Thy form is rounded like a whip—
To lie on thy breast
Were to be in Paradise.
Love cannot be hidden,
But Fate is in the hands of God.”
There is silence in the camp, except for the murmur of the dying fire and the clicking of the rosary. But the rhythm of the beads is significantly changed now. Toward the end of Ali’s song Moghaib’s fingers had stopped dead for a moment and then hurried nervously on as though to deny that they had halted. The old man had been a great lover in his time, and the boy’s song had stirred his blood with memories. Perhaps it was fortunate for others around that fire that they had no clicking rosary-beads to betray them.
After Bu Salama Well, which is a day’s trek from Jaghbub, we were going through a region where there were remains of a petrified forest. At intervals we passed great blocks of stone erect like guideposts along the way. Ages ago they had been living trees, but now the forces of nature had transferred them from the vegetable kingdom to the mineral. A few smaller bits of petrified wood were scattered about, but most of those were hidden beneath the sand. The larger tree sections had remained visible because the etiquette of the desert demands that any one passing such a fallen landmark shall set it erect again. It is also good form, on a newly traveled track, to build little piles of stones at intervals as notice to later comers that here lies the way. Sometimes one comes upon a tree or a shrub on which hang shreds and patches of clothing, and there one is under obligation to add a thread or a fragment from his own outfit. These accumulating tokens confirm the tree as a landmark to later comers and afford the encouragement of the thought that others have been this way before. In the dead waste and monotony of the desert any evidence of the passing of one’s fellow-man is a cheering incident. The sight of camel-dung, of the bleached bones of a camel, or even the skeleton of an unfortunate traveler are welcome to the eye, for at least they show that a caravan had passed that way.
Shortly after leaving Jaghbub we came upon a different kind of landmark. It consisted of a row of small sand hillocks like ant-hills stretching across the track. It is called Alam Bu Zafar, the Bu Zafar landmark, and it is the sign and symbol of a pleasant Bedouin custom. On any trek, the new-comers to that particular route are expected to slaughter a sheep for those in the caravan who have come that way before. The custom is called Bu Zafar. If the novices do not awaken promptly to their responsibilities, the veterans give them a hint. One or two of them dash ahead of the caravan and build a row of sand-piles across the way. When the caravan reaches the significant landmark, they call out suggestively, “Bu Zafar, Bu Zafar.” Invariably the hint is taken, a sheep is slaughtered, and the ceremonial feast is held.
In our caravan there were several who had not gone over this route before, including myself. I bought a sheep before leaving Jaghbub so that we who were new to this route might give Bu Zafar to the old-timers. The Alam Bu Zafar that we came upon, therefore, was not of our making, but left by some other caravan.
