This is comparative civilization, I thought, as I saw Ahmed preparing my shaving-kit. There are of course times when one welcomes the conveniences and comforts of civilization, but having trekked so far one feels more at home when on the move than when resting in an oasis.
The early part of the day was spent in cutting down most of the wooden boxes and rearranging the luggage in preparation for the long trip south. It required particular care, since from now onward there would be no chance of changing the camels until our arrival at El Fasher in the Sudan, about 950 miles.
The question of providing new shoes for the men of my caravan had to be attended to, as the Bedouin shoes that were made for them at Jalo had been worn out. Before lunch I had a visit from a few Zwaya chiefs, who came officially to pay their respects, and also unofficially to satisfy their curiosity and suspicion as to the size of my caravan and the equipment I was carrying, and if possible to find out what plans I had made for my journey to the Sudan.
Lunch, as usual, at Sayed El Abid’s. I had the cheerful news that the medicine I gave to him had a good effect. The afternoon I spent in attending to the question of arms and ammunition. Later I took a long walk in order to make compass observations of the vicinity of Taj.
Thursday, April 5. Zerwali had a long talk with Bu Helega, who arrived in the night from Hawari. The latter refused point-blank to go to El Fasher by the Ouenat route.
Bu Helega came to visit me and tried to persuade me to go by way of Wadai. When he saw that his advice would probably not be taken he became desperate. I had clearly pointed out to him that nothing could change my decision to cut across by the Ouenat route to El Fasher.
“By God, it’s a dangerous route,” he said, “and many a caravan has been eaten up by the inhabitants of the hills on the way. They do not fear God, and they are under the authority of no man. They are like birds; they live on the tops of mountains, and you will have trouble with them.”
“We are men, and we are believers,” I responded. “Our fate is in the hands of God. If our death is decreed, it may come on the beaten track to the nearest well.”
“Many a Zwaya beard has been buried in those unknown parts,” he declared. “The people are treacherous, and they fear neither God nor man.”
“May God’s mercy fall on those Zwayas who have lost their lives,” I replied. “Our lives are no more precious than theirs. Shall our courage be less?”