From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

The voyage up-stream is dangerous and tedious; the voyage down-stream has no parallel in perilousness, such a mad rush is it through flood and rapid, whirlpool and eddy, cataract and gorge,—an exciting game in which life is the stake.

Voyages down-stream through the region of the rapids are only undertaken by the special boats which are made for the purpose in the Soudan. About ten per cent are smashed on the voyage, and that the percentage of deaths is not equally high is simply due to the matchless swimming powers of the Nubian boatmen. Even when they are dashed by the waves against a rock they do not always drown; usually they are like ducks in the water, and reach the shore in safety.

Let me try to give a faithful picture of one of these down-stream voyages.

Six new boats, built of the much-prized heavy mimosa-wood which sinks in water, are moored to the shore at the southern limit of the third group of rapids. The men who compose their crews are lying on sandy places between the black rocks, where they have spent the night. It is still early morning and the camp is quiet; only the river roars and murmurs in the solitude. As day dawns the sleepers awake; one after another descends to the stream, and performs the ablutions ordained to accompany morning prayer. After the prescribed prayer has been uttered from “preface” to “conclusion”, they refresh themselves with a frugal breakfast. Then old and young betake themselves to the tomb of a sheikh or saint, whose white dome gleams among the light-green mimosas, there to offer a special petition for a fortunate voyage. In this they are led by the eldest Reis, or steersman, who represents the Imam. Returning to the river, they observe an ancient heathen custom of throwing some dates, as an offering, into the waves.

At length each skipper orders his men to their posts. “Let go the sail! Row, men, row—row in the name of God, the All-Merciful,” he shouts. Thereupon he strikes up a song, with an ever-recurring refrain; one of the rowers takes it up and sings verse after verse; and all the rest accompany him with the rhythmically repeated words: “Help us, help us, O Mohammed, help us, God’s messenger and prophet!”

Slowly the bark gains the middle of the stream; quicker and ever quicker it glides onwards; in a few minutes it is rushing, more swiftly than ever, among the rocky islands above the rapid. “O Said, give us good cheer,” says the Reis, while the sailors go on singing as before. More and more quickly the oars dip into the turbid flood; the men, who were freshly anointed yesterday, are naked to the loins, and the sweat pours down their bodies as they strain every muscle. Praise and blame, flattery and reproaches, promises and threats, blessings and curses, fall from the skipper’s mouth according as the boat fulfils or disappoints his wishes. The strokes of the oars, pulled at full strength, follow each other more quickly still, though their purpose is solely to direct the otherwise exceedingly rapid course of the boat, and, as they often increase the danger they seek to avoid, the Reis may be excused if he exhausts all the hortatory vocabulary at his command in his desire to stimulate his crew. “Bend to your oars; work, work, my sons: show your strength, ye children and grandchildren of heroes; display your prowess, ye brave; exert your strength, ye giants; do honour to the prophet, all ye faithful! Oh, for the merieza! Oh, for the scented damsels of Dongola! Oh, for the delights of Cairo; all shall be yours. Larboard, I say, ye dogs, ye children of dogs, ye grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and litter of dogs, ye Christians, ye heathen, ye Jews, ye Kaffres, ye fire-worshippers. Ah! ye rascals, ye swindlers, ye thieves, ye villains, ye vagabonds, do you call this rowing? First oar, starboard! are there women hanging about you? Third oar, larboard! throw overboard the weaklings who are misleading you. That’s right, well done; bravo, ye strong, supple, clever youths; God bless you, brave fellows, and give your fathers joy and your children His blessing. Better, better, better yet, ye cowards, ye strengthless, ye sapless, ye miserable, ye pitiable—Allah damn you all in His righteous wrath, ye—ye—Help us, help us, O Mohammed.” Such is the torrent which rushes uninterruptedly from the skipper’s lips, and all his commands and cries, entreaties and execrations, are uttered with the utmost seriousness, and enforced with appropriate gestures of hand, and foot, and head.

Fig. 57.—A Passage through the Nile Rapids.

The boat sweeps into the first part of the rapid. The rocks on both sides seem to whirl round; the surge floods the deck, and its thunder drowns every order. Unresisting the frail craft is borne towards a neck of rock—fear, anxiety, dismay may be read on every face, but there—the dreaded spot is already behind the stern, the foaming backwash has saved the imperilled boat, only a couple of oars have been shivered like thin glass. Their loss hinders the right management of the bark, and it sweeps on without answering to the rudder, on to a formidable waterfall. A general cry, expressing horror and despair; a sign from the Reis standing in the bow with trembling knees, and all throw themselves flat on the deck, and hold on like grim death; a deafening crash and an overwhelming rush of hissing, gurgling waves; for the space of a moment nothing but water, and then the boat gives a leap upward; they have passed the cataract and escaped the jaws of death. “El hamdi lillahi!” (God be thanked) rings out from every breast; some hurry to the hold to find the leak and plug it, others lay out new oars, and on they go.

Behind the first boat comes a second, hurrying through the dangerous rapid. The oarsmen are labouring with extraordinary, ever-accelerating velocity; then, suddenly, all are thrown prostrate, all but one, who describes a high curve through the air into the river. He seems lost, buried in the raging depth; but no, while his comrades wring their hands in dismay, the matchless swimmer appears on the surface in the middle of the foaming whirlpool beneath the rapid. As a third boat shoots past the second, which has stuck on a rock, and reaches the whirlpool, the swimmer catches one of the oars, swings himself cleverly on board, and is saved. A fourth boat also hurries past; the beseeching gestures from the crew of the second boat implore for help; but a hand raised to heaven is the only answer. In truth, no human help could be given, for no craft is here under man’s control; the stream itself must help, if it will not destroy,—and it does help. The boat oscillates violently on the rock; its prow and stern dip deep in the water; but suddenly there is a whirl, and once more it is borne on through the surging current. Some of the crew row, others bale out the water, as do two women journeying with them, others hammer, and plug, and caulk in the attempt to repair the damage done. Half-full of water, scarce keeping afloat at all, the boat reaches the shore and is emptied of her cargo. But half of this, consisting of gum-arabic, is spoilt, and the owner, a poor merchant, tears his beard, moaning, lamenting, weeping, and cursing the two women passengers. The two women are to blame for all. How could they, who brought ruin to the first man in paradise, bring any blessing to faithful Mussulmans? Woe, woe upon the women and all their kind!