure; where may thoughts be sold?

My world was empty, but my world was clean.

G. F. FOLEY.

El Fasher,
June 30, 1923.