Meanwhile I have been attending to the barometer and thermometer, registering their readings, filling in the spaces in my scientific diary, seeing that the cameras have fresh films. The voices of the men sound low through the camp, muffled by kufias and extra clothing. At last breakfast is ready.
It may be asida, the Bedouin national dish, a kind of pudding baked of flour, oil, and spices; or it may be rice. It is an utterly simple meal in either case, but with what a keen appetite one attacks it! In the desert any disinclination for the first meal of the day that one may feel in city surroundings vanishes away. Breakfast is finished off with the inevitable three glasses of tea, taken slowly and reflectively. Whatever one does, one must not deprive one’s men of their tea or hurry them over it. Give a Bedouin a filling meal and let him sip three glasses of tea after it, and you can get any work out of him that you want. Stint him or rush him, and you will get worse than nothing.
RUINS OF KUFRA
After breakfast every one is warm and contented and ready to work hard. The loading goes on swiftly, diversified at times by the antics of the two or three young and frolicsome camels that seem to get into every caravan. These young fellows resist being loaded and even throw off their loads when the job is apparently all finished. Zerwali and Abdullahi are alert to see that the loading is done with the utmost care and precision. An extra half-hour spent now may save two or three hours’ delay on the road later caused by slipping of the loads or improper distribution of the burdens.
When the caravan is all but ready, I have a few words with the guide about the direction of our day’s march. He draws a line on the sand and says that there lies our way. I take a bearing of the line with my compass, a proceeding which doubtless seems to him an absurd if harmless idiosyncrasy of mine. But I like to be able to check with the compass the direction the caravan is taking as the day goes on. On the whole the precaution proves unnecessary, however, for Senussi Bu Hassan goes straight to his mark as a homing pigeon. Only in the middle of the day he sometimes wabbles a bit. In the daytime he travels by his shadow, and, as he explains, “When the sun is high and the shadow lies between my feet, then my head goes round.” There is one other hour in the day when the guide’s task is a perplexing one. In the twilight hour between the setting of the sun and the appearance of the stars, all directions on the desert’s vast disk are the same. Then sometimes the compass is useful. Once, by means of the bearing I had taken in the morning, I caught the guide in the hour between sun and stars going almost ninety degrees off the right direction. But as a rule the accuracy with which a good guide, like Senussi Bu Hassan, steers his course is almost uncanny.
Our conference over and the last camel loaded, the guide sets out ahead, and one by one the camels follow. The men of the caravan have a last warm-up of hands and feet at the dying fire, thrust their feet into the Bedouin shoes, and hasten after the camels, singing gaily. The sun is getting warm by now, and unless there is a strong wind blowing from the north one disposes quickly of wrappings on ears and neck and finally with the jerd. The extra garments are flung on the backs of the camels, jokes begin to crack, foot-races are run, and everybody is happy to be alive. Gradually the men sort themselves into groups of two and three, spaced at intervals along the caravan, chatting about their own affairs or about things in general. Sometimes I walk at the head of the caravan and again some distance behind it, to keep an eye on the direction it is taking and especially to enjoy the sense of solitude and remoteness.
Toward midday, contemplation of the beauties of nature is sometimes disturbed by other and less romantic thoughts. My mind occasionally wanders toward favorite restaurants in far-away civilization. As I stride along I imagine myself in Shepheard’s Grill-Room in Cairo and I order crevettes à l’américaine with that subtle variation of riz à l’orientale which is a specialty of the house. Or I am at Prunier’s in Paris ordering marennes vertes d’Ostende, followed by a steak and a soufflé. Perhaps it is the Cova at Milan and a succulent dish of risotto alla Milanese; maybe strawberries Melba at the Ritz in London, or again a Circassian dish of rice with walnut sauce which is the masterpiece of the old and beloved slave who really rules my father’s house in Cairo, occupying the privileged position of a treasured Nannie of long service in an English family.
Suddenly Ahmed or Abdullahi comes along and without a word pushes a bag of squashed dates into my palm. Dreams vanish, and I eat with as much appetite as though there were no better fare in all the world.
There is no halt for lunch, as the camels eat only twice a day. If we have just left an oasis, there is fresh bread, half a loaf or even a whole one to each man, with dates. Later on that fresh bread becomes hard bread, and still later no bread at all. But there are always dates.