Sahara

by Angus Buchanan

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Edge of the Unknown	[Frontispiece]
	FACING PAGE
In Agades	[4]
Native Food for the Long Trail	[6]
An Ordinary Night Camp	[12]
The Long, Exacting March	[16]
Nomad and Camel-man	[20]
Through to Water and Resting	[28]
Branded	[34]
All my Comrades carried Strange Boxes	[36]
My New Master rode me all that Day—	[38]
—And that was the Beginning of a GreatFriendship	[38]
He stroked me often	[42]
A Nook in the Mountainland of Aïr	[50]
Salt-bush	[52]
Disintegrating Rock	[52]
A Deserted Stone-built Village	[54]
Typical Tassili	[58]
A Deep Ravine in Tassili	[60]
A Saharan River-bed	[62]
A Corner of the Camp at Tabello	[72]
Food for Camels	[78]
Glimpses of the Taralum	[80]
Part of the Taralum camped	[82]
Among Sand-dunes	[86]
The Toll of the Desert	[86]
Efali	[90]
A Doorway in Fachi	[96]
The “Seven Palms”	[96]
The Ramparts	[98]
A Town built of Salt	[100]
Shadows at Every Turn	[102]
Women of Fachi	[104]
The Den of the Forty Thieves	[106]
The Salt-pits of Bilma	[114]
Setting the Salt	[116]
Men of the Oasis	[118]
From the Roof-tops they watched	[122]
The Salt-pans of Tigguida N’Tisem	[124]
Salt of Tigguida	[126]
The Veil	[132]
A Tuareg Woman	[134]
A Maiden	[138]
Tuareg Lads	[140]
A Tuareg Home	[144]
Eating from the One Dish	[146]
A Tuareg Village	[150]
The Well-head	[150]
With Rifle and Equipment	[152]
A Brief Halt	[160]
A Scene in Aïr	[166]
Spellbound in the Grip of Limitless Silence	[170]
When the Day dawned	[176]
Tombs on the Desert	[180]
A Slave Woman	[185]
A Tebu Woman	[186]
A Tebu Man	[186]
Semi-sedentary—an Egummi Native	[188]
Water for Irrigation	[190]
A Date Grove	[192]
A Woman of the “Diarabba”	[194]
A Halt at an Old Well	[200]
A Saharan Well	[202]
Sunk through Rock	[206]
A Camp-fire	[210]
The Wayfarer’s Possessions	[212]
A Bird Disguise	[220]
Two Male Ostriches	[222]
Cattle Egrets	[224]
Arab Bustards	[226]
Carrion Vultures	[230]
A Morning’s Bag	[238]
Big Game	[240]
Dorcas Gazelle	[244]
Aardvark	[248]
A Desert Fox	[252]
Ever heading North	[258]
In-Salah Market	[260]
Scene in Ouargla	[262]
Buchanan	[264]
Glover, T. A.	[266]
Together to the End	[268]
Good-bye to Africa	[276]
Back to Civilised Clothes	[280]
Ali and Sakari in England	[284]
Map	[p.46]
Diagram of Rock Decay	[p.65]

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CHAPTER I
PREPARATIONS

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CHAPTER I
PREPARATIONS

It is strange how the maddest of dreams come true in the end; provided one has faith to hold on to them dearly.

Twenty-one months before setting out on the journey recorded in these pages, when I was on my way back from the Northern Regions of Aïr, I remember, as clearly as if it was to-day, sitting in the dim, mud dwelling-room of the fort quarters at Agades discussing with Monsieur le Capitaine, in charge of that last outpost of French military administration, the prospects of my returning again at another time and undertaking further and greater exploration of that vast and mystical land that men know by the name Sahara.

At that time I had some acquaintance with the country, and, like other explorers, once having tasted the charm of discovery, I was eager to push onward into the dimmest recesses of the land, since it held, at brilliant moments, stirring promise of new and strange secrets of unknown character—secrets that shyly withdrew behind the mist of the desert’s horizon, dancing like will-o’-the-wisps, until they disappeared, leaving behind a taste of temptation that beckoned alluringly.

Le Capitaine was a wise and experienced traveller and bushman—a man of iron; a man of understanding; and he fanned the sparks of my newly kindled ideas with such zest and earnestness that, in the late hours of our discussions, they enlarged to the magnitude of absolute ideals.

For that alone I owe Le Capitaine a debt of gratitude; but I have gratitude also for having met him and shaken his hand in friendship.

To-day men of Le Capitaine’s type are rare. He was, when I knew him, and is no doubt still, a pioneer; one of that little group of exceptional men who stand head and shoulders above the rank and file of their brethren in outdoor adaptability, and who leave a deeply cut mark on the furthermost frontiers of a nation’s colonies. Men of his type have the geography of Africa at their finger-ends in infinite outlines, great though Africa is, and under many flags. The ultimate future of all things is their particular study and concern, since men have time to think and ponder deeply over intimate problems who spend their lives in desperately lonely environment. And, above all else, these rare individuals are men of deadly earnestness and unquestionable honesty.

It is a delight to induce such men, in the aftermeal hours of merciful evening coolness, to discuss their schemes for the building of colonies and empires, and hear them lay out a network of railways and enterprises from place to place, across a continent, with the clear precision and absolute accuracy that only is possible to the student who thoroughly knows his subject.

IN AGADES; WHERE DREAMS OF A SECOND EXPEDITION TO THE SAHARA FIRST DAWNED

From the date of those camp-fire talks that carried us away into the midnight hours of the brooding, sand-surrounded fort, a second expedition to the Sahara was firmly planted in my mind.

But it was not until September 1921 that I found myself again free to think of continuing travel on natural history research, and was able to give to my dreams a definite shape.

At that time I wrote to Lord Rothschild’s Museum, and the British Museum, to ascertain their views of the zoological value of an extended journey right across the Sahara, starting from the West Coast of Africa and striking northward until the sea-coast of the Mediterranean was reached.

Encouraging replies were immediately forthcoming, and both these great Natural History Institutions were anxious that I should make the effort and offered to support me so far as lay in their power.

Their support made my decision to attempt a second expedition final; whereupon Lord Rothschild at once took steps, on my behalf, to forward, through the French Embassy in London, a request for official consent to be granted to the expedition’s travelling through the French territories of the Sudan and Sahara.

But formal preliminaries of this kind move very slowly at times, and for four and a half months the matter lay unsettled and I lived in an atmosphere of uncertainty, doubtful as to the view the French authorities would take of a journey that was undoubtedly hazardous; doubtful, also, as to the date at which it might be possible to sail. If I was to make a well-timed start to catch the rains in barren areas of the Sahara in August or September, I estimated that I must set out not later than the 8th of March, on the West Coast ship sailing at that date.

Weeks slipped by. No word came from across the Channel. The 8th of March loomed nearer and nearer, and I grew restless and worried.

At last the time came when the French authorities said, “You may go.” And then there was gladness and bustle and transformation.

Everything in the way of equipment had to be secured in three weeks. My days were spent in London, flying here, there, and everywhere on seemingly endless shopping errands, until on the eve of sailing the entire equipment was tolerably complete.

I will describe one amusing incident that relates to shopping:

I drove up to a large West-End establishment and asked the taxi-driver to wait, while, in company with my wife, I entered the shop.

I had told the taxi-driver I would not be long, but was detained almost an hour.

NATIVE FOOD FOR THE LONG TRAIL

My wife became anxious about the taxi-man’s temper, and, after considerable time had passed, went to pacify him.

“My husband won’t be long now,” she said. “You must excuse him; he is in there buying food for a year.”

“Gawd! Where’s he going, Miss?” the taxi-man exclaimed, and when my wife explained, “To explore the Sahara,” he got excited and thoroughly interested, and at once started to confide the news to a fellow taxi-man on another waiting cab.

This incident brings sharply before the mind the enormous contrast between a land of plenty and a land of poverty, while it makes us appreciate how much we rely on our everyday habit of shopping.

At home we have to think of little purchases of parcels for the needs of the day, and we suffer no severe penalty if something required has been overlooked, for any such omission can usually be rectified in an hour or so by ’phone, or message, or by a second call.

How different in the Sahara!—no shops; scanty food; less water—wilderness, often without living soul. Shopping that has to foresee every emergency for so long a time as a year or more in such environment is indeed a task of consequence. Not an item must be forgotten, big or little, and it is the little things that are the hardest to keep sight of (and to purchase, for that matter).

Yet, no matter how careful, after six months on the way, something is sure to be badly missed; some provoking little thing, of increased importance the moment one is aware it is not to be had for love or money. Then, if you are kind, have pity, for the loss will be great and real. All must have some fellow feelings in such a circumstance, for has not everyone known what it is to be “put out” when some little purchase has been forgotten on the shop’s half-closing day? Half a day! For 365 days I have known what it is to do without things I believed were indispensable.

On the 8th March 1922, with equipment collected and complete according to views that were the outcome of previous experience, I sailed from Liverpool to land at Lagos; on the West Coast of Africa.

My companions were: Francis Rodd, who was to go with me as far as Aïr, on ethnological and geographical research, and the cinematographer of the expedition, T. A. Glover.

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CHAPTER II
THE CARAVAN

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CHAPTER II
THE CARAVAN

A drowsy, uncertain voice, casting a word or two across the darkness in search of comrade, disturbs my deep sleep of night. In a moment I am consciously awake.

“Lord!” I think, “it seems but an hour since I wearily sought repose.”

I feel dreadfully heavy and muscle-weary, and my blanket seems the snuggest place on earth. But the laws of the wilderness are pitiless. The caravan is four days out from water, and has three more days to go—if we travel continuously.

With a groan, in protest and to pick up pluck, the mind wins obedience over jaded flesh, and with sudden forced resolve I jerk into sitting position on the sand, before I have time to change my mind.

My head camel-man, the owner of the drowsy voice, is stirring uneasily. Mindful of overnight orders, he has kept a faithful eye on the starlit sky and knows it to be about two hours from dawn— the time set for wakening the camp.

“Elatu! . . . Mohammed! . . . Gumbo!” I cry. “Wake up! . . . Hurry! . . . Load the camels!”

As darkness is known to those who live in houses, it is still deep and utter night. But it is not so opaque to the wayfarer: the unroofed camp, under the great blue star-lit dome, can be made out grouped like a tiny island of dark, huddled boulders in a vast sea of sand, dimly visible for a distance. There is barely a suggestion of light. Yet it is there—that faint glow of a Saharan night, that is influenced by unobstructed skies and vast white plains of sand. The accustomed eye can almost “sense” the approach of day, but we know also by the position of the stars that the hour is 4 a.m., and that dawn will surely break at the appointed time.

The men gird travel-soiled garments about them. Instructions go forth with perfect understanding. Camels grunt and roar as they are head-roped and shifted from night-lairs to positions beside their loads.

In a little a fire flares up, bright and dim by turns, fed by the straw-leavings of overnight camel fodder.

By the fitful light stray ropes are recovered half buried in sand, or difficult loads secured; while Elatu, Mohammed, and the others work at a feverish pace so that the first animals loaded will not have to wait overlong for the last of their comrades.

It is harsh work, hard and exacting; but the men, skilled and able, go through with it. They have been with me for months. They are men of the Sahara, and I know that loads will be well balanced and unerringly roped when, out on the trail, dawn breaks to reveal the merit of their workmanship.

AN ORDINARY NIGHT CAMP IN TRAVELLING THE DESERT

The camp, deep in sleep and deadly still during the night, is now appallingly noisy in comparison with the vast quiet that lies outside its immediate circle. It is impossible to try to conceal our whereabouts. No matter if raiders, or the deadliest enemies of war, are at hand, the message of a camel-camp on the move goes out into the night unfettered—and the risk recognised.

One by one garrulous camels are released from knee-ropes that have kept them down, obedient to the task of loading, and rise from the sand to stand in dim outline, ready for the road, tall and gaunt, with jutting side-burdens.

Half an hour has passed, and still the caravan is not ready. It is foolish to be impatient. The groping work of the men in the dark seems provokingly slow; but patience, cheerfulness, and coolness are tonic for the moment—so the leader learns to wait, and make light of it—and reaps the gratitude of his henchmen in return.

“White Feather,” my faithful, travel-wise, long-tried camel, kneels beside me ready to move. I have seen to it that the riding-saddle—a slim, perched-on, Tuareg saddle of the Sahara—is comfortable on the animal, and secure and level, for it is to serve for many hours to come. On the long, hard day that lies ahead every detail is important. In their places, calculated with purpose to balance on either side of the saddle evenly, are hung an old army water-bottle, a pair of field-glasses, a revolver, and two grass saddle-satchels with dates, tobacco, ammunition, and maps; while over the flanks drop leather buckets containing a shot-gun and a rifle.

It is too dark to see the worn condition of equipment, battered and broken by months of “roughing it” in the open; nor men who are rugged and hard, and lean as the camels they saddle, from strain of relentless effort. Yet those conditions are there, uncovered till kindness of night departs and reveals the sternness of endless enduring.

At the end of an hour we start, and two long lines of camels head northward into the darkness. And thenceforth the din, that was in camp, dies out; broken only once or twice, to begin with, as a camel protests while watchful native runs alongside to straighten an uneasy load.

Soon there is scarcely a sound, and the soft-footed caravan moves ghostlike over a great empty land that is dead.

The long, exacting march has begun, and another day’s effort to conquer the vastness of Space and Sand.

At the start the camels travel well. The men are slightly urging the pace by persuasive foot-pressure on the nape of the neck. They want to make the most of this hour, but they do not press the animals inconsiderately, for long, hot hours lie in front. Always the best pace of the day is made during the cool hour before dawn and through the delightful hour succeeding it.

I ride alongside Elatu’s camel, up in front of the caravan, and enter into low conversation to gather the vital news of the morning. Elatu—a tall, lean Tuareg of some thirty years—is my head camel-man, and a ceaseless worker of exceptional ability. He is one of those very fine natives whom a white man may win and come to hold in esteem, conquered by sheer value of labour and fidelity.

Our minds are on the welfare of the caravan. “How sits the saddle on Awena this morning?” I asked. “Is the sore worse?”

“Yes,” Elatu answered. “But, before I slept last night, I made a rough cradle to try to keep the saddle from rubbing; and he carries his load to-day. But he cannot last. To be any good again he must reach a place to rest and recover strength, and heal the wound.”

“Owrak has no load to-day, nor Mizobe, and that swollen foot of Tezarif will give trouble before the sun sets.”

“Bah! This desert is no good. We know that camels must die. In my far-distant home I have seen them die since childhood. But Allah hits hard this moon[1]—and the way is yet far. We need our camels now.”

“That is bad news, Elatu,” I replied. “But we will get through—we always have—and we will again.”

“Break up Awena’s load to-night when we camp and take him along empty, if he can walk—if not, we will have to turn him loose to take his chance, or shoot him, if there is no prospect of grazing. Split up his main baggage among the fittest animals, if you can—if not, we will have to risk letting some food go.

“Gumbo tells me Sili is ill this morning. I’m afraid he won’t last much longer, poor lad. He has been sick too often lately, and looks bad.” I passed Elatu two aspirin tabloids. “Give him those and make him ride all day with his eyes covered from the sun so far as possible. Also, let him have extra water if he wants it badly before the end of the day.”

My camel went on, and Elatu halted. He would find Sili in the rear.

Camels—men—food—water—those make up one endless round of anxiety to all who travel the vast, empty world that makes up uttermost desert. Therein Nature is antagonistic to anything that lives. Wherefore, to those who venture forth, life is alert to its very foundation, and the contest for existence severe, and often bitter. Long, weary days bring few successes, and many disappointments and failures; and great lessons of life are taught and comprehended, though few words go forth in complaint of those things of tragedy and disaster that men keep hidden away in the closed book of the soul.

I muse in my saddle over the strange gamble of it all, so similar, in plan, to the gamble of life, familiar to most of us who have intimately known struggle for existence. But here the gamble is intensified, the material rude and raw, with vast wastes of barrenness immediate on all sides, and on the very threshold, ready to engulf and destroy the moment weakness is declared.

“THE LONG, EXACTING MARCH”

I am still pondering over this philosophy when I become aware that there is just a faint glow of light commencing to show in the east. It is the first indication of dawn.

Ever so slowly it increases till the distant line between earth and sky begins to form.

In a little time it is discerned that the light is coming from behind the earth, below the far eastern horizon.

Gradually the stars go out, and the earth becomes mistily unfolded.

We are alert to know the prospect of the landscape—hopeful of change to cheer our way. But, when the full expanse is revealed, the morning is as yesterday—no “land” in sight—nothing but the same old vast endless “sea” of sand that has come to be so familiar and so haunting.

But, with the light, comes a lifting of spirits. The men commence to chatter; and someone breaks into hopeful rhythmic song—a love-lilt of a tribe, reminiscent of home-fond memories. Others pick it up, rough-tuned and jazz-fashion, and a gay voice laughs after it has inserted a sly line or two of misquotation to point the words to a comrade’s sweetheart.

And so are rough men wooed to cheerfulness, even in time of stress, by the soft magic hand of morn, and its influence, that resembles the touch of a woman’s caress. For a space, all too short, the caravan lives at its best, careless of aught but the hour.

Meanwhile, the first flush of day creeps on. And soon, away at the sand-end “Edge of the World,” the great golden sun, till now the hidden source of day, blazes suddenly into sight, in the east, shooting coloured shaft-rays in the sky by the very glory of its brilliance.

It is the signal for Mohammedan prayer, and I order the caravan to halt in consideration of the religion of my followers.

All except the sick man, Sili, move out clear of the camels.

Facing the east, where far-off, in another world, lie Mecca and the Shrine of the Prophet, the men remove their sandals and, barefoot, reverently pray.

First they stoop to touch the ground with the palms of the hands, then pass them, dust-begrimed, over the face before they meet again, in an action that resembles washing. Then, standing, the prayer is commenced. Soon, the figures bend down to sit on the sand while continuously muttering softly modulated prayer, and dipping the forehead in the dust in moments of stress, or in gesticulations of respect.

There they sit for a little, stooping anon as before.

Again they rise upright.

Again they sit down. And then a gradual repose sets in.

Finally the prayer dies out restfully, and, by the subtle composure of the figures, the onlooker is conscious that the minds of the natives have settled in peace.

In a little they rise and rejoin the caravan; and the camels move on.

Let no man idly misunderstand or underrate the faith of these peoples of the East. It is a tremendous faith—and no single day may pass without deep worship and thought of Allah. It may be, in the Sahara, the faith of the primitive, the faith of an outdoor people, but it is complete and ever present. And who of us dare say so much of the Christianity of modern civilisation?

And this strength of religion has its political significance. Notwithstanding the French influence, and the venturings of missionaries, in parts that surround the Sahara, I am confident that, throughout the length and breadth of the desert to-day, its scattered peoples have, at heart, only the faith of Islam, and really admit true friendship and allegiance to the Caliph, and to none other. Wherever the wayfarer goes he will find the inner mind of the nomad turn ever to one magic name—“Stombole”—the Turkish centre in Constantinople, and the home of the Caliph.

Meantime, the sun has come completely into view; a great glowing orb, looking twice the size it will appear when later it is high in the sky.

The time is 6 a.m. For an hour more we travel in comparative coolness; but by 9 a.m. we are into the full heat of day—that awful, dreaded heat, that constantly torments and sets out, without pity, to subdue and conquer the stoutest. In the desert the sun is master, cruel and remorseless beyond belief, with bleaching blaze that eats up life and kills. For the rest of the day the caravan must pass under the rule of its greatest enemy.

Throughout the morning the camels travel well and the spirit of the men is fairly cheerful. Though there is not much talking among them now, as they sit huddled on their camels with their gowns thrown over their heads as covering from the sun. They know well that it is wise to conserve their strength, for long, weary hours lie ahead.

I scan the caravan as we plod monotonously along.

We have been travelling close on two hundred days, and the ranks are sadly thinned, though the journey is not yet half completed.

There were sixteen natives at the start: now there are only six—Elatu, Mohammed, Sili, Gumbo, Sakari, and Ali. Most of the others have gone through fear of the dangers of the journey, lack of heart for the hard, endless work, physical weakness, and incurable sickness. (Two of the latter, left behind in good hands, to recover, when next heard of, had died).

There had been forty-four camels at the start; now there are but twenty-one. I have long learned to know them by their native names. Those that are with us still are:

“Awena”	=“Wall-eyed, or piebald-eyed.”
“Banri”	=“The one-eyed one.”
“Alletat”	=“White Belly.”
“Aberok”	=“The dark grey one.”
“Kadede”	=“The thin one.”
“Adignas”	=“The white one.”
“Terfurfus”	=“The piebald female.” (A female, because of the T prefixed before the name, which designates sex in the Tamascheq language of the Tuareg nomads of the Sahara).
“Korurimi”	=“The earless one” (because ears damaged).
“Tabzow”	=“The white one, but not quite white.”
“Emuscha”	=“The white-mouthed one.”
“Owrak”	=“The pale fawn male.” (A male designated because there is no T.)
“Towrak”	=“The pale fawn female.” (A female designated because of the T that is prefixed.)
“Ezarif”	=“The pale grey male.” (T omitted denotes sex.)
“Tezarif”	=“The pale grey female.”
“Mizobe”	=“The broken-nosed one.” (So named because he has a piece out of one nostril where a rein-ring has been torn away.)
“Buzak”	=“The white-footed one.”
“Ajemelel”	=“The spotted one.”
“Kelbado”	=“Big Belly.”
“Doki”	=“The Horse.” (Because a very diminutive camel, about the size of a horse.)
“Bako”	=so named, in hausa, before it came into my possession.
“Feri n’Gashi”	=“White feather.” My riding camel.

NOMAD AND CAMEL-MAN

I am conscious, as I look the caravan over, of a soft-hearted affection towards both man and beast. They have all served loyally, and have given of strength to the uttermost. Moreover, the whole caravan has come to embrace that free-and-easy, comprehending comradeship, that belongs to the wise when long on the great Open Road.

We have, therefore, as a body, lost all rawness and idle ornament. The weaknesses in our composition at the start have been found out and gone under. Battered, but hardened, we are travelling now as a band complete and experienced through grim wilderness of naked reality. The men that remain are of sterling quality, and all, except Sili, look like lasting through any amount of hardship.

But it is not so with the camels. Good as they are, they are not built to endure continuous work for ever; and the greatest struggle and sacrifice are theirs. No matter how much one may try to save them, the pitiless country claims its victims from their midst. All along the trail that lies behind I have witnessed their comrades go out, and know that, inevitably, others must follow. Indeed, too well I know that few, if any, will ever reach the goal; and that it will be left to others—that must be found among natives in remote oases—to carry us through to the North African Coast—if we are ever to reach our distant destination.

But all wayfarers in the desert become fatalistic, and the many misfortunes of the trail teach the traveller to consign all disasters to “Kismet,” or “Mektuib”; for it is learned, sooner or later, that this is a land where Destiny irrevocably takes its course, whatever man’s hopes may be. Wherefore the deep eastern sadness that is found in the hearts of the nomads of the desert, and that touches the soul of the white man in the end.

As if to bear out my thoughts, trouble rides upon us.

The caravan has halted suddenly. Something is wrong in the rear.

Gumbo calls out that Mizobe is down.

We find that he has collapsed wearily on the sand and does not want to move. He is far through, but we cannot camp and wait beside him. So in a little time he is persuaded to rise to his feet again; and the caravan moves slowly on.

But it is not very long before the poor old fellow gives up again, for his is a losing fight in the full heat of the midday sun. We try for a little to encourage him to get up, but to no avail. He is past further struggle.

I order the caravan to move onward, and remain behind with Elatu, beside the prostrate animal, for I cannot leave the poor brute to die a slow, lingering death, with the agony of pitiless surroundings holding finality immediately before his eyes.

When the caravan is distant there is a single revolver shot—and we are one less in our band.

Even although it is only an animal that has gone, Death casts a shadow that disturbs the human mind; and Elatu and I ride forward to rejoin the caravan with a pang of sadness in our hearts.

But such feelings are soon deadened of further thought. Shut out and overpowered by the throbbing, awful heat of the day, which has now reached its worst.

It is a heat that is tremendous; unbelievably trying, unless one has experienced it in actual fact. The full rays of the noonday sun blaze directly and intensely overhead, scorching the earth as a furnace blast; while hot-baked desert sands reflect the heat like the tray of an oven. It is small wonder that the caravan, oppressed by a pitiless force that attacks both from overhead and underfoot, wilts as a thing that is withering and sorely exhausted. In naked truth, man and beast of our little band are at the full mercy of a tyrant, and toil, yard by yard and mile by mile, slowly onward, sticking to the allotted task, because it is fated so to toil in the great ways of the desert. The shoulders of the camel-men are drooped languidly, and no one speaks; while head-coverings are drawn more and more closely about their faces in attempt to fight off the sun and protect eyes that are wearied to actual pain by the dazzling, incessant glare on the sand.

Thus is the desert at its worst, and its unspeakable heat.

But, through all, the camels keep ever on, though ever since the sun’s great heat set in their pace has slowed down—and, now, they are just crawling onward on their patient unquestioned task.

Hour after hour the monotonous ride continues. Our band, a mere handful of outgone men who for the present are victims of circumstance destined, as it were, to travel the very plains of Hell, steeped in awful heat and desolation, from which there can never be real escape until that distant “Dreamtime” when we may come to pass out and beyond to a promised land where weary limbs and weary minds may lay them down and rest.

About 4 p.m. Tezarif (the camel that has contracted an ugly swelling in one of her feet) is lagging badly, and pulling hard on the rope that secures her to the camel in front. I shook up Gumbo, dozing and listless from long, comfortless riding, and bade him dismount and get beside the ailing camel to encourage her on and to keep up with the others.

Obediently the man jumped down, and I dropped back with him so that I might talk and keep him to his irksome task. Thereafter he remained beside the camel, encouraging and driving it to keep up with the caravan. And when Gumbo tired, another took his place. So, at the expense of considerable effort, the sick animal is kept to the trail.

And in this way the long afternoon passed on, until, at last, the sun commenced to relax its grip on the earth, and gradually the caravan recovered a certain measure of wakefulness.

Yet man and beast show that they are now very tired. None of the brief, bright gayness of the morning is present, even although the merciful retreat of the sun makes the evening hour delicious and tempting. The fact is that spirits are wearied beyond caring for aught on earth—except a longing to rest and sleep.

About 6 p.m. the hot day closes over the heated earth, as the tyrant sun sets in gorgeous beauty amidst rainbow tints of every hue that mistily touch both earth and sky with magic wand, and belie the terror of that pitiless reign that has passed.

And again the men dismount and pray.

On, through the dusk we travel—and into the night. Body and soul ache for the word to halt and camp; but still we hold on. All know the need that drives us to uttermost effort—need to reach water—and the goal still a long way ahead.

The night is strangely still. The desert’s lack of living creature is more intimately apparent now than through the day, for the vast range of our daylight surroundings has narrowed to our immediate circle, which is no more than a thin line of passage cleaved through thick banks of blackness. In our path no jackal cries; no hyena laughs. Neither does ground-bird twitter, nor wings of night-flight ruffle the air. Nothing moves, nothing lives. We can almost “hear” the silence, it is so acute; and the noiseless feet of the camels move over the sand as if they were ghosts, afraid of disturbing a land of the dead.

If you have ever waited, with deep anxiety, for a precious sound—the cry that tells you that a lost comrade has been found, or, a sound-signal that fulfils a vital appointment after it has kept you, tuned to expectancy, waiting overlong in suspense—you must know one of the greatest joys that can fall on human ears, when, by a sudden whim of chance, the world gives up the message you have prayed for. It had gone 9 p.m. when I drew my camel to a halt, and shouted “Subka!” The effect of revival along the caravan was startling. It was the glad signal that everyone was aching for—the signal that meant “Camp at last” and “Rest.”

And a great sigh of gladness went up from the hearts of the weary men, as they dropped stiffly from their camels and started to unload.

There was no need to urge the camels to get down. We had no sooner halted than each sank to the sand, leg-weary beyond the telling—for sixteen long, weary hours their feet had never ceased to pass onward over the desert.

We had camped in our tracks; there was no choice of ground—nothing but endless sand, duneless and featureless.

Stiffly the men moved about; they were overtired for the work of unloading and accordingly it moved slowly. When everything was off-loaded the poor fellows sat in dazed fashion on various bundles of kit gaining a breathing spell of rest for deadened minds and aching limbs, utterly careless of further effort. Gladly would the most spent of them sleep as they are without food, without water and without a thought of the morrow; overpowered by the forces of utter fatigue. But Elatu and I are watchful, for we have been through these experiences before, and we shake them up to keep awake. The last tasks of the camp are completed—a bale or two of rough Asben hay, carried for the camels, is unroped and fed to them, a ration of water issued to the men, while, one by one, small husbanded camp-fires broke into light, speedily to cook a frugal meal, devoured by men who needed it sorely.

Half an hour from the time of halting the whole camp is wrapped deep in sleep—a dog-tired and dreamless band, at rest at last; mercifully unconscious of the toil that is past or the toil that awaits them on the morrow.

THROUGH TO WATER AND RESTING FOR A DAY

THE CAMELS ARE AT THE WELL IN THE BACKGROUND

An Explanation

The foregoing is an account of a day in the world’s greatest desert; a day in the heart of the Sahara—travel at its worst; not at its best—that is what I have endeavoured to describe.

We were then about 200 days out, and the camel-caravan travelled 405 days before the end, so it may be that I have learned a little of the desert.

Should that be so, and should pen be able and reader forgiving, I humbly try, in the contents of this book, to set down something of a little-known land; going swiftly to the subject I would reveal, and not slowly along the trail where the footprints of my camels were sometimes all that there was to record over oceans of wasting sand.

In a previous book, Out of the World, I dealt with the journey of a 1st Saharan Expedition so far as the region of Aïr: wherefore this work endeavours to touch almost entirely upon new ground (beyond Aïr) explored on my last and more comprehensive expedition across the entire Sahara.

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CHAPTER III
A SHIP OF THE DESERT

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CHAPTER III
A SHIP OF THE DESERT (AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL)

“I am not riveted nor screwed together, neither am I steel plate nor seasoned timber: wherefore I am not like ship of the sea in physical construction.

“But I rock when under way, and am thin ‘keeled’ when gales blow, so that ungenerous men-people say that I am clumsy and gawky.

“However, we animal creatures think slowly but with wisdom, and we know that men-people are apt to hurry to opinions that have, sometimes, little solidity. Therefore, since appearances do not matter at all in the land I travel, I treat their gibes with silent scorn, for the great desert asks only one thing: Endurance—aye, endurance to the point of death.

“Wherefore my rivets and screws and tested ‘steel’ lie not on the surface, but in joints and sinews developed through stern adventurings that demand that a craft be strong-rigged, and stout of heart, and fearless of the uttermost seas of the desert.

“And from this you may have gathered that I am only a camel.

“Regarding my early history: I was born on the plains of Talak among the camps of the Tuaregs. I was soon taken from my mother, since her milk was wanted for food for the camp. I bellowed wildly in distress for some days, but to no purpose: I was staked beside a tent and thenceforth watched and hand-fed by women-people. I can remember that I was often very hungry, even in those days, and called lustily whenever it was anywhere near time for me to be brought my morning or evening milk. I was very young and very uninstructed then, and was not to know that hunger is that which is of greatest import in the lives of all camels.

“For a long time I stayed beside the tents of my masters. Then there came a time when I had grown big enough to be allowed to graze near camp through the day, but I was never left out overnight, because of the ill-scented animals I feared.[2]

“While I was still little I was taught to follow the caravans on short journeys, running alongside my mother without rope or hindrance of any kind.

“Then came a time when I had to bear a grass-padded saddle and a small weight on my back. But I was growing big and strong by then, and, after the first fear had passed, I did not mind the task greatly, especially as I was allowed to join the other camels more often and keep close to my nice old mother.

“One day, when I was six years old, there arose much stir in camp. The men-people commenced to gather in all camels, and I knew there was something afoot. At first, we camels, putting our heads together, hoped it was only to be a movement to new grazing ground. But we soon decided otherwise, during the few days that followed, as we watched our masters busily working with saddles and roping bundles, while strangers came in to join them from other camps. Then, one morning, at dawn, after much noise of loading, and chatter of farewell, we were all tied in line and set out from the camp of Talak; leaving behind only the women-people and their children and a few old men-people.

BRANDED

“Although as yet inexperienced in great distances, like all my kind, I required no master to instruct me in sense of direction; and I soon knew that we were heading south, which is the direction of least dread in the teachings of camel lore.

“But I soon lost interest in everything about me under the weight of terrible fatigue; for, day after day, we had to travel perpetually over hot sand and beneath wearying, fiery sun, kept sternly to the trail by our travel-wise hard-riding masters. We had little rest, and not much time to eat. All grew fretful, and plaintive lowings pleaded with the men-people for consideration, but they knew their task better than we, and kept on unflinchingly, though no less tired than ourselves.

“We camped fifty nights on that journey, and I will never forget it. For the first time I learned what desert travel really meant.

“At last, after travelling out of the desert and through country with many trees, the like of which I had never seen at Talak, we reached a strange town, and the men-people camped. There our loads were undone and we were all turned free to eat our fill and rest to our heart’s content. Men-people called the town Katsina.

“Eventually I came to stay there for many moons, for, before my master went back to the Plains of Talak, in the course of his tradings he made a bargain whereby I was exchanged for six lengths of cotton clothing that he desired for the people of his tribe. And thus I came to pass into the herds of the Emir of Katsina, one of the greatest men in the land.

“For two years, thereafter, I had an easy life, being asked to make but few journeys to Kano, Zaria, and Sokoto, in country that was not of the poverty of my old home. Wherefore I had nearly always food to eat, and accordingly grew big and strong.

“But at the season when water fell from the clouds, in that country, I was not happy. It was cold and wet to sleep at nights, and flies tormented me that were not of the desert, so that at such times I longed for my old wind-swept home at Talak. That is the season when I, and all my comrades, pine to go north into the desert, like the addax and oryx of the bush-scattered plains.

“While I remained at Katsina the men-people who guarded me called me Zaki.[3] And on festival days I was bedecked with a bright-coloured saddle and head-rein, and made to run, with others, as fast as ever my legs could go. When I was in front, when we finished running, my master was very pleased; so I learned to be in front very often, for I was given nice things to eat afterwards—grains that the men-people grow that are passing sweet to taste.

“ALL MY COMRADES CARRIED STRANGE BOXES”

“But there came a time when this life of ease and pleasure was all abruptly changed. Like most drastic changes, it was utterly unexpected. I and my comrades were browsing peacefully in the bush, as usual, one morning, when men-people of the Emir appeared suddenly among us with ropes, and a certain gravity of expression. After considerable consultation, while doubtless appraising our condition, they began to pick out those of us that were the strongest; with the ultimate result that some twenty of us, including myself, were banded together and driven off into the town.

“By eventide we were marshalled in a caravan camp of strangers, and the Emir’s men-people awaited the pleasure of the chief of the gathering. When he came forward I saw that he was not like the people of Talak or Katsina, but white as the sand or the midday sun. This stranger looked us over one by one, lifting feet, feeling joints, and prying into mouths, the while he asked questions of our guardians in their own tongue, but in an unusual voice. When he came to me he seemed highly pleased, and asked more questions than of the others. I thought, with out-bubbling pride of youth, that this was because I was of the uncommon white colour, that all chiefs prefer to any other, and clean limbed, and coming now to the years of my prime. But one of my comrades was also white-haired, and there again the stranger paused longer and asked more questions, so that I decided that my vanity had been premature.

“The upshot of the examination was that three camels were discarded and sent away with the Emir’s men-people, while all of us that stayed behind were taken over by the white stranger.

“Next day we were roped and trussed and hurt for a few moments by a stinging fire,[4] from which there was no escape; and thereby knew that we had irrevocably changed masters, for only at such times, when it is necessary to denote ownership, are we treated in this manner.

“This marked the beginning of my experience as a true traveller of the desert. My new master’s caravan left Katsina almost at once, and headed north—and I was to come to learn that we were ever to hold in that direction; even to the region of Talak, and leagues upon leagues beyond. It was, in fact, only the commencement of many, many moons of mighty travel of duration that few camels experience in a lifetime and but seldom survive.

“I was given a load to carry during the first few days; a strange box-load, that frightened me to begin with. But the men-people of my new master, who were the same as the people of Talak, knew their work and watched me, and soon they made my burden fit comfortably, so that I learned to travel without fear. Nearly all my comrades carried similar box-loads, which was a curious thing in our eyes, because they were so different from the bales of the men-people of our land.

“MY NEW MASTER RODE ALL THAT DAY—

—AND THAT WAS THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT FRIENDSHIP”

“At that time my master was riding a brown camel, the one that had brought him to Katsina. But I had noticed that he watched me while we plodded along the trail, and, therefore, I was not altogether surprised when, before starting one morning, I was taken before him without any load. Perhaps the men-people of the Emir had told him I could run very fast and had been ridden; for, in a little, his riding-saddle was placed on my back, made to fit me, and strapped securely. I made no move in protest, for past experience had taught me that it is far better to be ridden by a master than to carry a load that is nearly twice the weight. While I was still seated on the ground he came and spoke to me in his strange voice, while, for the first time, I felt his hand caress my neck and knew, even in that momentary touch, that he was not cruel.

“My new master rode me all that day—and that was the beginning of a great friendship. He would go nowhere without me afterwards, and I cannot count the days I carried him over the unfrequented seas of the desert, either with the caravan, or on long hunting trips that he sometimes made alone.

“At first my master did not ride so easily as the camel-men of our land, being more stiff and ungiving of poise; but, as he became familiar with my gait, that alien insensibility passed and we travelled as one.

“I found I had one fault that annoyed my master. Through being badly frightened, when young, by an evil-smelling animal that pounced at me, I could not refrain from being startled whenever I saw any black object close to me on the sand. At such times I would suddenly plunge madly and retreat, while my master said quick words and bore hard on the rein. Then he would persevere until he had forced me to go nearer and nearer to the object I dreaded; until I could see that it was only a tree-stump or a rock and could not harm me. Nevertheless, it took me many months to overcome this impulse of fright, though, always, my master persevered to show me there was no actual danger.

“It was chiefly on account of this trait that I was given the name by which my master called me: Feri n’Gashi, which, I believe, meant ‘White Feather’ in native tongue, and this, in his language, was a term applied to anyone showing signs of cowardice. But the name also referred to my white coat of hair. My master often spoke in a curious tongue that was foreign to me, but, as time went on, I came to understand that he gradually lost all thought of associating my name with any insinuation of fear.

“Moon followed moon in the wilderness, and time, and close association, brought thorough understanding. And I came to love my master, as I am sure he loved me. He was often kind in the hardest hours of stress, when I was grievously hungry and leg-weary, and apt to lose heart altogether in the interior of the terrible desert. He would dismount for an hour or more, sometimes, and search in the surroundings for a few handfuls of vegetation which he would bring to me to eat, while I kept on along with the others of the caravan. And at nights, if he could manage it, he brought me tit-bits that I saw the others did not get.

“And so it came about that I always watched my master wherever he happened to be; and that was in many places, for he was ever restless, and never idle. When we were turned loose at an encampment, to find what grazing we could pick up, I would raise my head whenever I saw him afar off, returning on foot from hunting for meat, or the curious things that he gathered—all of which had different and alarming scents to my inquiring nostrils—and when he reached the encampment I would leave my comrades and go to see him, for he would surely pat me kindly, while, sometimes, when there was sufficient water, he allowed me to drink from the basin he had washed in; and that was sweet in the desert, although the portion was ever so little.

“As the long, long journey progressed, through distance of time too great to count, many of my comrades weakened and fell out, and some died; and there came a time when only a few were left. Like all my comrades, I had vastly changed by then, being lean, and tired out by constant strain of travel, lack of sufficient food, and worry through fear of the unknown country we traversed. And, at nights, in my anxiety, I sometimes sought my master when he slept, and, after sniffing him to be assured of his presence, would lie down to rest near at hand, gaining thereby confidence and some comfort.

“It was during this period of ever-increasing strain that my master met with a distressing accident. To carry the loads of my dead or exhausted comrades, some fresh camels were collected from men-people of a rocky land of name I did not comprehend. They were animals of a wild region, and had been long free on the ranges, so that they greatly feared the hand of men-people. When they first felt the weight of my master’s boxes on their backs they plunged wildly in all directions, and everything was scattered to the ground. Yet patiently the men-people worked with them, coaxing and replacing the fallen loads; until, finally, we were all led into line ready to start. But just at that moment there was further disaster and a wild stampede, and my master, holding hard to the head of the maddest brute of all, was suddenly kicked to the ground as the animal plunged free. And there he lay, while others rushed blindly over him in their consternation, trampling him underfoot, until a quick-witted camel-man rushed in and dragged him clear; which, mayhap, saved his life. Then it was seen that he was bleeding profusely, and could no longer walk.

“HE STROKED ME OFTEN WHILE THE LOADS WERE BEING TAKEN AWAY”

“For some days afterwards he lay and could not move, and I wondered what would become of my master.

“When next I saw him he had long sticks below his arms and walked strangely and slowly. On recommencing travel he could no longer ride in the saddle, because of a helpless leg, and was placed, with soft clothing, on the top of the boxes carried by one of my old comrades. For the first time since the start I was without my master. But he did not give me a load to carry, nor let another take his place, and I was allowed to walk behind him with the empty saddle.

“So soon as he could manage, he came to ride me again, and I was glad. I knew he was not strong then, for I could feel a strangeness in his seat, and was therefore gentle on the trail, so that I might not jar or hurt him.

“But he jumped from the saddle no more, not even to hunt, as had been his constant custom up till then. Yet, so far as lay in his power, he was restless as always, and still tried to search in strange nooks and corners, when they chanced by the trail. He accomplished his purpose, to some extent, by riding me where he wanted to go, and making his noise-piece go off when he sighted that which he sought. I know I was clumsy on such occasions, and that my master was not altogether happy in this makeshift way of hunting, but he made the best of it.

“It was about two months after this time that the desert ended, and the remnants of my master’s caravan crawled into a strange town where the people were foreign to me, as was the scent in the air. I was alone, except for my master, for none of my comrades of Katsina were left; and I had a heavy heart. I could see my master was happy, yet strangely sad. He stroked me often while the loads were being taken away and stacked in a pile, and I felt he would have liked to break down the barriers of dumbness and articulated words in my own language. And I understood, and rubbed my soft nose against him.

“After a time the men-people gathered us all together and led us away down the street of the strange town. We had gone but half-way when my master’s servant came running after us, and I was taken back to him.

“He stood beside me and stroked me ever so gently, and I knew, then, that his heart was heavy as mine. And then I was led away down the strange, unfriendly street again.

“I was terribly tired: I knew, somehow, that I would never see my master again—and that is all I remembered.”

Feri n’Gashi died, without the slightest sign of illness or pain, about one hour after our parting, marking one of the saddest experiences in my life and the passing of one of the noblest animals that ever lived.

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CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT SOUTH ROAD

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[(Large-size)]

CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT SOUTH ROAD

Twice, in the course of my travels, I have found myself in great wildernesses that gave me no field of comparison until I turned to thought of the boundless sea—and then I had a simile that was almost complete. These wildernesses were: Arctic Canada and the Great Sahara.

With desire to describe the Sahara, and its ocean-like vastness, I have sketched a map that lies before me (see opposite page)—and I am disappointed. It is only some inches square. My Sahara that, for the sake of lucid explanation, I want to represent as the ocean, could be covered with a dinner plate; and might be a duck-pond, or a trout lake with an island or two, if, for a single moment, I forget the niceties of proportion and scale. That, precisely, is an influence on the senses that it is well to guard against because of the possibility of it turning the mind from reality, for, no matter how willing and piercing the scrutiny, this insignificant little sheet of paper can never be the actual Sahara.

And, after all, it is only the Real that matters; particularly to the frontiersman who lives close to the earth and beyond the ken of the subtleties of Civilisation, for he sees, with the eye of the untrammelled, the dominion of the world’s outer ranges and the bigness of things as they are. Wherefore, with pen directed by hand accustomed to rope a load, coax a rein, fondle a rifle, heal a wound, or kindle a camp-fire, I set out, as an awkward man of the outdoor places, without geographical technicalities, to describe the Great Sahara as I have come to read its character in the wake of many a trail over leagues of intimate sands.

Let us first endeavour to picture something of the vastness of the Sahara. In approximate area—excepting the Libyan Desert—it is about eighteen times larger than Britain and Ireland and about half the area of the United States. Large as that may seem, it must be taken into count that there is a sentimental vastness far beyond that—the sentiment of environment. To illustrate this. Suppose that one sets out to travel for a day, or a week, or a month, through rich, inhabited country with good roads, and with the good things of life always closely about one. Is it not the case that the plenitude of the countryside pleases to such a comforting extent that Distance is prone to be unesteemed, and unthought of as a cause for anxiety? Consequently, under such circumstances, all fear of distance, and the significance of overpowering immensity, do not enter into calculation. But it so happens that that is a tremendously important factor, which must always be reckoned with, in any considered treatment of the Sahara, where conditions are entirely opposite. No one would hesitate to cross America to-day, but could anyone contemplate a journey in the Great Desert without, at once, being confronted with lively dread of its vastness and desolation? Indeed, so strong is this influence that the eventual result, once one enters that mystical land, is that the mind becomes almost disqualified to reckon in terms of numerals. All that one is constantly aware of is, that limitless leagues of drear desolate sand lie ahead, and that, no matter what effort is made, no matter how well the caravan travels, the twenty or thirty odd miles that are the record of a day’s endeavour leave one apparently in the same position as before, with horizon, and sand, and sky no nearer to the vision than from camps that lie on the trail behind.

In that prospect there is, surely, a sentiment of the temperament of the sea, in likeness of boundless, unchanging, unconquerable leagues. But the sea swings and curls and breaks in foam, and is alive; whereas the sands of the desert lie ever expressionless and dead. So that, if we accept that in majestic space the sea and the desert are the same, we still have to admit that the lassitude of the desert multiplies the seeds of desolation to such an extent that, almost tangibly, certainly sentiently, it enlarges its empty vastness.

Wherefore I am confident that it is in all such intriguing influences that we find the very essence of the desert’s desolation and magnitude of space.

That it has a very real vastness that intimidates is borne out, in our everyday life, by the accounts of tourists who have travelled in Algeria, or elsewhere, and who have been a few days south of, say, Biskra by camel, and who return to recount how they have seen the Sahara. How many such tourists have stood on this mere threshold of a mighty sandscape, beneath the Aurès Mountains, and conjectured on the immensity of the Great South Road that points the way to the heart and the mystery of another world, unyieldingly remote, and not as theirs.

And what happens then? Why is it that we do not have record that some of those tourists have got down from this doorstep of Biskra and set out into the Great Desert? If it was a fair land that lay before them most surely they would flock upon the way. But it is not so, and no foot makes the move. They have viewed an awe-inspiring immensity that casts a deadly spell of dread. And, one by one, year by year, they are repelled and go their way; back through the friendly mountains. After all, this is far from astonishing of strangers, for they but express something of the deep-rooted, superstitious dread of the desert which is found in the soul of every native who lives anywhere within reach of its borders, or in its interior.

Furthermore, it may be well to remember that the Sahara is a land of great antiquity, that takes one to realms of Biblical times. Steeped in the religion of Islam, it knows little perceptible change to-day, and is not on a plane with the modern world. Wherefore, even if we only set our minds back in keeping with a not very distant period of the past, it is not difficult thus to find another simile to the sea in picturing that it was only a little more than four centuries ago that the Atlantic Ocean probably held a similar dread of immensity before Columbus discovered America.

A NOOK IN THE MOUNTAINLAND OF AÏR

All those influences are important, for they can never be brought out on any map, and yet they are an intrinsic part of the land. Furthermore, they are a part of the poignant forces that teach the traveller wonderment and awe of the desert when he camps in the mighty company of its gigantic spaces; particularly if he catches a gently poised breath of the Moslem’s “Allah!” which is an indelible part of the mystic sadness it holds.

If we look, now, at the map, and picture that the Sahara is, broadly speaking, a vast sheet of sand with a few island mountains, it will suffice in dealing generally with its boundaries of the past.

It is my belief that the Sahara is increasing in size, and I think there are many conditions that go to prove it. Wherefore I ask you, in the first place, to conceive that the sand in the desert has steadily risen, with consequent result that the shores have become appreciably less. The belt that has been so engulfed all around the margin, or wherever the surface was shallow, may be taken to represent the regions that are to-day pre-Saharan, though, so far as I am aware, such pre-Saharan areas are seldom more than vaguely referred to, and have not been geographically defined.

I will take, as an example, the southern area of the Sahara, because I have visited it more than once and know that region best. Not vastly distant from the shore there is the mountainland of Aïr, standing high above the surrounding country. Let us suppose that, before the Sahara commenced to fill up and change, this particular mountainland was not surrounded by sand, but was a part of a fertile foreland, and that the bushland of the Western Sudan, with its tropical fauna and vegetation and rainy season, either jutted out as a wedge or stretched right across Africa about the 20th degree of latitude, or 5 degrees farther north than obtains, with any solidity, at the present time.[5] If that was the case intimate problems that I have had to contend with would be logically explained.

My primary work in the Sahara was that of a field naturalist, and the following extracts from Dr. Hartert’s paper in Novitates Zoologicæ, May 1921, regarding my first journey, have bearing on one of the problems that I wish to deal with:

“The best zoogeographical boundary, apart from the oceans, has hitherto been the Sahara, a wide belt of poorly inhabited and unexplored country. As long as we knew very little about it, this was a very simple question—north of the Sahara palæarctic, south of it Ethiopian. This contention, however, was bound to be shaken to some extent when the Sahara (as it is marked on maps) became zoologically explored. Until the second decade of this century the Great Desert had only been touched by zoological collectors on some of its borders.

“Looking at any map, a somewhat large mountainland, Aïr, or Asben, catches the eye in the middle of the Sahara, on older maps and in textbooks called an ‘Oasis,’ which is, however, a most misleading name for a mountainous country with desert tracks and valleys, towns and villages, and mountains rising up to about 2,000 m. in height.

“Zoologically Aïr remained absolutely unknown until Buchanan’s expedition. We knew already, from Barth’s Travels, that Aïr has tropical vegetation, that some valleys are fertile and contain good water, that ostriches, lions, giraffes, birds were seen by him, that near Agades he observed monkeys and butterflies. Jean, in 1909, in his book, Les Touaregs du Sud-Est, l’Aïr, mentions lions in the mountains of Timgue and Baguezan, foxes, hyenas, cats, antelopes, monkeys, but he adds that giraffes do not now exist in the country, and that the ostrich is not found north of Damergu.

“Meagre as these statements are, they proved that the fauna of Asben is chiefly, if not entirely, tropical. This is borne out by Buchanan’s collections. Of the birds nearly all—apart from migrants—may be called tropical species or subspecies. The mammals are on a whole Sudanese, and not found in Algeria proper. The Lepidoptera are essentially Saharan, many forms being similar to those found by Geyr and myself in the Sahara between the Atlas and Tidikelt, and the Hoggar Mountains.

“The boundary between the palæarctic and tropical fauna may therefore be regarded as fairly fixed to about the 20th degree of latitude, though it is, of course, not a hard-and-fast dividing line, there being many exceptions—even among birds, which form the main basis of these notes.”

SALT-BUSH IN THE HEART OF THE SAHARA KILLED OUT BY CHOKING SANDS

DISINTEGRATING ROCK IN A REGION OF TASSILI

Again, in a further paper in Novitates Zoologicæ, March 1924, dealing with my second expedition, Dr. Hartert adds:

“More than ever it is clear that the ornis of Aïr is tropical, as a country where Sunbirds, Barbets, Glossy Starlings, etc., live has a tropical ornis, though there are a number of palæarctic species, to which now a few must be added. On the other hand, these striking tropical families like Sunbirds, Glossy Starlings, Emerald Cuckoos, Hornbills, Barbets, are absent from the Ahaggar (Hoggar) Mountains, and the almost lifeless desert between Aïr and Ahaggar forms the boundary between the palæarctic and tropical African faunas.”

From all this it is clear that Aïr maintains many tropical influences that penetrate northward, like a wedge, far into the Sahara, although its surroundings are foreign to like conditions. For instance, regarding the last remark, if we draw longitudinal lines 200 miles or so clear of either side of the Aïr Mountains, immediately those lines leave the southern shores of the Sahara, about latitude 15°, they enter desert where all tropical influence ceases.

A DESERTED STONE-BUILT VILLAGE OF AÏR

If we ponder over the thought that the Sahara is increasing in sand, and size, is it not conceivable that this mountainland of Aïr is as an island that, because of its altitude, is left high and dry out in the open while the plains surrounding it have been gradually smitten as by a plague that has slowly driven back the line of fertility, while that which remains, as representative of a configuration of the past, is the rugged rock land that still offers a bold front to the advances of time and decay?

I am confident that therein lies the truth—that formerly a wide pre-Saharan region of fertility once reached much farther north than at present; and, when it became flooded over with rising sand, and lost, Aïr still remained, and, behind the shelter of its rocks, retained a good deal of its old characteristics. All around the Sahara I believe that conditions of a similar nature exist.

Wherefore the vast arid interior, made up chiefly of rock and sand, may, to-day, be likened to a pear that has rotted at the core, and that cannot be prevented from increasing the consuming advance of an unhealthy interior that grows outward, and ever larger in circle.

Stern and drastic though they are, I am prepared to accept those theories because they are in keeping with the nature of the country. Moreover, they lead to the solution of problems that ever bring me back to the source that is the cause of every change in the land—which I read to be decay.

To make clear this perpetual insinuation of decay, which is everywhere in the atmosphere of the Sahara to-day, I will endeavour to cite a few instances that have bearing on the subject.

First, reverting to the topic of the tropical life in Aïr. In 1850-51 Barth stated that he saw giraffes and ostriches, yet in 1909 we find that Jean wrote that “Giraffes and ostriches do not exist in Aïr.” Both those travellers, however, recorded lions in the region, but in 1922, though I hunted particularly for lion, because of those very records, I could find neither trace nor track of a single specimen. All that my diligent investigations revealed was that one had been killed at Aouderas in 1915, and another, the last, in 1918 by the Chief of Baguezan. I believe them to be extinct in Aïr to-day. To give an opening for the further continuance of this sequence of singular disappearance of wild life, I can state that, at the present time, wart-hog and guinea-fowl live in Aïr—and I have actual specimens to prove it—but I am tolerably sure that travellers who may follow in my footsteps will come to find that both have disappeared within the next half-century or so.

As the people are dying out also, these changes cannot be accounted for on the score of huntsmen. It is, I maintain, the natural result of increasing sand and the drying up and dying out of vegetation. Giraffes and ostriches have departed from a land that can no longer nourish them, and lions have disappeared because the gazelle which they hunted have grown scarce, and open water-holes are a rarity. Eventually the wart-hog and guinea-fowl will vanish from the land for like reasons.

Furthermore, Nature accepts no denial to her whims of devastation, wherever they rule, and, in the Sahara, the sweep of her scythe has taken, in its path, the mowing down of the very people of the land, who depart, like the creatures of the wild, when the struggle for existence becomes no longer possible. Hence, in Aïr alone, there are scores of stone-built villages deserted and in ruins, and steeped in pathos, no longer harbouring a single living soul.

In those, and in other ways, we learn that decay is sure. The elusive problem is to gauge the duration of its reign, which can only be conjectured, since the history of the Sahara is unwritten. It may have set in a very long time ago, and be moving slowly, or it may have been active but a few centuries.

That it has altered the aspect of the land is, to my mind, undoubted. Here is an instance of the kind that sets one thinking. South of Aïr, in country that is now desert, there is a well of astonishing age, named Melen, in a basin surrounded by low hills of bare, rough, stony nature. It is sunk through solid rock to a depth of 70 feet, and is old beyond all calculation. One looks down its depth and speaks in a hushed voice, and the dark chamber booms back a whole volume of sound; a pebble is dropped to the bottom and the splash of it sounds like the lashing of surf on the sea-coast. The wall of the well is seared, in a remarkable way, with deep channels worn in the solid rock by the friction of bucket-ropes that have passed up and down the well—for who knows how long? It seems almost impossible that they have been worn in an era within historic times. The well offers a problem. There is no good grazing around it; no means that would, to-day, enable a band of men to camp there for a prolonged period while they laboured (with rock-drilling implements, of which there is no record) on the tremendous task of sinking the shaft through solid rock. Natives have no knowledge of how the work was accomplished. Therefore I try to set back the hands of Time and look over the land, imagining it as once covered with vegetation for herds of camels and goats, and with pools of water in the low hills. And, as a dreamer, I conjure up a picture of a past when, mayhap, a tribe of happy nomads camped in the hollow, in olden times, with everything in the neighbourhood that they required for themselves and their herds; and the old chief of the camp setting out to keep his slaves employed, at a time of plenty, in drilling this well, maybe partly as a whim, and partly to be assured of water for his people in the height of an over-long summer.

Since visiting Melen I have travelled far in the Sahara, and know many wells in like God-forsaken places, each of which suggests that it belongs to a bygone age when greater fertility made it possible for the nomads to camp where they willed, which—if we take such wells as significant—was sometimes in localities that they cannot camp in now.

TYPICAL TASSILI

Wherefore, in many strange ways, it comes back to one, always, that the Sahara is a decadent land. And that is a steadfast impression, that the traveller is always catching, even when least expected.

And, now, to broadly picture the aspect of the country, the Sahara is not, of course, as is often popularly believed, simply a vast track of desert sand. The “floor” of its vast area is made up, principally, of four types of country, which I describe as follows, along with the names by which they are known to the nomads:

(1)[6]	“Tenere” (Tamascheq[6])	=Absolute sandydesert.[6]
	“Arummila” (Arabic)
(2)	“Adjadi” or “Igidi”(Tamascheq)	=Regions of permanentsand-dunes, sometimes barren, sometimes with scatteredvegetation.
	“Erg” (Arabic)
(3)	“Tanezrouft” (Tamascheq)	=Regions where the sand ishard and interspersed with plains of pebbles. Sometimes greatgravel plains as barren as sand desert and hence often calledBlack Desert by the Tuaregs.
	“Reg” (Arabic)
(4)	“Tassili” (Tamascheq)	=Regions of chieflyhorizontal, rough, rocky, much crevassed ground, often of shelfrock, where decomposition is very rapid and outcrops much crackedand broken apart. The ground surface, or plateau surface, isusually as barren as sand desert, but in deep ravines in suchcountry there is often a sparse growth of vegetation.
	“Elkideà” (Arabic)

As a whole all those regions are practically horizontal, and, except in the north, are on a level well above the sea. Between longitude 5° and 10°, from south to north, the altitudes of the Saharan plains, above sea-level, are approximately:

Latitude 15°	1,525 feet (north of Tanout)
	1,800 feet (Tanout).
„ 18°	1,000 feet (desert west of Aïr)
	1,600 feet (desert east of Aïr)
	1,220 feet (Bilma Oasis. Longitude 13°)
„ 20°	1,500 feet (Gara Tindi)
	1,350 feet (In-Azaoua)
„ 22°	3,100 feet (Zazir)	⎫ ⎬ ⎭	Land rising to the AhaggarMountains.
	3,700 feet (Tenacurt)
	4,200 feet (Tamanrasset)
„ 30°	350 feet (Hassi Inifel)		Land that falls graduallyaway to a low basin in the El Erg region between the Ahaggar andAtlas Mountains.
	600 feet (Messedli)

The widespread aspect of the Sahara is of vast desolate plains of rock and sand. But a fact which has been overlooked to an astonishing degree, by popular consent, is that the Great Desert is relieved by some very remarkable mountain groups, chief of which are Aïr, Ahaggar, and Tibesti—each in extent as large as the whole of England, and towering majestically to altitudes of 6,000 to 10,000 feet.

They are mountains that are lost to the world; full of mystical silence, like the rest of the Sahara, and bleak and wild, yet they are vast and rich in rugged grandeur; and the greys and browns of their slopes are a feast to the eyes of traveller weary of scanning limitless plains of sand.

A DEEP RAVINE IN THE TASSILI OF AHAGGAR

WITH POTHOLES OF WATER IN THE BOWELS OF THE ROCK

Aïr and Ahaggar I know well; Tibesti I have not visited. The former are, in general, alike, particularly in rocky bareness and eerie desolation; but, of the two, Aïr is the more picturesque and fascinating. Both, accentuated by their desert surroundings, stand out in strong, clear relief, aggressively bold and dominant—majestic in every line, amid unrestricted space of earth and sky.

“They are made up of range upon range of hills, sometimes with narrow sand-flats and river-beds between; massive hills of giant grey boulders, and others—not nearly so numerous—with rounded summits and a surface of apparent overlappings and downpourings of smooth loose reddish and grey fragments, as if the peaks were of volcanic origin, though no craters are there. But it is the formation of the many hills of giant boulders that make these mountains so astonishing, so rugged, and so unique. You might be on the roughest sea-coast in the world, and not find scenes to surpass them in desolation and utter wildness. They are hills that appear, to the eye, as if a mighty energy underneath had, at some time, heaved and shouldered boulder upon boulder of colossal proportions into position, until large, wide-based, solid masses were raised into magnificent being. On the other hand, there are instances where hills appear as if the forces underneath had built their edifices badly, and in a manner not fit to withstand the ravages of Time; and those are places where part of the pile has apparently collapsed, and there remains a bleak cliff face and the ruins of rocks at the foot.”[7]

The slopes and the bastions of the summits of those rugged, gravely picturesque mountains present a sentiment of the sadness that goes with great age; and their dark countenances are the very quintessence of patience. For all time they have stood as over-masters of the Great Desert. Proudly they overlook the far-flung wastes beneath them, where foot-hills die out among black, stony, boulder-strewn plains, and “lakes” of sand, relieved, here and there, by odd-shaped pill-box or church-like kopjes that stand as miniature guardians of the mountains behind them—beyond, right to the faint horizon, nothing but the great dead plains of the desert.

Ahaggar is not, as a whole, so rugged and picturesque as Aïr, though it has many similar summits, especially the bare, disintegrating hills of loose brown stone that are rounded and have no pronounced contour.

The highest point I reached in Ahaggar was 6,000 feet (near Tazeruk), and in Aïr 6,050 feet (Baguezan).

Ahaggar, on the whole, I consider less habitable than Aïr. At the time of my journey, in the months of March and April, the scattered acacias in wadis and mountain valleys were leafless from prolonged lack of rain, and many of them had been completely ruined through natives lopping off all the main branches so as to feed their goats in extremity. Pasturage had completely given out in many places, and herds had left the region to seek grazing ground where life was possible. (Whole families of the Ehaggaran Tuaregs had at that time trekked 500 to 600 miles, to outlying wadis west of Aïr, to keep their flocks and camels alive on Alwat, a plant common to some regions, in sandy wadis and among Ergs.)

A SANDY RIVER-BED, IN THE MOUNTAINS, SHORTLY AFTER RAIN HAS SWEPT DOWN IT

NOTE HOW PASSAGE OF CURRENT HAS RIPPLED THE SAND

On the other hand, I noted that places of water—wells, and, particularly, oozing surface springs in river-beds, often salt and chemical bearing, were more numerous in Ahaggar than in Aïr, and where such conditions exist there is also more domestic, garden-plot cultivation, executed chiefly by Zakummeran and Imrad tribes, and not by the haughty nomadic Tuaregs.

As a whole, these mountains of the Sahara attract more rain than the desert, on the rare occasions when the rain condescends to fall from the sky. But that advantage is almost momentary, for, owing to the naked, growthless, and soilless slopes, and the quick fall of the intricate network of mountain brooks and river-courses, so soon as rain touches the bare hills it streams down, to be swept away out into estuaries on the desert that drink in water with a thirst that knows no quenching.

Nevertheless, a frugal benefit is left behind, for the passing of mountain torrents leaves some moisture in the river-banks, and pools in the best of deep-gullied streams, and in a brief week green vegetation springs to life in thin lines in places, and grows quickly to maturity. And it is this that is the grazing supply of the year—whether browsed over then or in the long, dreary months that follow, when grass and plants, in scattered tussocks, lie hay-dry and uninviting, but are the best that the country has to offer.

I noted in Ahaggar that clouds were often in the sky; which I had not remarked in Aïr, or, for that matter, anywhere farther south, except at the season of rains (July-August) in the Western Sudan—rains which sometimes move northwards over parts of the Sahara. It may be that out-thrown influences of the northern hemisphere, despatched from the Mediterranean over the Atlas Mountains, reach southward to about the latitude of Ahaggar. Later on, when marching to the north of the Algerian Sahara, I noted in my diary the coolness of north winds, when they blew, and imagined I sensed a tang of the sea in my nostrils. (Born and reared by the sea, my senses are acutely tuned in that respect.)

In conclusion, the Sahara is, in entirety, a vast waste land in its interior; its greater area made up of broken, desolate plains; its features of relief extraordinary mountain-lands of rugged grandeur.

Throughout the whole decay appears insistent and sure, and the increase of sand incessant. It has been shown to be a land containing considerable rock surface, and wherever one goes much of such country is disintegrating and crumbling away; thus forming more and more sand, which accumulates, at the whim of the prevailing wind, to bank up and choke out the plant life of the country. In places one may dig down at the roots of shrubs and plants that are dead and find that the old surface of the ground is a foot or so beneath that of to-day.

The accompanying diagram is an illustration of rock disintegration in the Sahara.

There is no tangible counteraction to these advances of decay, and it would seem that they are destined irrevocably to continue. But on this score the question of rainfall is intensely interesting, for should the elements ever be kind, and really good and consistent rains fall for two or three years in succession, the whole land would undoubtedly revive its vegetation with astonishing speed. Perhaps such revivals have occurred in the past, and may occur again. But I fear that, at best, they can be but short-lived. Indeed, conditions at the present are the opposite, and the prospect is that they will so continue. One hears from the nomads of regions having no rain for three years, four years, and even seven years; while have I myself seen had dried out and dead, though natives declare that it never dies except when there are more than four rainless years.

The Sahara is not yet devoid of vegetation, but its poverty is advancing. To-day we find the old caravan roads across Africa unfrequented—the Cyrenaican-Kufra-Wadai road, the Tripoli-Bilma-Chad road, the Tunis-Tripoli-Ghat-Aïr-Kano road: all of great antiquity, and from time immemorial the trade routes across North Africa. These roads are still to be seen, ten to fifteen parallel paths, camel-width apart, with undiminished clearness, where they pass over stony ground, powdered down to clean-cut furrows by passage of countless feet. They are steeped in the romance and mystery of the Sahara. Over them have passed hard-won pilgrimages to Mecca, cavalcades of slaves fettered and limb-weary and fearful, and rich caravans of merchandise that reached their goal or were looted—a gamble that made or lost a fortune for the masters who sent them forth. To-day they are unused, and the commerce of the Sahara is dead. And this is comprehensible when the poverty of the land is reviewed and the belief held that growing dearth of vegetation has made it well-nigh impossible for large caravans to live to-day on those roads.

The same melancholy decline is to be found among the people of the Sahara. Its population is scattered and thin, and some regions are uninhabited altogether. We can only approximately estimate the numbers in the interior, which I believe, from data collected, to be about 40,000. Say 200 to 600 in oases here and there at wide intervals; 5,000 in the Aïr region; 5,000 in Ahaggar, and 10,000 Tebu in Tibesti; roughly, about one human soul to every sixty square miles.

In Aïr, and Ahaggar, and, excepting Tibesti, throughout the scattered grazing-grounds of the Sahara the masters or range-holders are chiefly Tuaregs, who are a southern race of Berbers. It is not proposed to deal with their history here, and it will suffice to say that they are a white race, descended from some of the oldest European stocks, and that the love of fighting and adventure that is born in them is an inheritance from forefathers who made their wars historic.

At an early stage in this chapter I stated that to-day Aïr contained scores of deserted villages. They are illuminating as illustrative of the drastic extent of change and decay. They have completely died out.

And what of Agades, which is still alive? Its dwellings are half in ruins. It supports about 2,000 inhabitants, and to-day its surroundings are drear beyond description. Yet it was once a great desert city, on a famous route across Africa of great antiquity, and is said to have once contained 50,000 inhabitants—more than the whole population of the Sahara’s interior to-day.

Verily, ever it comes back to me; the Sahara is a land of decay. To the traveller it holds its principal charm in its strange mystic beauty and wonderful vastness, and in the fact that it is a land of Allah, steeped in inherent sadness.

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CHAPTER V
THE TARALUM

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CHAPTER V
THE TARALUM

The Bilma Salt Caravan, the great Taralum of the Sahara: few have ever heard of it, or its fame. Yet in one part of Africa its journey is the event of the year, and the date of departure as important as a national fête in civilised lands.

Like a fleet of ships taking to the high seas to bring home riches, so this famous concourse of camels sets out over oceans of sand to bring south the salt supply of the year to many people dependent upon it.

The caravan’s “Port of Departure,” each year, is from harbouring foothills on the south-east side of the Aïr Mountains, and the great gathering takes place from all quarters of the land.

The harbour is well chosen, and the time of the year, for the caravan starts at the season when there is the best chance of water in the river-beds, and grazing for camels for a number of days.

Beyond the harbour, befitting a port, away to the east, lies open, stony “Reg” and, thence, the vast, empty desert.

It was into this harbour that, with the purpose of joining the Taralum, my caravan rode, on a certain day in October; the camels, unhurried, picking their way over stones with habitual caution. We had been travelling for hours in country impressively forsaken, and still, and silent. But, with a shock, the whole atmosphere was suddenly changed and all sense of solitude dispelled.

We had ridden in upon a camp of astounding proportions and unique picturesqueness. Before us stood thousands of camels, not a hundred or two, which would have been amazing enough, but, literally, thousands; and the spectacle was one never to be forgotten.

Where the ruins of the old forsaken village of Tabello squat dolefully on the banks of the river-bed of that name, the great caravan had already congregated in part, and was still in process of expansion.

As far as eye could see camps were settled on the banks and on the sand of the river-bed—camps full of pack-saddles, water-skins, bundles of coarse hay-fodder and bundles of firewood; all in readiness for the long desert journey.

About the camps, among the camels, picturesque camel-men moved gracefully, or reclined upon the sand—athletic-looking men, of the long trails, familiar with their tasks, strong and resourceful, as befits men who live constantly out-of-doors.

Some were engaged in preparing a meal, but the greater number were working on such jobs as plaiting rope from palm-leaves for binding their camel-loads, strengthening pack-saddles that required repair, mending sandals, and patching rents in cotton garbing—in fact, putting all the odd touches to their gear that go to perfect and complete outfits for a strenuous ordeal.

A CORNER OF THE CAMP AT TABELLO

And, all the time, they talked with an unwonted air of excitement, passing round the latest and most sensational news of camp, and again and again going over the details and hazards of the journey ahead of them. In this keyed-up excitement there was something of the atmosphere of an army on the move that has an action impending.

They are chiefly Tuaregs from the northern regions of the Southern Sahara, and a scattering of Hausas from the territories farther south, while both have their quota of Buzus (slaves), who are men of many mixtures of breed and are appointed the most menial work in camp and on the road.

The whole concourse has gathered from far and wide to this appointed rendezvous: from Kano, Katsina, and Sokoto, in Northern Nigeria; from Gourè and Zinder and other towns in Damagarim, and from many quarters in Damergou and Aïr.

Upon inquiry I learned that between 4,000 and 5,000 camels had already arrived; truly a magnificent array of animals. And not only were their numbers great: they were the pick of the camels of the country, for it is recognised, by all who know the route, that only the finest are fit to live through the long, hard journey over the terrible wastes of sand, that are as a cruel expansive sea on the trackless way that lies between them and Bilma.

We had camped on the fringe of the crowd, and thenceforth became a unit of it. Salutations acclaimed us on all sides. The Taralum is renowned for its meetings of long-lost friends who travel far afield. Hausas and Tuaregs stalked smilingly into camp whom I had met a year or two ago, or back on the trail on the present journey; while my camelmen found a whole host of friends whom they knew directly or indirectly “back home.” News of all kinds was gleaned, of the south and of the outer trails, and friendliness was in the air and everyone in high spirits.

After a night’s rest we settled down, like the others, to the immediate concerns of the journey ahead, and were kept busy knitting our gear to perfection of strength and compactness.

Like the others, also, we had to watch our camels alertly to keep them from straying and mixing with others while shifting for ourselves in the competition for the best of grazing.

To feed such an enormous caravan, even but for a brief day or two, is a tremendous consideration, and Tabello had been chosen for this very reason because it offered the best conditions to be found in a region where drear poverty of growth is the general rule.

Sharp-thorned acacias, shrubs, prickly ground plants, coarse grass tussocks—all make a camel’s meal; for they will tackle most things, and they eat heavily when the chance offers. The skill with which they strip the leaves from cruel-barbed trees and plants is truly astonishing when one remembers that their lips and noses are soft as velvet and sensitive in the extreme.

Acacias are the chief trees at Tabello; low, insignificant, and far removed from the tall, leafy plants that one usually associates with the name. They are nowhere in forests, and grow in an irregular line along the dry river-bed banks, or in scattered, scraggy groups in hollows where they happen to have found a bare footing. There are a number of varieties, chief of which are: tashrar, tamat, and tigar—thorny, squat-branched, lean and small-leafed; yet all splendid camel food. Among them, particularly where bushes grow together, is aborer, a densely branched tree with long green thorns and sappy wood. A choice tree to the camel is agar, which seeks the solitudes and often grows alone in the open. It is a pale-coloured evergreen with thick twisting branches closely covered with tiny leaves. Then there is abisgee, which is not an acacia. It grows, willow-like, in clumps, and is very green, and has a pungent smell not unlike skunk. Camels eat it—and, as a consequence, smell foully—but only sparingly, unless no other food offers.

Underfoot, on the sand, in scanty patches, grow tussocks of coarse grass and prickly plants; among them tasmir, taruma, thelult, tatite, afazo, and alwat.[8] These plants were essential to the life of the camp, for they meant food and contentment to the camels, whose huge numbers roamed the country-side, rapidly eating down whatever growth could be found within reach.

As to the food of the future: no camel had trekked into camp without a big load of dry, harsh tussock-grass on either side, gathered from the most favourable places en route: and those bales, which every animal will carry at the start, are the camel-food that must serve throughout the journey on the desert.

The departure for Bilma was delayed. On the day appointed to start news reached camp that a lot of Kel-Ferouan Tuaregs, on the way back from Hausaland, were not yet in. It was also known that there were some stragglers on the way. So that during the few days of camp-life that followed our arrival at Tabello others trekked in, as we had done, with their lines of fodder-loaded camels swelling the numbers, until 7,000 animals were the total on the eve of departure—a mighty cavalcade, and one of the largest caravans of modern times.

It represented, massed into one narrow area, the greater part of the wealth of a land that has no wealth if reckoned to the square mile of its vastness and general desolation. At a fair valuation each animal is worth £15 per head, making the total value of the Taralum £105,000.

Owing to this value, which, besides being monetary, represents the cream of the transport stock of the whole region, whose loss would be irreparable, precautions to protect the caravan are taken, each year, by the French Administration of the Territoire du Niger.

Wherefore a force of Meharists had been sent from the south to join the Taralum at Tabello and act as an escort while crossing the desert. In addition, every native with the caravan is armed with weapons of war of some sort—rifle, sword, or lance; while some even carried the remarkable oryx-hide battle-shield that is peculiar to the Tuaregs. All are familiar with the danger of raids in the Sahara, and many have experienced them and fought before.

The date of departure of the Taralum is an event in the Sahara as notable as Christmas Day in civilised countries. It is fixed by tribes who know nothing of printed calendars, and the appointed date is: “Two days after the new moon Ganni Wazuwirin (the October-November moon). On this occasion, because of the delay already referred to, the great caravan started two days late.

On the 25th of October, at the first streak of dawn, the dark, gaunt forms of lines of camels, bulkily loaded with fodder, and food and water for a severe journey, could be just discerned at the mouth of a hill track, leading east out of Tabello river-bed.

In the dark comrade called to comrade in endeavour to find one another. There is a good deal of confusion; the Awe of Silence is absent.

The great cavalcade is saddled and ready to march, and, but for the sound of voices, might well be taken for a stealthy army setting out on great enterprise. The huge massed groups of men and animals have all the significance of a powerful force on the move. And, like an army, it is unwieldy at the commencement.

There is a period of loitering. Some camps are late and their animals troublesome to load. Some men inquire the plan of march, and that is explained to them. While yet others say good-bye to friends they are leaving behind.

Eventually a low exchange of queries and orders set the foremost camels off on the track, with others following as close behind as possible; like a mere trickle, at the beginning, running out from the black mass of a mighty flood along a tiny newly discovered channel of escape.

We were off. The great journey had begun.

That first day, to each possessor of a line of camels, was a tale of fractious animals and broken loads. All first days out are the same, even if the animals have only been idle in camp for a brief spell. Trouble can only be prevented to some extent. And the secret, there, is to take care that the same saddle, and the same load, if possible, is never changed from the animal to which it is originally allocated, for until the same load has been carried regularly there is bound to be trouble from individuals. They are timid of anything new, and eye any odd-shaped or odd-coloured part of a load with uneasy suspicion. But the commonest cause of trouble is from new loads that have been put up so that they fit uneasily and rub or jab the bearer; until the worried animal decides to get rid of it—which, with a buck and a plunge or two, is only a matter of a few moments. That ungodly act is disastrous enough, but it is doubled or trebled when the pranks of one involve the upset of the whole line in the neighbourhood.

FOOD FOR CAMELS ON A DESERT JOURNEY

EACH BALE WEIGHS ABOUT 80 LBS.

The day moved slowly and halts were constant in one line of camels or another, while in the wake of the caravan lay a trail of rope-ends and saddle leavings. The type of country did not help matters, for it was reg of stone and rocks; rough on the camels’ feet, and uneven in contour.

Nevertheless, the Taralum travelled painstakingly for fourteen hours, and, after dark, reached the end of the rough reg country to camp on the edge of a vast ocean of sand, that held, somewhere in its bosom, the salt-giving oases of Fachi and Bilma—the latter the goal of the caravan.

Like everyone else, I was tired, yet the sounds and scenes of that first camping of the Taralum were so astonishing that I almost forgot my fatigue.

Camels being off-loaded are noisy at any time, but tired camels seem to believe in letting everyone within hearing know that they have a cause for complaint. The twenty to thirty of one’s own line can make noise enough. But add to that the clamourings and complaints of thousands, and then try to imagine something of the astonishing uproar that resounded through the encampment of the Taralum.

Nor was the commotion all over in a little. It kept on almost until midnight, while, like a great cable being drawn slowly in, the huge caravan rolled slowly forward to arrive length by length and find resting-place, band beside band, on the “floor” of the sheltered basin that had been chosen for the night.

The shallow valley, drear and dead when we arrived, was soon a vast arena of twinkling camp-fires, in area ever increasing as fresh arrivals came in. There were no trees or other hindrance to the vision, and the whole massed encampment lay open to view. It made an impressive scene; impressive because of its size and singular wilderness character, and because of its romantic mission. It comprised an army of nomads and animals on their first step of invasion, halted in an alcove below the dark rocks of the outland of Aïr, while beyond lay the ocean of sand, which on the morrow, and thereafter, held their adventure.

In my own band our camp was about as usual, for we were seasoned travellers long ere this. But we were all tired, since the day had been irksome and long. Wherefore we were soon in our blankets, resting but awake, because of the noise around us.

Our camels had been offered some of the coarse hay we carried, only to sniff at it disdainfully and refuse it. Whereupon my head camelman smiled and rebaled it, remarking in his own tongue:

“Wait till this time to-morrow. They won’t be so particular when real hunger seizes them.”

GLIMPSES OF THE TARALUM

The voyage of the Taralum, on the days that followed, was, in essentials, one long test of patience, perseverance, and endurance, in travelling a desert of terrifying desolation.

The Bilma Desert is desert at its worst; an absolute sea of sand, destitute of the minutest object. Nothing relieves the eye, not even a morsel of the insignificance of a branch-end to hint of vegetation; and there is no living creature whatever.

Day after day, endless leagues of level, wind-rippled sand are passed and lie ahead. The desolation holds monotonous intensity; barely relieved, even by the banks of dunes which are encountered in places, softly rounded like the swing of great waves rolling to the land on a calming ocean, and petrified in the act. When it is calm the sand rests. But that is seldom, for there are two forces that are constant in the desert: wind and sun. And when the wind blows the sands of the surface are never still, and legions of particles fly before its bidding.

But to the traveller the wind is his salvation, unless it rises to a gale and brings that terror of the desert—a sandstorm. Even though hot, with the breath of the glowing sand, the wind is a measure of counteraction to the oppression of the tremendous blazing heat of the overhead sun.

Beyond all else, the desert is the Kingdom of the Sun. Of all lands where it rules, none know it in greater strength nor more pitiless mood than here. It subdues and kills; it has conquered the earth. It is antagonistic to everything that lives. It even glares on the caravans of the desert as a tyrant on foolish intruders that are prey to be destroyed. Day after day, almost without a break throughout the year, it rises, a globe of gold set in a halo, to rule through long monotonous hours, white in intensity, and ungilded when high in the sky, until the hour arrives for it to sink to rest: when it passes to another sphere followed by mutterings of relief from the tired lips of men who thank Allah that it has gone.

It was 200 miles from Tabello to Fachi, another 100 miles to Bilma; and the same distance on the return journey—600 miles in all. Fresh water for man and beast was to be obtained in the region only at these oases. By forced marches, Fachi, first in our path, was to be reached on the sixth day. All water-skins, the very life of the people of the caravan, would be empty by then, and the camels in sore need of slaking their thirst. It was no land to dally in. All sensed the danger of thirst and starvation, which was in the very sand of the desert about them. Wherefore the whole caravan pushed ever on with anxious earnestness, and with an invisible discipline peculiar to tribal traditions.

The Taralum travelled 38 to 40 miles per day: 14 to 18 hours of patient, steady plodding. There was no halt to rest animals. They carried their burdens throughout the livelong day, with the men of the caravan riding on the top of the loads. The proportion of men was one to every 5 or 7 animals; in all, about 1,100 human lives.

PART OF THE TARALUM CAMPED AT FACHI OASIS

In the open desert the Taralum made an astonishing array. The space that the 7,000 camels occupied on the march is almost past belief. From a situation in the centre of the caravan one viewed neither the head of the cavalcade nor the tail. So far as eye could see, out in front, or back in the rear, the marching army diminished until vanishing lines met the horizon, dark specks on the light sand, looking like mere swarms of flies on the carpet of the world.

The marvellous length of the caravan set me figuring. Individual lines controlled by one wisehead and two helpers, numbering fifteen to twenty camels. I measured five camels travelling in line, including the head-ropes by which each is attached to the camel in front, and found the distance to be fifty feet. This meant that if the whole caravan travelled as one single line it would extend over thirteen miles. However, in the wide, roadless expanse of the desert, they are in the habit of forming irregularly, and often bunch together in groups of four to six lines abreast, with a gap between each massed formation, or connected by a straggling line or two. Therefore, I estimated that the grouping into four or more lines abreast about levelled up on the gaps, and arrived at the conclusion that the whole caravan travelled about as a double line, and was therefore six to seven miles in length.

But those are cold figures and, though it is hoped that they may convey some conception of the magnitude of the Taralum, they do not go further. To enter into the true spirit of the great onward-moving army one must grasp the atmosphere of an old-world pilgrimage, that surrounds the cavalcade. It is all as it might have been in the far-back pages of biblical history. And these nomads, who man the caravan, are descendants of peoples of historic antiquity, they retain the grace and the dress and the breeding of their forebears, they are primitively armed, they are primitively fearless, they are primitively mounted: and in their very primitiveness throughout they are a part of the past—while the forsaken world they travel is an age-old land of infinite mystery.

It may be fitting to describe here one of these war-able yet curiously religious nomads of the desert places whose military record goes back through many centuries, and who are to-day, although wholly unmodern, a select few of the finest travellers and camel-men in the world. I choose, because he is near at hand, Hamid of Timmersu. He is twenty-five years of age, tall, strong, and graceful. Like all true Tuaregs, he is coppery pale skinned,[9] not negroid black. But, as he is heavily veiled, little of his features are seen. Were they revealed, however, they would be, like his hands and feet, clearly formed and delicate; almost refined. Of his face there is only a slit uncovered, through which his dark eyes gleam and rove. The veil, protecting his face from driving sand, and shading his eyes from the sun, is of swathes of light cotton webbing wrapped in many folds around the head. It is blue and much faded by the sun. Small growths of side-whiskers protrude secretively at the angles where the upper and lower swathes join near the ears in drawing to the back of the head. A tiny tassel of shiny plaited hair protrudes below the veil at the back of the neck; a detail of vanity. His gown is loose and flowing, and carried easily. Like his veil, it is blue, and much faded by the sun. It is relieved in front by a cluster of leather wallets, containing “The Blessings of Allah,” which hang from a black cord from the neck to the waist. A homespun blanket is flung, as a plaid, over his right shoulder and passes under the left armpit. It drops to his knees, for he is girded up for the work of the road,[10] and strong bare legs show below, with soiled travel-worn sandals protecting the soles of the feet. His arms are bare from the elbows, and a bundle of small leather charms hangs from a blackstone bangle above the elbow of the left arm; which is his working arm, for Hamid is a left-handed man. And for this reason, also, his leather-sheathed sword hangs on his right side. Everything about him is carried with an easy, unconscious grace that is inherent in all—and Hamid of Timmersu is true to the type of Tuareg lineage.

The nights on the desert with the Taralum were memorable. Sunset, dusk, darkness; then an hour or two of patient, soft-footed plodding, one dark column following another, each trying to keep in touch with the next shadowy mass in front. These hours appeared doubly cool, after the malicious heat of day, except for occasional reminders of the heat that had passed that was borne to us in puffs of hot soft wind off sand that still simmered. With the passing of day, atmospheric lights of softest rainbow hues hung over the sands, changeful and momentary and unpossessible, briefly colouring everything in the land with a gentle Asiatic glow of arresting beauty, ere vanishing before the night. It is such moments of wonderful colouring that have given to all deserts their far-famed reputation for mystic beauty, and the more remote the region the greater the effect.

With the night come the stars, timidly at first, in the unclouded canopy, then in their thousands as the hours deepen. By name the natives know the planets and constellations and principal stars, and, like sailors at sea, use them as guides to check and direct their course.

Time moves on. Men sing a snatch of song in effort to liven drooping spirits, some chew a few hard dates to allay a gnawing hunger, while, in my own line, we, like the others, covertly look ahead, anxious to catch the first lights of the leaders’ camp-fires, that will tell that at last the long, long day is done.

AMONG SAND-DUNES

THE TOLL OF THE DESERT

We mount a rise. We do not see it in the darkness, but we feel our camels ascending. We reach the crest, and, behold! the merriest, most welcome lights in all the world twinkle in the distance. Camp for the night is immediately ahead. All fatigue, for the moment, is over, every trial is forgotten in view of those beckoning lights.

Slowly the great caravan troops in; to camp as they arrive. With incredible swiftness all are busy at once, getting loads off, barracking camels, and lighting tiny fires with a few sticks from precious bundles of firewood. Hurriedly cooked, a meal of sorts is devoured ravenously.

Then the camels are attended to. They are viciously hungry. So hungry that many of them have been muzzled all day, with a net over their mouths to keep them from stealing from the loads en route. They have now to be fed, a little fodder at a time. It is dangerous to let them gulp down the coarse baled tussock-grass over-rapidly. But they can only have a limited ration from the supply, and that disappears almost as quickly as our own repast.

Then to sleep beneath the stars, dog-tired and dreamless, and utterly regardless of the din of incoming camels as the rear of the caravan continues to arrive in the encampment long into the depth of night.

At three or four o’clock, on the morning that follows, feeling more dead than alive, and that we have hardly been asleep at all, we are forced to rise from our couches. Camels are roaring on all sides; the caravan is about to set out again. It is bitterly cold before dawn at this season, and all shiver in thin clothing. A fire is out of the question; we have only a bare supply of fuel. So we busy ourselves reloading and are off again well before daybreak.

Thus the long days, and short nights, passed, as the Taralum held on its steady course across the seas of desert.

Each individual throughout the caravan who had not made the journey to Bilma before was known as Rago (sheep); while, once the journey has been made, a man attains the distinction of the title, Sofo Aroki (Old Traveller).

Many had made the journey during previous years, yet to one man only was entrusted the right to guide, and his judgment was absolute law. No one questioned it, and, without chart or compass, or any mechanical aid whatever, he travelled unerringly to the goal. His name was Efali: a little old man, with remarkable, piercing eyes. He was famous as a traveller and as an old raider; but most famous of all as a guide in the desert. He held the life of the caravan in his hands, and his judgment of direction was uncanny in the exactitude with which he traversed the featureless wastes that each day lay before him like a vacant sea. It was only at rare intervals that anyone in doubt became aware that he was travelling true. At such times, when we were no doubt travelling an old trail, minute signs that might escape the layman were noted by sharp eyes, such as a half-buried pellet of camel-dung, or a thread of frayed and crumbled rope, or a tiny piece of clothing-end. And those sometimes led to something much more tangible—the bleached bones of camels half buried in sand.

As illustrative of the exacting nature of this redoubtable voyage over the Bilma Desert, some account regarding the strain of it may be of interest.

The men of the Taralum undoubtedly rank among the ablest travellers and camel-men in the world, yet throughout the journey much weariness was remarked in the caravan. Men and camels tired badly; tired, too, in many cases, long before the end. The excessively long days, and the heat of a merciless sun, told their tale.

Truly it is the dominion of the sun, which is the most exhausting thing of all in an utterly pitiless land. Many men suffered terribly from constant sun-glare on eyes that could not endure the strain, which not only caused aches and pains, but also induced acute fatigue. Men so affected, after a time, cannot look upon the landscape without great effort, and one sees them sitting on their loads, with gowns drawn closely over their faces, while they doze and droop to the point of falling from their seats.

In due course the strange, diminutive, sand-blown oasis of Fachi was reached, and a week later Bilma. And, when the harvest of salt-cones was bartered for and loaded, without delay the Taralum set out on the return journey; fearful of tarrying, even at the oases because of the poverty of food for camels or men. Indeed, the sand-surrounded oases were almost as appallingly barren as the desert around them, except for their groves of dates, which bore no fruit at that season of the year.

On the way back to Aïr, the prolonged strain told most heavily toward the end, partly from natural causes, and partly as a result of having subsisted overlong on scant nourishment. Indeed, so closely gauged were the food supplies of the Taralum that they began to give out before the end, even under the most rigid economy.

Men and animals weakened perceptibly. Of the former, nearly everyone limped when walking on foot, most of them suffering from numerous dry cracks that had opened cruelly in toes and soles of sandalled feet, through the extreme dryness of the atmosphere and the cutting friction of hot, bone-dry sand.

Even Efali, the fine old guide, had the appearance of a broken man in the end; limping, and stooping almost double, though, at the start, he had presented a trim, nimble figure remarkable for a man of his age.

Some camels died on the outward journey, but many more were lost on the way back. Those were individual losses, a few here and there in almost every company, and the total loss in the Taralum was not recorded as a whole. But, on the third day before the end, it was common news that no fewer than forty camels had fallen out, unable to struggle on at the pace the caravan travelled. These were left behind in the tracks of the caravan, some at the point of death, others to take their chance of struggling through, unloaded, at their own gait.

EFALI

After twenty-seven days on the desert the caravan drew near to the friendly foot-hills of Aïr, and, when the first dim outline could be discerned, it was akin to sighting land after a long voyage at sea.

To all, these distant hills were a vastly pleasant sight because of their relief from the monotony of sand, and doubly pleasant because they represented home.

Next day we were among them, and how peaceful they seemed, and restful to the eyes! One forgot their customary barrenness in an ecstasy of delight in their tangible solidity and sheltering slopes.

I caught myself at sundown listening dreamily, as if to some rare music, and awoke to the fact that it was only a cricket chirping a homily in the grass. Yet it was a volume of sweet sound after the silence of the great empty spaces.

On the 21st of November we recamped at Tabello, and after a day’s rest speedily dispersed our diverse ways.

My last recollection is of Efali. I chanced to come upon him in camp enjoying a well-earned rest, and the luxury of shade, beneath a tree. He was through at last, with the strain of carrying the life of the Taralum in his hands. The old man struggled to his feet to come forward to shake hands, and, though every step gave him pain, the undaunted fire of a great traveller was in his eyes, and the spirit that knows no defeat in the big places of the world. With gladness we shook hands, and went our different ways.

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CHAPTER VI
A CITY OF SHADOWS

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CHAPTER VI
A CITY OF SHADOWS
(Fachi Oasis)

In a land of overpowering solitude Fachi stands alone: a forlorn group of dwellings in a mighty wilderness of colourless sands. All around is absolute desert, vast and silent, and depressingly poverty-stricken. Not until far beyond its immediate ranges are outland borders situated, that finally interrupt the sway of the desert seas. To the east, 100 miles away, lies the Kowar Depression, and, farther on, Tibesti; to the west, 200 miles away, the mountainland of Aïr: to the south, some 300 miles, the desert merges into the bush of the French Sudan; while in the north it extends to the Fezzan.

The environment of Fachi might well terrify the stoutest. Moreover, the vast desert that surrounds it is an open highway for raiders, and others, who seek to pass across it, on secretive journeys, from one distant region to another.

Lost in a land of this kind, where few but raiders pass, without neighbours, without anyone to call to for help, one wonders, to begin with, how Fachi can exist. It shelters no more than a mere handful of sedentary natives, about 150 to 200 human souls in all, yet this strangest of primitive dens stands unbroken, alone, as it has stood since its beginning, as a citadel of the desert.

Raiders who come and go are free to pass before Fachi at will, for, once clear of the desert’s borders, there is no living soul to stay them. And the natives of the town will tell you, with comprehensible pride, but with a hard light in their eyes, that evil-visaged men have sat down and looked upon Fachi from a distance, coveting its capture—in the end to rise and go their way, foiled by the fear of death in the traps of a wizards’ den.

In the modern history of Fachi, caravans visiting the oasis have been attacked outside its walls, where bleached human skulls still deck the sands; but only once has the town itself been threatened with destruction. That occurred fifteen years ago, when the raiders, said to number 1,500, forced a temporary entrance and fought through the western side of the town: the houses of which part still lie in ruins eloquent of the destruction of the fateful day.

It is obvious that to stand thus alone and live, self-reliant and self-dependent, Fachi must be strong—strong with an uncanny genius. And that that is so is soon revealed.

Its outer fortifications are the walls that enclose it—a double line of ramparts, with a broad moatlike ditch between. To-day the outer barrier is incomplete, for it is battered and broken in places that have not been repaired, but the inner and principal wall is all that a powerful defence should be: high and grim and unscalable.

A DOORWAY IN FACHI

THE “SEVEN PALMS” OF FACHI

My feelings, when I first entered Fachi through its frowning walls, were of bewilderment and astonishment.

Through an open doorway, unpretentious from the outside, one passed down a few crumbling steps, and stood on the threshold of the town. Sense of protection from the outside world, with its blighting sun and sand-filled wind, was present at once, while an eerie gloominess already threatened; for the level of the town was almost cellar-depth below the land outside. Flung back against the thick exterior wall, rested the first grim evidence of defence: a heavy, palm-plank door riveted, primitively, and chained together, while a great beam and a stone set into the floor of the court within showed how it was closed and buttressed when need arose (I was soon to learn that every street, every dwelling entrance, every room within these dens, had doors of the same character of formidable strength). Over this portcullis type of entrance, which gave the only way of entry to the town, the white jaw-bones and skull of a camel are built into the wall, on the inside, for all the world like the crest of a gang of pirates.

But the strangest novelty, in those first moments, lay in the discovery that, on all sides, the walls were constructed with salt, blackened with dust and age, yet, surely, salt, set as hard as the finest concrete and rasping as broken glass. It was not long before it dawned on me that the whole of the remarkable town was built of the same material.

The court, or area, inside the entrance, is small. But, passing on through a dark, shadowy, covered porchway, I soon learned that everywhere space was given away with niggardly economy.

Leaving the entrance, one enters a maze of alleys which represent the streets of the town: alleys that twist and turn in an amazing fashion, so that it is difficult to get an unobstructed view of more than a mere twenty or thirty feet of fairway. They are the narrowest slits of lanes, man-wide in places, but twice that width on an average; closely confined by black dwelling-high walls. Such sections of them as are fortunate enough to have a narrow overhead outlet to the sky are filled with shadows. Where roofed over they are dark and grim; mouse-ridden nooks, where man might lurk at any hour of the day who wished to cut an enemy’s throat.

Bare, earthy settees are recessed in places in these alleys where a foot or two of extra space permits an addition without entirely blocking up the pathway. There a single person may repose in the cool of evening; or sit cross-legged with another, exchanging idle gossip, or hatching cunning schemes.

Twisting and turning, portalled at points of advantage with a confusion of plank doors, these alleys lead an interminable distance. I find myself in the position of believing I am lost in a large city, and will never get back unguided to the point of setting out. I have been a score of times in Fachi. On the last visit, as on the first, I found myself at dubious turnings, enquiring of furtive den-dwellers, “Which way leads to the blue sky outside?” Can one credit this of a place no greater in area than a country village? It seems hardly possible; yet it is so, and it is chiefly the closely knit network of lane-slits that leads to this erroneous impression of great size.

THE RAMPARTS OF FACHI

Nearly empty of people, the lanes are full of shadows and a sense of a thousand mysteries. Everywhere there are shadows: and on the day that I first entered Fachi I found myself repeating, under my breath: “It is a lost city, and its name should be, The City of Shadows.

Shadows, always shadows, meet one at every turn in ever-changing phase. Weird, attractive shapes when cast from parts where unskilled, unplotted building has found a happy architectural result, or frowning nooks where lurk the sentiments of witchery or ghosts of the wicked dead.

A few natives pass. They brush against me because of the narrowness of the lane. Close to them I see that their clothes are dirt soiled, their features hard and villainous. They hurry on and vanish out of the street with a single step aside. They have turned a corner or entered a dwelling.

All the dwellings are entered directly from the alleys. The burrowing for shelter is increased in the dwellings; their floors are farther under the ground than the dusty lanes. (They have nothing to fear from rain and consequent flooding; for it does not rain.) A low, earthy parapet guards a few steps underground, and a tiny door, of hatchway size, through which only a stooping figure can pass. When there are no occupants at home, even during the day, these palm-plank, rudely anchored doors are closed and barred with the forbidding strength already described; as if neighbour trusted not neighbour.

But the issue that is vital to Fachi’s scheme of defence is in the fact that, from within, at a moment’s notice, the whole town can be barred and buttressed and placed under lock and key.

Packed like the skep of a hive, with intent to utilise space, Fachi is a regular honeycomb of crowded dens. They are salt-built, like the rest of the town, and as dark and shadowy and mysterious as the alleys outside. Each cell in the honeycomb has its narrow slit of a door, with a spy-hole, no larger than a halfpenny, drilled through the wall near the side of the jamb, so that folks may be peered at when approaching, or when arrived and knocking for admission.

Even by day nearly all the dwellings are locked and barred. When, perchance, a door stands ajar a feeble ray of light steals into a bare-walled, smoke-blackened den that has no more furnishing than a heap of dates on a mat and a skin of water hanging from the low ceiling. Once admittance has been gained from outside, it is seen that the interior of every home is comprised of den leading to den, each with its thick plank door and its air of suspicion and secrecy. Before entering a single dwelling I had already realised that every yard of the lanes within Fachi could be defended almost single-handed, and that, should defenders happen to be driven back or killed at any one point, a fresh rally could be made with success at every gateway in their course. In the barred doors within the dens themselves I again thought of the cunning strategy from the point of view of hand-to-hand defensive fighting.

PART OF FACHI, WHICH IS BUILT ENTIRELY OF SALT

Seeking through a honeycomb of dens with curiosity thoroughly aroused, I eventually came out into daylight in a tiny courtyard in the centre. Thence an outside stairway mounted to the roofs. Climbing it, I viewed a panorama of the flat, parapeted housetops of Fachi. Beside me were attic store-rooms, locked and barred like so many of the chambers, and a confusion of jagged parapets, well-nigh impassable to anyone who might try to scale them. Weedy dates, old bones, broken earth-jars, all the odd refuse of primitive homes, lay scattered on these roofs; and I realised that the rubbish-heaps of Fachi’s den-dwelling people lay over the roofs of their burrows, and not in the alleys or in the dwellings. It was a condition of things that revealed the animal sense of people accustomed to stick closely to their warrens. These roofs, outside, were the nearest spaces to the open air; moreover the unsightly squalor seldom waxed fetid there owing to the baking sun and extreme dryness of the atmosphere: a state of affairs that did not exist when old bones, or aught else outcast, lay fly-festering in the shade below.

I came out from investigating a honeycomb of dwellings with a back that ached with stooping through hatchway doors.

I moved on. There was one more sight to see.

I had by this time, by promise of food, persuaded an ill-clad, hungry-looking individual to act as guide; one of the most villainous, indolent-looking men I have ever seen. I asked him to lead me to the fortress of the town, which I had seen from the outside, standing behind the double ramparts of the exterior, near to the remarkable “Seven Palms of Fachi,” which stand in a stately group close to the north front.

I am led through a maze of alleys. A heavy door, barring our path, is reached and unlatched, and a final lane lies before me. My guide vouchsafes the information that the fort is at the other end.

In a few moments we reach the rear courtyard of the fort, the largest open space in Fachi. It is uninteresting, for it is empty for the time being, and its high, unscalable walls seem stiffly posed like a petrified place awaiting the assembly of war-girded hordes.

We pass on inside—and I stand amazed. Before me is the den of the Forty Thieves, or a scene equivalent; but real, and not imaginary. The fort, with high, naked walls towering around it, looks like a gigantic square-cut pit, with the bottom packed, almost to overflowing, with giant earthen jars. It is those jars that make the most amazing sight of all. Gleaming whitely, they fill the entire fort, except where the roofed-in, low, gloomy corridors jut out from the base of the main wall, giving access to the pit and to the four corner towers.

SHADOWS, ALWAYS SHADOWS, MEET ONE AT EVERY TURN

The fort might be compared to a vast, unused cupboard full of gigantic empty jam-pots—but jam-pots far above the most exaggerated dreams of the hungriest schoolboy. I started to count them, but gave it up. They looked, in their unevenly lined hundreds, as numerous and as disorderly as a flock of sheep.

Some were measured. The largest are 7 feet in diameter by 8 feet 4 inches high; the smallest 5 feet in diameter by 4 feet high. Though the sizes vary, they are all of one shape: giant jars tapering to a wide-mouthed neck at the top. They are constructed out of white chalky clay, knit with fibrous hairs of vegetation. Steps are moulded in the sides of all the larger jars, so that anyone may mount to gain entry at the top.

We had entered the final stronghold of Fachi; the last place of refuge in a city conceived, from end to end, with one great purpose—its strength of defence. And whoever may have been the wizard—for it is no haphazard work—he had the genius of a great man-at-arms. These giant urns, ready to be filled with dates and grain in time of siege, the deep well of water that is hidden in the centre of them, are eloquent of their purpose; like all else in the war-prepared fastness.

Reluctantly I left this strange open-air hall to climb to one of the watch-towers. The way was perpendicular; up notched palm-poles, and niches cut in the hard salt walls; then, through loopholes, into each of the three turret rooms that made up its height. On reaching any lofty outlook with country around it one usually looks outward on the vast panorama of landscape that presents itself. My first impulse here, on stepping out on the tower roof, was different. I turned at once in toward the town to peer down into the haunting pit I had just left, where glistened whitely in the sun, the urns of “The Forty Thieves,” like a picture of another age.

And from that strange scene I slowly lifted my eyes in vain endeavour to learn where one single street in Fachi began and ended. Then I was lost in unstinted wonder at it all.

Native history—imparted to me by the Malam, or learned man, of Fachi—has it that in bygone times the people of the town had no cunning in war, and were terribly harassed by raids. Arab caravans, with rich merchandise from Algeria and Tripoli to Bornu and Wadai, in those days passed through Fachi, and the uncertain safety of the place was not to their liking or benefit. Wherefore, the story goes, there came a time when Arabs arrived on the heels of an attack, when the town had been hard hit, and much reduced in strength. It happened that a great Arab from Tripoli was this caravan’s leader. He called the people of Fachi about him and said, in effect, according to the story, “Why is this? Enemy destroy you. You fear! You fly like the jackal into the desert to die!

“Bah! You have not sense! But Allah has sent us to your aid. We will show you how to build so that henceforth you shall fear no one.”

WOMEN OF FACHI AND THEIR CURIOUS HEAD-DRESS

Whereupon they set about building a completely new city, not imperfectly, but under the strict supervision of the great Arab. It is said that if any part was imperfect it was ordered to be taken down and rebuilt.

So that, in the Malam’s words:

“Fachi is built as it stands to-day, because a great Arab came from the north and taught our people sense.”

He could not name the great benefactor, nor could I find anyone who knew. But that he came from Tripoli all affirmed.

It is not impossible that he was one of the renowned Oulad Sliman tribe—Tripolitans who, in the past, migrated to settle near Mao, on the north of Lake Chad, to escape Turkish oppression.

I turned from contemplation of the town to look over the landscape. From the top of the tower it was not so barren as from below, for the green groves of date-palms were prominently in view. The oasis holds little more of value than a narrow belt of palms, the pits of salt, and a good supply of subterranean water. For the rest, nothing but sand; the whole environment so unprepossessing that one cannot escape its terrible poverty.

And inside the town a population that has barely food to keep body and soul together.

I caught myself thinking:

“What queer, ungodly places some people live in!”

I had just muttered:

“I suppose it is their native soil. They have lived here all their lives, like animals born in a cage, and they know no other world.”

Then I caught sight of my guide, whom I had forgotten, glued against the wall, peering, ever so cautiously, out of one of the tower loopholes, aiming with his fingers, as if he held a rifle. From head to foot, he looked a perfect brigand.

I followed the cue. Who knew the occupation of these people from one year’s end to the other? The brief halt of passing caravan told one nothing of that. Did raids go forth from those grim walls when hunger pressed, and all was quiet about them? It was more than likely. Certainly they possessed an unfettered freedom that gave outlet to that wildness of the wilderness that was in them, which ran, unknown to living soul outside their own little world, untamed and unchecked, through the shadowy alleys and dark dens within the walls, and, mayhap, found a fiercer outlet in evil-doing abroad.

The hard-featured natives of the town are Beri-Beri. They are strangely animal-like, in general, perhaps because of their terrible environment, and their life is an underworld of vice.

“THE DEN OF THE FORTY THIEVES”

I ceased pondering, and called the guide from his look-out.

I asked him one question before we began the descent from the tower:

“How many men have you killed?”

He smiled at once, as if I had hit on a subject he knew something of, and that was much more pleasant than guiding a stranger through his town. Then he extended his left hand, and, with the other, slowly bent over each finger until they were all counted out. Whereupon he answered:

“Five men I have killed.”

At the outset I called Fachi A City of Shadows, impelled by the original beauty and magic of its wealth of shadowy scenes. That title has grown fourfold. Beside aught that there is of beauty, and threatening it, there are never-ending shadows in its openness to danger from outside, sharp shadows in its periods of hunger, and uncanny shadows in the threat of evil that lies behind barred doors and in the visages of cold-eyed men.

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CHAPTER VII
SALT OF THE EARTH

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CHAPTER VII
SALT OF THE EARTH

Throughout the commercial history of civilised countries the digging out of riches from the bowels of the earth has for ever played an important part; and from among the minerals so obtained the currency of our world has always been minted. It is my purpose to suggest that in this there is clearly a resemblance between the civilised State and the primitive. But that which is mined by the one is sometimes vastly different from the wealth that is sought by the other. The gold of the Yukon, or the diamonds of Kimberley, are the highest ideals of civilised States; but possessions much more humble often suffice the primitive, and in the Sahara that which is sought by the indigenous tribes, and prized, as a necessity and as a currency, is humble salt of the earth.

It is possible that salt has been a medium of currency in the Sahara for all time. It was the Arabs, in the past, who brought the cowrie from the north coast of Africa to introduce it into the Sahara, and the rich countries farther south, as “money” to assist them in their trade; but the silver of the white man has displaced the cowrie now, while salt, because of its tangible value, continues to be a ready medium of purchase. Therefore salt has outlived the cowrie, which, after all, had little more than an ornamental value.

In a few places, renowned to-day, and doubly renowned in the legendary history of the Sahara, there exist, in the remote interior, age-old salt-pits of inexhaustible supply. They are worked to-day as of old, and the methods of centuries are unchanged. But the trade is diminishing. The tide of the white man’s advance in Africa is having an influence on distant markets; and that influence is reflected at the remote source of supply. No longer do the great native populations of the Western Sudan depend chiefly on the Sahara for their salt, for to-day whole shiploads of the commercial commodity are imported by way of the west coast to vie with the supply of the renowned salt deposits of the Sahara, that were wont to supply half a continent.

But, despite the strength of the foreign invasion, there has always been a native prejudice against the imported salt and a liking for the natural salt of the Sahara—a prejudice that the importer has been fighting down ever since he entered the field—and it is no doubt that favourable prejudice, along with the existing value of salt as currency, has much to do with the continuance of a curious and primitive trade in the interior of the Sahara.

Like gold in other lands, the famed deposits of salt in the Sahara are not numerous. I know of only three that are of great reputation: Bilma, Tigguida n’Tisem, and Taudeni. There are possibly others, in the great desert, of renown that has not reached me. The two former I have visited, and will endeavour to describe, while Taudeni, about 400 miles in the desert north of the Niger bend, contains the famous mines of rock-salt that, in being transported south through Timbuktu, gives to that world-famous town its chief trade.

I will deal first with Bilma. The oasis of that name lies in a basin in the midst of a great region of loose sand-dunes which offer extraordinary natural protection. No stranger may find his way into Bilma through those dunes unguided, and its position is so secretive, a tiny place in a hollow in one boundless sea of dunes, that its presence is absolutely unsuspected until one comes suddenly, with astonishment, right on top of it.

A long, lake-like stretch of bare sun-cracked flats of soda and salt, glaring fiercely white in the stifling sun, lie before the small town, which is at the south end, while at the other end, a mile or so distant, are the piled-up, uneven hills of the workings of the famous salt-pits. The town, and the French fort that is there, are sheltered to some extent by small groves of date-palms.

The French occupation of Bilma is unique in the territory. It is a far-flung outpost, and the fort stands alone like a Dreadnought in an unknown sea, far from recognised frontiers. That such a fort has been established, and held, is eloquent acknowledgment of the value of the salt-pits and the strategic position that Bilma holds in checking the wanderings of the cut-throat raiders that seek to pass between Tibesti and Aïr, or from the Fezzan to the northern fringes of Hausaland.

Bilma was first occupied by the French in 1906, and the founding of a post so remote, and in the heart of enemies’ country, was filled with dangers and difficulties. To-day, over the door of the sturdy, earth-built post in Bilma, are the words Fort Dromard, and by reason of the name the fort has been made a lasting monument to Lieutenant Amédée Dromard, a soldier-pioneer who, single-handed with native soldiers, fought for the French flag’s erection in Bilma, defended its brave upstanding, and won—to die in completing his noble task.

The record of his career hangs on the walls, worthy of the best traditions of his country; indeed, a record of which any country might well be proud. In the concluding paragraphs one reads:

“He fought conspicuously at Agadem (south of Bilma) on 7th January 1908.”

And finally:

“He was wounded in fighting at Achegur (north-west of Bilma) on 1st July 1909, and died at Bilma on 5th September of the same year, after being carried for two weeks on the shoulders of his faithful native followers.”

AT WORK IN THE SALT-PITS OF BILMA

The whole depression of Kowar, stretching north and south from Jado to the Chad basin, in which the oasis of Bilma is situated, has a population of about 3,000 natives. About 700 of those are in Bilma; chiefly Beri-Beri, and a certain number of Tebu. But absolute purity of race is dying out owing to much intermingling of the two races. Like the den-dwellers of Fachi, these natives are hard-featured, cold-eyed, and barbarous.

Of other small oases along the line of the Kowar depression, Dirku has a few families of Beri-Beri and the remainder are occupied by Tebu. But here, as elsewhere in the Sahara, the natives are declining in numbers and most of the outlying places are almost deserted; among them the once important centre of Jado, which is completely abandoned.

The following quaint traditions and history of Kowar were collected at Bilma:

“The first people of Kowar were Sos (giants) from the Fezzan. Legend declares they were a very big race, while it is still claimed by the natives that the skeletons of these giants, and the great houses where they lived, are even yet to be seen in the Fezzan near Tedjerri. These giants were tall as twenty elbows.

“In due course the Sultan of the Beri-Beri came to Bilma and asked the Sultan of the Sos for permission to settle there with his people. Where upon the giant King, answering nothing, took a wand and, extending it, turned slowly round so that he formed a mighty circle, the edge of which extended to Yeggeba, in northern Kowar, and to Dibbela in the south (a diameter of 100 miles or more); and within that area the Beri-Beri were permitted to live.

“The Sos were at that time settled in the oasis in the valley of Bilma, the rainfall of which was coming from Jado, and going to Fachi and Termitt.”[11]

After this legendary time it is said that:

“In 800 A.D. there was a great invasion of Beri-Beri, who were Moslems. They came from Yemen in Arabia by way of the Fezzan and Kowar, and continued to the country of Mao (Lake Chad territory) leaving in their passage some people who thought the country of Bilma attractive and suitable to settle in.

“In this way the foundation was laid of Jado, Seggudim, Dirku, and Bilma.

“Furthermore all oases[12] between Bilma and Chad were colonised by Beri-Beri. Some of them were already occupied, but the inhabitants were ejected by the Beri-Beri. The original people were a tribe named Koiam and representatives of the race are still to be found in Bornu.

“When the Tebu came to the region they found the Beri-Beri had already been in occupation of Kowar for a long time. The first Tebu came from Termitt, and it is claimed that the tribe originated from lawless people who had committed murder in their own countries to the south, and were obliged to flee and become outlaws. Later in their history, when the Tebu were an established race in Tibesti, the first of the tribe to discover Kowar chanced across it by accident when in pursuit of strayed camels. This adventurer found the country promising to live in, and returned to Tibesti with the news. As a consequence of this discovery a number of Tebu crossed to Kowar with their families to settle.

A FINISHED SALT-BLOCKTHE MOULD

SETTING THE SALT IN MOULDS

“In this way Achinuma, Arrighi, Tiggumama, Gassar, and Chimmidur were founded.

“In time the Tebu grew in strength and gained supremacy over the Beri-Beri, who became subject to them.

“Later on the Tuaregs of Aïr came to Bilma and Fachi, and took them over as colonies, exacting tax, which for a long time was paid to the Sultan of Agades. But the Tuaregs never occupied the country.”

The three oldest towns in Kowar are: Bilma, Dirku, and Gadzebi. Of these Bilma is by far the most important because of its prolific salt-pits.

As a place of outstanding fame in the Sahara it is naturally rich in local history. At various periods the town has occupied three different situations. The site of the oldest town, known to the natives as Balabili, is about a quarter of a mile south of the Bilma of the present. It is a grave ground, with a gruesome history, for it was almost completely annihilated, at a single blow, about 200 years ago, by Arabs who came from Wadai. The story of the tragedy, as told to me by the Chief of Bilma, is that all the inhabitants had gathered to the mosque on a festal occasion of Mohammedan worship, when they were swooped upon and trapped by their remorseless enemies; and a frightful massacre ensued, from which few escaped. The tragic remains of that awful day are still there for all to see, and I have looked with pity and awe on ground that is thickly strewn with the sun-bleached bones of those who perished. Not a dwelling stands on the desolate site; only a corner of the fateful mosque remains, and that is slowly crumbling and vanishing—vanishing to join the dust of those who once worshipped within its walls.

In time another town, locally called Kalala, was established, farther north, beside the salt-pits. Like Fachi, this was built of salt, and the roofless ruins of the old hutments are still standing. The old Chief of Bilma informed me that it was completely abandoned forty-seven years ago, owing to its being constantly attacked by hostile caravans, who looted everything, and even carried off the women and children.

But gradually, notwithstanding the loss from such disturbances, the present town had grown into being, fortified for defence, and possessing a fort; to which the people of Kalala were in the habit of fleeing to take refuge in time of raids. Comprehending, in this way, the greater safety that the new town offered, harassed Kalala was eventually abandoned, and everyone moved to settle in the quarter that is the Bilma of to-day.

MEN OF THE SALT OASIS

That is something of the history of the famous salt oasis. And the past and the present would seem to have resemblance, for the existing town is decaying. It is already half in ruins, and, moreover, has the woebegone appearance of a place that has lost its spirit—the spirit of the wild in wilderness, that fights to live against any odds; the spirit to endure in the most desolate and unknown places of the earth; the spirit that is found in Fachi.

Nevertheless, the far-famed prolific salt-pits of Bilma remain remarkable. Their crowded hills of cast-up salt debris resemble the outworks of a great minehead, and no one knows how long they have been in existence down through the centuries of time. Their antiquity is acknowledged by all.

The area of ground covered by the mounds of the workings is very extensive, but by far the larger number of pits are idle or old, and just an odd one, here and there, is in use.

The salt is secured from wide open bottoms that are of no great depth. It is in large pure crystals ranging from the size of sugar-grains to cubes as large as ¼-inch. When a pit is being worked the bottom of it is flooded with water of a rich dark claret colour, stained by the natron, or native carbonate of sodium[13] that is put in as a chemical that settles and separates the sandy sediment and other foreign matter from the desired crystals. Bare-limbed men, in dirty ragged garb, work in this discoloured water up to their knees, and delve underneath with short-handled hoes to loosen the crystals, which they tread down with their naked feet to cleanse of sediment, before thrusting a shallow scoop below the surface, to bring it up piled with glistening salt. So rich is the deposit that quantity is rapidly secured. The wet salt is at once carried from the pit and mixed, with about an equal portion of dry salt, into a concrete-like consistency which is emptied into pyramid moulds, constructed for the purpose out of palm staves and bound with camel-hide. The whole process entails very little labour, and an abundance of cones of salt is produced with astonishing rapidity and ease.

The caravans that go to Bilma for salt secure it chiefly by barter, trading food and clothing to the value of their purchases. To gauge its actual value in coin, one block or cone of salt, weighing about 35 lbs., is worth two pennies in Bilma; but, when carried away south to Hausaland,[14] it is resold, or rebartered, at an entirely different value. At Tessawa it realises as much as eight shillings, or the equivalent, and at Kano ten shillings.

In considering values, however, the long period spent on the journey to and from Bilma, and the loss of camels through hunger and fatigue, should be reckoned in favour of the man who brings the salt to the markets of the south, for on that account, when all is said and done, his profits at best are but little; which is all that the best type of native expects or asks.

Tigguida n’Tisem is very different from Bilma, though both are renowned salt centres, and both of a character that would have assuredly made them central figures in the history of the Sahara, had the races who have come and gone through the dark ages of Africa’s existence kept comprehensive records of their country.

This salt centre is not so remote as Bilma, and is easier of access from Hausaland. It lies west of Agades, and north of In-Gall, in black desert beyond the mountains of Aïr. Its actual position happens to be in a region wherein tend the main lines of drainage of the rare storm-rains of western Aïr; drainage that, at the present time, seeps eventually into the desert, but that, doubtless, once ran much further on its course, which heads, even to-day, in the direction of the Niger Basin. At Tigguida n’Tisem this watercourse, remarkable because of its size, takes the form of immense flats of clayey soil, resembling the sediment of an estuary, and the salt, which is the mainstay of the town, is located in a low hill in the very centre of this strange arid bottom. Indeed, on account of its position in the watercourse, when rains do happen to occur, which is, perhaps, once a year, or once in three years, according to chance, Tigguida n’Tisem is entirely surrounded by water, and at such times the population are in the habit of trekking south to take refuge in In-Gall.

But for the most part the hot sun-smitten land lies ever barren and petrified, while the wind-swept, dust-covered, diminutive town crouches, like the dens of fearful creatures, in a lost land of featureless flatness and terrible desolation. Why anyone should live there at all is beyond comprehension, until one halts at the significant word, Salt! which constitutes the main occupation at present, though early geographers believed the settlement was concerned with copper.

Tigguida n’Tisem is very remarkable for two reasons: the rare race of people who occupy it, and its extremely picturesque salt-pans.

The whole locality is essentially Tuareg, and it is an astonishing fact that the natives of the town are not of that race, nor yet sedentary vassals of Beri-Beri, or Hausa slave caste from the south, who are invariably the workers of the Tuareg camps. They are known as Azawaren, and so completely separate are they in race that their language is unintelligible to the true natives of the region.

They are without written history, but the tribe was referred to by early geographers as a relic of the Sonrhay race, and, if that should come to be indisputably proved,[15] then at Tigguida n’Tisem, in the Sahara, the language of that once great Empire of the Niger still survives.

“FROM THE ROOF-TOPS THEY WATCHED OUR CARAVAN”

There are about four hundred of the tribe within the walls of Tigguida, and they are entirely town people. None frequent the country-side, and they herd neither goats nor sheep.

They believe that the settlement was founded by an old priest of the tribe a very long time ago. They are very pious, and carry no arms whatever, and hence know nothing of warfare, despite their living in a disturbed and dangerous region. Their prayers, and their industrious work at the salt-pans, appear to be their only interests. Seeking for records of their origin, I tried to secure an old weapon or piece of metal-work or embroidery, but failed to find anything that hinted of art in the past or in the present. Undoubtedly their two outstanding characteristics are that they are hard and careful workers, and religious far beyond the ordinary.

On account of the latter trait, and the fact that they never resort to arms, the town is constantly raided, and only a few days before I arrived it was attacked by a band of some thirty robbers who had come from the Ghat-Murzuk region. No fight was made. The inhabitants simply hid in their huts until the raid, and its curse, had passed. Seven or eight people were killed and wounded, and thirty camels raided belonging to a caravan visiting the town for salt.

When I arrived the inhabitants climbed to the hut roofs to scrutinise my caravan’s approach across the low flats, excited and watchful, until assured that the strange camels carried friends; for the shock of the recent raid was still fresh in their minds. But no other action revealed anything of the late disturbance, and for the most part the people were back at their salt-pans working calmly.

The town of Tigguida n’Tisem is small. The tiny mud huts of the people are closely crowded together for protection from sweeping winds and sand. It is not a walled town, nor, in any way, built for defence. The surroundings are almost entirely uninhabited; vast in extent, and bleak beyond description.

Neither in the buildings of the town nor in the faces of the people is there hint of anything remarkable. The attraction it possesses lies partly in the eerie environment, and in the mystery of unrecorded history, but chiefly in the salt-pits and the work of the people.

The town is barely fifty yards from the salt workings, which are not only unique but also extremely picturesque. They are made up of a series of very flat, pond-like spaces, connected to one another in an irregular chain by gate-wide necks. By reason of the excavations that have made the areas, they lie between high banks and cuttings of earth. The whole of the pond-like spaces, which constitute the floors of the workings, are on one level, and the amazing fact is that the whole place is one sea of closely crowded toilet-like basins, shaped with clay rims on the top of a level base. They are the brine-pans of Tigguida n’Tisem, where salt is obtained by a natural process of evaporation. And, looked at from the high banks of the workings, they make a very remarkable picture in their network array of countless water-filled or salt-glistening circles, and method of neatness and plan; while graceful figures, busy at work among them, add to the extreme novelty and attractiveness of the scene.

THE SALT-PANS OF TIGGUIDA N’TISEM

These workings are even more unusual and more picturesque than Bilma, and they differ, also, in the fact that a great deal of labour is demanded in obtaining very modest quantities of salt.

The method of obtaining the salt is as follows:

The product is secreted in the soil and sand of the low hill. Well-like pools down in the workings among the salt basins, are the “mixing pots,” where the salt-bearing earth from the hill and water, already brackish, are mixed to make a fluid of strong brine. On close inspection it is found that the bottom of the workings is of solid rock, and the basins are formed thereon, to hold water securely, simply by moulding carefully plastered rims of clay to the circle desired. As each shallow basin dries out, and after the frigid salt sediment, or crust, has been collected, it is scrupulously cleaned with a hand-whisk and refilled with a skin-bucket or two of brine. The basin is then left undisturbed, beneath blue sky and blazing sun, for the day or two required for the water to completely evaporate.

And thus the people of Tigguida labour constantly in these workings, which provide their sole means of livelihood. Whether puddling clay, carrying water, sweeping out basins, or collecting the salt crust, they are ever busy at one ploy or another; exhibiting a commendable diligence that is foreign to other people of the land.

From the workings the salt is carried to the dwellings in the town, where it is spread out to harden into flat oblong cakes of a size suitable to bale into compact camel loads. The cakes are of pale pink colour, and on account of this it is easily recognisable when seen south of the Sahara in the bazaars of the markets of West Africa, where it is prized on account of its high quality.

Thus is salt obtained from two remarkable places in the Sahara.

Its romance as currency begins at the very commencement of its existence as a product. Almost everything that the two towns secure from the outside, most of the food, and all of the clothes they require, is purchased by barter for salt.

Sometimes the exchanges are curious—a score of blocks of salt, at Bilma, for an article of adornment, or a lover’s gift; half a dozen blocks for a sheaf of raw tobacco, and a single block for a few sticks of scarce firewood.

At Tigguida n’Tisem all the water in the town is very salt. Hence fresh water is transported from a distance by donkeys and sold in the streets every day, a handful of raw salt being the purchase price of a half-filled calabash bowl of fresh water.

SETTING OUT THE SALT OF TIGUIDDA TO HARDEN INTO CAKES

From the time of leaving the salt-pits the career of each block, or slab, is one continual round of exchange, until they end in eventual consumption.

Although tribal customs are changing in the Western Sudan, there are still instances of local taxes being paid in salt; and builders and contractors; while raw materials, such as hides, ground-nuts, and other produce desired for export to Europe are often bartered for the same commodity. Nevertheless, it is as a native medium of exchange for little purchases that salt has its chief use as a currency at the present time.

Lastly, the nearest approach to dramatic entertainment that the West African native enjoys is furnished by curious Punch and Judy shows. And in the manner that one pays sixpence or a shilling to gain admittance, say, to a cinema, so the actors, or puppet manipulators, of “Punch and Judy” are often rewarded by small admirers with merely a “pinch of salt.”

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CHAPTER VIII
THE PEOPLE OF THE VEIL

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CHAPTER VIII
THE PEOPLE OF THE VEIL

The outstanding inhabitants of the Great Desert are “The People of the Veil”; a term by which the Tuaregs are generally known, and one that is employed by themselves, collectively, in the designation Kel-Tagilmus, which in their language has exactly the same meaning. It is they who, in widely scattered tribes of small numbers, dominate the Sahara and the sedentary serfs, they who are pre-eminently a class unto themselves, and they who are responsible for much of the romance that has given to the Sahara a world-wide mystical fame.

To appreciate their remarkable character it should be borne in mind that the Tuaregs are a southern race of Berbers, whose military history goes back through many centuries. Indeed, Berber armies twice invaded Europe: in the time of Hannibal, and when the Moors invaded Spain in 710 A.D. Since those early days of history they have ever been a warlike people, and in the unrest of the Riffs to-day, more than half of whom are Berbers, we have an example of the psychology of recurrent forces of a dominant characteristic of the race.

This background is a great aid toward grasping and understanding the restless, drifting, veiled nomads of the Sahara to-day, who have to fend for themselves in an insecure wilderness that is sometimes aptly pronounced, “The Land of Dread,” and “The Land of the Sword.”

By the very fact of their ancestral inheritance, the Tuaregs are able clansmen in an appropriate sphere; and the wild fastnesses that make up their environment encourage every trait of feudal fitness to develop rather than recede. So that, when these circumstances are embraced and weighed in the scale of reasoning, it is not altogether surprising to find that they are, beyond all else, past-masters in cunning war-craft; and that there is no Tuareg, over the age of childhood, who is not fully versed in every detail of a subject that is their primary education. Consequently, whatever the conditions under which they are met, the Tuaregs are, in foremost characteristic, a people skilled and able in war, and every man a disciplined soldier when need arises. And though it is a fact that feuds and raids are on a whole growing less violent and numerous in the Sahara to-day, owing to the military activities of the French Administrations of Algiers and the Sudan, and the increasing poverty of the interior, the hereditary quality of the soldier in the Tuaregs is so ineradicable that one is always aware of their true character and inclinations, no matter in what circumstance or environment they are encountered.

THE VEIL

Here is a pen-picture of a far-famed raider of the interior:

“He is a little old man; old in years, but young in activities and spirit. He has not the long, raking swing of the tireless footpad nor the graceful ease of bearing that belongs to the average man of his race. He walks with a short, perky step peculiarly his own.

“All his life has been spent in a camel-saddle, and only there can it be said that he is perfect and complete. Contrary to the standards of drama, his features are neither cruel nor repulsive. His Tuareg veil is worn low, and an open countenance and clear eyes of attractive largeness expand in a delightful smile when he greets you—if you are his friend.

“He is unpretentious; almost ridiculously shy. Yet you are aware that nothing escapes him. He has the eyes of an eagle. To anyone not aware of his calling, he gives the impression of being a fine old man with a kindly soul. Aware of his calling, you feel he has at heart the instinct of a sportsman, and that such instincts assuredly mitigated his wildest acts of lawlessness.

“Riding or walking, a double-edged sword hangs on his left side, and he carries a long shafted spear in his hand. He cannot count how many raids he has taken part in; the number is too great. His biggest success was the capture of three hundred camels and seventy women and children on one raid. His most memorable failure occurred when he had taken two hundred camels and fifty captives and was five days out on the desert on his homeward journey when counter-attacked in the night by the people he had plundered and completely routed. His band scattered and had terrible difficulty in reaching their mountain stronghold in Aïr. Seven of his comrades were lost and died of exhaustion or thirst—‘Bah! It was not good!’

“These were big raids from fifty to one hundred men. Ordinary raids were composed of from fifteen to twenty men, armed with flint-lock firearms, and each robber was capable of rounding up, and taking care of, three to four camels apiece, when they swooped upon their victims. Captives were taken, in addition, and were sold to buy fresh arms and ammunition. A good, able-bodied male captive realised one hundred silver pieces, of coin the size of a sixpence, and a comely woman four hundred silver pieces, in the markets of Ghat and elsewhere. His days of raiding are over. He wishes he could recall them, and declares the life of adventure was a grand game, where prizes were many, in camels and captives.

“He stays a few days in our camp—then, of an evening, a little dark figure on a camel trails out alone into silent solitude until he is lost from view.

“No man knows the road he travels.”

Another raider, with the ugly scar of a sword-slash on his left side, that sometimes showed in raising the arm, when the loose robes blew aside, told me the following story of his most exciting adventure:

“It occurred about thirty years ago. We had no rifles; only swords and spears. There were a hundred men in our band, all mounted on camels. Some camels carried two men.

A TUAREG WOMAN OF AHAGGAR

“Our camp was hungry, and we set out to plunder whatever chanced our way. We had no news of caravans when we started, and did not know what we might find.

“After crossing a wilderness of desert we came upon a small lot of camels, which we seized without fighting.

“But, by that time, some of the men were tired, discontented, and afraid, and tried to persuade all of us to give up and return to our own country. I would not agree; and, finally, we split; some going home while I led the others on.

“Later we crossed the tracks of a big caravan, and followed to spy on it. The caravan was a rich one. But we were afraid to attack it, for we could see that three of the men carried flint-lock rifles, and some of them were mounted on horses. It was the rifles we feared, for we knew they could deal death before we could reach our enemy, while we knew the horses would enable them to outpace our camels, and stand off so long as they willed if we attacked in open fight.

“But the temptation was great: and at last I planned that I would creep into their camp on the fringe of dawn while the others lay close on the outskirts.

“Allah was with me. I got in among the horses, undetected, and freed them. Then I set about stampeding the camp while my comrades rushed in upon it to enter in hand-to-hand conflict.

“But one of the men with a rifle got away on a bare-backed horse, and he came near creating a panic among us. However, luckily, most of his ammunition was in his saddle-bag, and we soon discovered he could shoot no more.

“That was the end. It was an Arab caravan and we killed or captured all. There were 200 camels laden with cotton goods, tea, and sugar—a rich prize that long remained the topic of our camp-fires when we returned to our own country.”

Later I met one who knew some of the Arabs who were killed in that raid, which confirmed R———’s story.

Yet another of those strange men that I chanced across in my travels was Saidi Mousa—one of the leaders in the late Kaosen rebellion. He was a young man to be so noted, perhaps forty to forty-five years of age. But he had remarkably keen eyes, and a restless shiftiness that I did not altogether like.

I came on him in an oasis, under very curious guise, for he was trading as an ordinary native, and I induced him to find me some Arab cigarettes. I had little doubt that his presence in the town was with political intent, and that he was largely acting the part of a spy.

Throughout the years such raids have always gone on in the Sahara; while in quite recent times we have the remarkable rising of 1916, mustered and equipped in the Fezzan and led by Kaosen, which involved nearly all the Tuaregs of the Sahara, before their forces were turned on the fringes of the Western Sudan.

But there is one modern change: the rifle is surely replacing the sword in combat. Do not be deceived in this. The sword is a part of the Tuareg’s national dress, and accordingly is ever present. But, though they may deem it wise to conceal their knowledge, and bury any arms they may possess, the Tuaregs have learned the value of the rifle in attack. Yet, unless you happen to be a proved friend, it is odds against them revealing anything of that, for they are ever suspicious of any human presence outside their own camp, even to dreading traitors among their neighbours; while they fear the laws of the white man that endeavour to prevent strength of arms. This attitude of cunning concealment is aptly expressed in one of their proverbs:

“It is wise to kiss the hand that you cannot cut off.”

Although raids are fewer than in the past, it is nevertheless true of to-day that the danger of raids is a fear that everyone must experience in travelling the Sahara; and no one has that dread of unwarned attack more at heart than the Tuaregs themselves. Which is because they are experienced in the craft of their country, and well know the penalty if caught in the violence of an unexpected attack by forces stronger than themselves—and, in my opinion, it is always a force that is overpowering, in numbers or arms, that strikes at quarry comparatively easy of conquest, especially when caught off their guard, which is strategy they are skilled in.

During my travels in the Sahara I happened to be intimately in touch with three raids. While between In-Azaoua and the Ahaggar Mountains, although blissfully ignorant until afterwards, when the tracks were discovered in the sand, my caravan was followed by raiders from the Fezzan, who sheered off without attacking when we reached the hills and the protection of the Ehaggaran Tuaregs. It transpired that the robbers had picked up and followed our tracks from the well of In-Azaoua, where we had taken water.

Timia[16] and Tigguida n’Tisem were both attacked and plundered just before I entered them, while Aouderas, when I camped there, was the scene of great excitement and expectancy of attack, when a raid, of which warning was out, attacked and burned Anai.

It is of interest that Timia was attacked when the pick of its able-bodied men were away south to Hausaland with their caravans, while Tigguida n’Tisem is entirely a town of religious people who know nothing of fighting, and made no defence whatever when the robbers attacked.

These raiders were fully armed with rifles. At Timia I picked up, on the day following the conflict, some lead-nosed Turkish ammunition and a full clasp of rimless ammunition, marked F.P.C.-08, such as is used in modern Italian rifles.

The most renowned robber chiefs in the Sahara during my travels were Chibikee, Fawna (the fugitive Chief of the Kel-Wai), Amud, and Alifa; and each was a significant name of outlawry that had power to strike dread in the hearts of the bravest. Of these, Chibikee has died (1920), and Alifa, in 1923, had come to be the most notorious character in the land.

A TUAREG MAIDEN OF AÏR; ALMOST WHITE

I have dwelt, to commence with, on this intimate atmosphere in the life of the Tuaregs because it has a powerful influence on the people. Fear of raids, or the doings of raiders, among themselves or of invaders from afar, is the perpetual topic of conversation in camp or with the caravans. All Tuaregs, first and foremost, are consequently ever suspicious of their environment, and this has bred a restless uneasiness that appears to see danger in everything and constant need for stealth and preparedness. This uncertain and harassing state of affairs has had its effect on a war-wise people. The inherited instincts of their Berber forebears remain: there is no growth of cowardice; but the conditions have developed a soldier-native of surpassing cunning and wily intrigue.

It is curious, too, how the nature of environment affects them. They are not all the same. Like wild creatures under the blue sky, they reflect the influences about them. The Tuareg who lives under the cover of the remote mountains of Aïr is wild and comparatively timid. He is often like a hunted creature that dreads to venture forth—he is aware of the strength of the rugged glens and caves, and the protection they offer. On the other hand, the Tuareg of the Ergs, who of necessity lives in open seas of sand, is bold and daring, and, because of the lack of any place of refuge, takes the risk of raids every day of his adventurous life. As a consequence, he is a force to be reckoned with, and I have little doubt that from among such folk come the chief raiding bands of to-day.

Again, take the Tuaregs of the north; of Ahaggar, Ashgur, and the Fezzan, who are all much the same in character. The Ehaggaran, like the Tuaregs of Aïr, are largely a mountain-living people; yet they are decidedly bolder. In my opinion, this is explained in that peoples of the northern regions of the Sahara have ever been nearer to the civilisation of Europe, and the subsequent civilisation of the North African coastal regions. In journeys to the bazaars of such places as In-Salah, Ouargla, and Biskra, they have no doubt learned of the ways of a bold-living world, and have taken some of these teachings to heart. Moreover, they have known the moral support of the rifle longer; while they have the example of the Arabs behind them, not vastly distant, to encourage them in strength of a worldly character.

No doubt it is because of this very same influence of encroaching civilisation that I noted, in the passing, that the northern Tuaregs were not so alert in examining the tracks of strangers, nor yet so expert as camel-men as their neighbours farther in the interior.

Regarding their distribution, one may chance across Tuaregs known by such tribal names as Ekaskazan, Efararen, Ehaggaran, Kel-Rada, Kel-Geras, Kel-Tedili, Kel-Wai, and many others; but those are simply names that imply the locality they belong to. For instance, Kel-Ferouan means “The people of Iferouan.”

TUAREG LADS WHO SHOW TRACES OF NEGROID IMPURITY

A remarkable fact is that the Tuaregs of the Sahara are in widely separated groups, who hold strangely aloof from one another, instead of associating, as might naturally be expected of people of one race and one country. Some of the main tribal centres are: Timbuktu, Kidal, Aïr, Ahaggar, Ashgur, and the Fezzan. All have the same customs and manners, but vary considerably in dialect. There the connection ends, for each group is a power unto itself, and neighbours are looked upon as feudal enemies. They may fight among themselves over intrigues for local power or favoured pastures, but it is with everyone outside that traditional hostility exists.

And it is this state of affairs that has always led to ferment along the highways and byways of the Sahara, and opens the door to brigandage.

The Tuaregs exact homage from their serfs, and from the sedentary peoples of the Saharan Oases, who seldom dream of opposing them. They resemble haughty cavaliers who drift, on occasions, into the society of towns where they are strangers, and conduct themselves as such. They do their business and keep their counsels to themselves, and depart as abruptly as they came. Consequently they have few friends, and are, at heart, hated by the townsfolk, who are well aware of their scornful demeanour toward all who work with their hands, which is, to some degree, expressed in a Tuareg proverb:

“Shame enters the family that tills the soil.”

But, to-day, this attitude sometimes recoils upon them. Many of the Tuareg slaves are captives from Hausaland. These are so addressed, and have to be respectful to their masters. But when the Tuareg journeys south, say, to Kano, where he covets cotton gowns and trade, he finds himself completely out of his own sphere, and often treated as so much dirt. His mortification is complete when, in the busy streets, some bold Hausa native openly addresses him as slave, while he is powerless to refute the term, owing to the prejudice of alien surroundings.

But their true province is far removed from towns. Anywhere, where there is scattered grazing and water, one may expect to find the Tuareg nomad of the Sahara, provided that place is remote enough. His home is under the blue sky, and the tiny grass or tent-covered huts of his family are secreted far from the society of other people. Occasionally he may voyage to a trade centre, like a ship seeking a foreign port, to obtain food and clothing and luxuries for his tribe, and glean news of the world beyond his narrow confines; but essentially he is a creature of the wilderness.

Their encampments are usually widely scattered: half a dozen huts where the head of the family is located, then a few other families, perhaps miles apart. It is the economic necessity to be within reach of grazing for their live-stock that causes this isolated method of camping. Sometimes food is so very scarce that a single family is the sole occupant of a wide area.

These nomadic camps are within reach of water, but, as a general rule, never beside it. That would be dangerous, for water is the calling point of strangers. Camped wide of water, the nomads have a chance to be warned if enemy should arrive in quest to slake their thirst. And this is a fine protective precaution, for the raiders must have water at some place or other during their secretive marches, and forewarning of their presence is often gained in this way; for, even if robbers get in at night to a well-head or water-hole, they cannot cover their tracks in the tell-tale sand.

Wherefore, enhancing the strategic position of people who desire to watch and yet not be seen, the dwarf hutments of the encampments are usually in some concealed place: a hollow, or valley, or hill cleft, under shelter of acacias, if such shade is available. Moreover, these places are chosen, if possible, with an eye to a line of retreat in event of an attack. Proximity to low, bouldered hills is favourite ground, or a string of dry river gullies, or, if nothing better offers, a low hollow among deep, billowed sand-dunes.

Grazing for their camels, and herds of goats, and short-haired, lop-eared sheep, never lasts long in any one place, hence the nomad constantly shifts from one quarter to another. On occasions, owing to scarcity of vegetation, it is necessary to camp far out from water: a day, or a day and a half’s journey from the nearest point of supply. This means long treks to water for the herds, and a journey with camels at least once a week to fetch supplies in goat-skins for the pressing needs of camp. It is not uncommon to come upon one man, and, perhaps, two naked, athletic-looking, boys at a remote well-head in the open, alone on bare, sand-swept desert, with about eight to ten camels, employed on the task of filling goat-skins. Without surprise, they tell that they have eight, twelve, or fifteen hours’ journey before they will get back to their camp. In all likelihood they carry no food, and will not eat till they get home, unless one of the camels should chance to be a female with milk.

The frail, gipsy-like huts of the Tuaregs are usually domed to shape like exaggerated mole-heaps. A dozen slim poles and lighter laths cut from acacias or palm-leaf stems, bent over and laced to form a framework, some grass matting and tanned skins indiscriminately thrown over them, and tied down in rude patchwork disorder, compose their low-crouched, diminutive dwellings wherever they select to pitch them near a chosen patch of grazing. Furnishing consists of a branch-built couch, about 15 inches off the ground. It occupies nearly all the floor space, and upon this the whole family are accustomed to sit or sleep, closely wedged together. In addition, there are a few equally primitive utensils, such as a couple of wooden mortar bowls and pestle-poles for crushing grains and herbs, some broken-edged calabash bowls and earthen jars and goat-skins, for holding food, milk, and water. But there end the main possessions of any nomad’s dwelling. The arms that defend them go abroad with the menfolk, or remain concealed. By their very humbleness these belongings have two qualifications that are commendable: they are easily moved from place to place; they are little to lose if abandoned in the panic of a raid.

A TUAREG HOME

In their desert environment the nomads live in a constant atmosphere of sand, and surely there is nothing with greater discomfiting qualities. The clearings before the doors are sand, loose and trodden by the tread of live-stock and playful children. Wind and feet send it ever moving, outdoors and indoors; and clothes, food, and liquids, no matter how carefully guarded, are contaminated with an in-seeking, almost invisible dustiness. It is sometimes said of a creature that it “lived close to the earth”—the Tuareg lives “close to the sand,” and knows no escape from it.

It is not always realised that strong winds are prevalent in the wide, unsheltered ranges of the Sahara, and that consequently sand-dust is ever in the air. This is particularly so in September in the Southern Sahara, when a steady season of winds, that rise almost to gales every night, sets in, known in the Sudan as: Eskar Kaka, “The winds that dry the harvest.”

Considering the conditions under which they live, and the difficulties of toilet, the Tuaregs are wonderfully clean, far more clean than any gipsies in civilisation, though one must not turn aghast at infant children with fly-covered faces, pestered by house-flies that have an impudence beyond the common in their hungry search for any moisture. Flies are a pestilence in all Tuareg camps, attracted by the live-stock, and by the milk that is gathered from the herds; while, if there should be a ripening date-grove anywhere at hand, they simply swarm in dreadful millions to the sweetening fruit.

In dress, both men and women are accustomed to garb themselves neatly and ornamentally, and vanity is a very pronounced trait in their character. The loose, flowing gowns of the men are particularly appropriate to their easy, swinging, graceful carriage.

The Tuareg women take great care over the arranging of their soft black silken hair, which is set in place in various forms of design. No doubt this is because their hair is considered a feature of beauty by the men; and it is interesting to find primitive people holding to the refined belief that “A woman’s hair is her crowning glory,” while civilised countries go shingled and bobbed. A woman with long hair is looked upon as one who is richly endowed with the good things of nature, and is usually a belle among the men.

EATING FROM THE ONE DISH WITH CURIOUS WOODEN SPOONS

As a whole they are a healthy race, aided by their constant life in the open air. But they are caught at a disadvantage when any year chances to send them rare bursts of heavy rain, for their frail shelters and belongings are poor protection then. In thin clothing, they are drenched through the day, whether in their huts or out of them, and shiver with cold and damp at night. As a consequence much Tenadee (malaria) follows; which causes a lot of mortality, particularly among the little children, and it is chiefly on this account that large families are seldom seen. It is a great pity that they have no white doctors, and know nothing of quinine. In fighting the fell malady they commonly use only one imperfect herb.

Regarding their food, milk is to the Tuareg what wheat is to civilised countries—the mainstay of the people. Goats’ milk, sheep’s milk, camels’ milk: all are consumed in large quantities. Without milk they would be unable to live in their poverty-ridden surroundings.

But, in addition, though more as luxuries, they eat meat, grain, dates, and herbs, when they can obtain them. If nothing better offers they will search the country-side, and eat such things as the grass seeds of Afasa, and the flowers and leaves of the tree they call Agar. They are not above eating a camel, if one should happen to die of sickness, provided they have been able to cut its throat as it expired, in accordance with the demands of their religion.

But wheat, guinea corn and Gero, a smaller green-coloured millet, are the chief solids of their table. Those they obtain, when they can afford it, by barter, from the sedentary people of oases, or from the granaries of the Western Sudan.

Gero is alone carried on long journeys when water is scarce, since the nomad can eat it without cooking. It is often crushed and mixed in a goat-skin of water and consumed as a sort of mealy drink; which is nourishing, and an antidote to thirst. Guinea corn must be cooked, and is preferred when milk can be added. Wheat is usually rolled, and steamed, and, afterwards, left to simmer in dubious fats that are added. Wheat—Erid in Tamascheq—is grown solely in the oases of the Sahara. I obtained some of the grain, which, as an experiment, was planted in Lincolnshire, England. The result was negative, but curious. Its nature in the Sahara is to grow at an astonishing speed whenever it is planted, provided the soil is kept supplied with water. The moment it felt the heat of the sun in England it leapt up in the same manner as in Africa—far too rapidly; and it browned and died, with unfilled heads, while the English wheat that grew beside it was still undeveloped and green.

A curious antidote to constant diet of milk is tobacco, and most Tuaregs of the wilderness crave it for the purpose of chewing along with natron; particularly the womenfolk, and often have the fair sex, old and young, pestered the life out of me for some of my precious pipe store, to be mightily pleased with even the smallest of portions.

They are a lean and hungry people in their remote camps, far removed from markets, and not above begging from a stranger, though there is often a pleasant courtesy of exchange in an unexpected rustic present, after a gift has been delivered. It is the loafer, or “ne’er-do-weel”—and the Tuareg tribes harbour these burdens to the community as well as all other countries—who is the shameless rascal in begging alms, particularly if he be somewhat aged. These are the individuals who make a purposeful visit to camp, soon to tell of a dire ailment and ask for medicine; then for sugar; then for tea to go with the sugar; then for millet to eat with the tea—until one has lost all good-nature and patience, and bids him go with disgust.

The White Stranger is, more or less, looked upon as fair game for the beggar, and for the artful salesman. I once had reason to inquire, when near Ideles, if any native remembered Geyr von Schweppenburg, who had made a zoological expedition to Ahaggar in 1914, and one individual recalled the event owing solely to the fact that “The white man gave a woman some needles, and paid 10 francs for a goat.”

As a race, the Tuaregs are grave and haughty, and stand aloof from everyone. Their bearing suggests the inheritance that is claimed for them, for it is fairly well established that they are a white race akin to some of the oldest European stocks. Some can trace their descent back about 500 years, in the district they reside in to-day; but they have no written records, and all declare that they came originally from Mecca or Medina, which, as they are Moslems, is their general way of expressing that they came from the north, from a land beyond Africa.

I consider them to be of varying castes, when divided by widely separated regions, and am more attracted to the fine physiognomy of the Tuareg of the south, than to the heavier features of many of the Tuaregs of the north. Through mating with captive women or serfs, the blood is not always pure. All true Tuaregs should be fair-skinned; and many of them are almost white. Small feet, delicate hands, refined wrists and ankles, clean-cut facial features further betray their Semitic origin. All have splendid carriage, and they are born athletes. They are superb camel-men, and wonderful travellers, rich in instincts of direction, born to endurance, and used to eating and drinking as little as possible on the trail, when food and water mean life or death. They are seen at their best on the open road. In the camps they have little to do and grow lazy.

In spirit, when by themselves, they are care-free and moderately contented; nevertheless, there is a curious underlying sadness in their character, caught partly, perhaps, from the religion of the Koran, and partly from drear environment where existence, of necessity, is eked out to the lowest ebb of fortune in a land that holds no kindness, and ever threatens the destruction of their race.

A TUAREG VILLAGE

THE WELL-HEAD

PASTORAL SCENES

They know much of poverty, and the herds of camels, goats, and sheep are their sole possessions of value, outside their freedom—which is precious beyond all else.

I conclude with an extract from my diary:

“The Tuareg encampment is situated in a fork of the Tesselaman Wadi, among low, wintry-looking acacias. Monotonous ranges of pale sand, and odd tufts of bleached grass, is all else in view. A hot, sand-filled wind sweeps across the land, and the sting of the glowing sun sickens all that lives.

“The camp is not large; about ten families in all. Entering it, no one is in view. The stock are being tended far afield, and those who remain in camp are watching my movements in hiding. The sole occupant of the first hut is an old woman. I salute her in her own tongue and seek out the next, about half a mile away. Here a pie-dog is barking viciously, and two men turn up to await my approach.

“We meet and scrutinise one another, as men on their guard. Then we commence to talk, and soon my business is explained: I wish to find the nearest well to take water in the evening.

“Very shortly other Tuaregs arrive surreptitiously, with inquiry in the dark eyes that peer from behind mask-like veils. The news of a stranger has flown round the encampment, and that is summons enough.

“We move under the shade of an acacia, and sit on the loose sand and chat. My camel-men do most of the talking, and I am aware that they progress toward friendship.

“In the hut, near by, there is a woman and two children. We have awakened them from their sleep in the heat of the day, and the children are inclined to hide and draw back like frightened animals. A panting goat, that is sick, is tied to the bed within. The rounded dome of the hut, and the society of human beings is a picture that is pleasant to wilderness-weary eyes, and we stay beside the camp for a while. A lad departs to find the herds, and bring in some fresh milk. I enjoy a deep draught, while my henchmen join the nomads in devouring a meal—all eating from the one dish with curious wooden spoons.

“In the evening I set out to the well, about three miles away. I hear the bleat of goats and sheep, and the strident cries of herdsfolk, and know the flocks are coming in from pasture.

“Great dependence is placed upon the ability of the animals to follow familiar sound, and each flock-shepherd, usually a woman and two or three naked or scanty-ragged boys and girls, repeat a strung-out, modulating call, peculiar to themselves alone, and answered and obeyed only by the animals of that particular family—which is a great aid in keeping them together, and from mixing with others, in fenceless pastures.

“The region is appallingly vast, and I am conscious of admiration for the strange people who roam abroad over those boundless sands that hold only occasional grazings that neighbour the ground in wasted paleness.

“Approaching the well, I see that flocks are being watered; gathered in from fenceless wastes to slake their pressing thirst. They rest on the sand, waiting their turn to drink, while the slow process of drawing a bucketful of water at a time is laboured at by their owners. And all the while the insistent cries of weary, thirsty animals ring in the air.

A TUAREG WITH RIFLE AND EQUIPMENT

BESIDE AN ABANDONED WHEAT URN IN NORTHERN AÏR

“A few camels stand about, but the greatest number of animals are goats and short-haired sheep—perhaps 100 to 150 in all, with an ass or two on the flanks, dejectedly aloof.

“The well has a place-name, and water, and, for the time being, a handful of nomads who keep to no permanent place of dwelling—that is all that it, and like places in the desert, hold to-day to justify a name on the map of Africa. Which is little indeed, until visualised against the blank, overpowering background of wilderness.

“My last look round is upon dead sand that holds no drop of moisture, and upon bleached grass and leafless tree, unfed from living roots; while lean-ribbed herds voice their plea for water, and nomad families gather to sleep under the blue sky with no more home than that offered by the shelter of their frail, wind-swept hutments.

“To the nomadic Tuaregs the environment is natural, and they know no better. Above all else they love their freedom, and hate the roof of permanent dwelling.”

And they are tolerably happy, if left to themselves, notwithstanding the suppressed melancholy that is an inherent characteristic of the race. One must know them well before they will express their moods of infinite sadness that lead toward brooding over their harassed life and the decadence of race and power.

If we, in Europe, with thoughts turned towards Africa, ever happen to view the new moon in May we can know that the people of Islam, in the remotest corners of the Sahara, have entered on the Thirty Days’ Fast of Rhamadan, when no one may eat before sunset; while on the first sight of the new moon of June it ends in the Feast of Bairam. That religious observation, strangely enough, is typical of the life of “The People of the Veil,” who throughout their walks of life have long associations with sadness and want, and intensified joy when they have the good fortune to reach a brief spell of plenty and peace of mind.

Be they soldiers of fortune, steel-girt travellers, or peacefully pastoral, the Sahara still remains theirs, despite the ravages of poverty and their dread of the encroachings of civilisation; and they share its mystery.

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CHAPTER IX
THE HAND OF DOOM

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CHAPTER IX
THE HAND OF DOOM