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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Next day the bark is repaired, new caulked, and reloaded; it speeds on with the rest to the next rapids, passes through these without further mischance, and reaches the fertile valley of middle Nubia, which is free from rocks and gives a hospitable welcome to every voyager. The cares, lately so grievous, are as soon forgotten; like children, the brown men laugh and joke, and drink with content great draughts of palm wine and merieza. Much too quickly for their taste does the stream bear the boat through this happy land.

Again the desert spreads its golden-yellow sand over the rocky banks; again rocky islands narrow, divide, and impede the river; the barks are entering the second group of rapids. One after another the dangerous currents, the dreaded whirlpools, the perilous straits and corners, are safely passed and left behind; only the last and wildest of the rapids lie between the boats and the palmy Wady Halfa. And below that village all is smooth sailing except at one place below Philæ, where the river is once more broken up by rocks. Above these last rapids—Gaskol, Moedyana, Abu-sir, and Hambol—which are truly dreadful, the boats seek for a quiet bay; and here all encamp to gain strength for the work and warfare, cares and trials of the coming day. The northerners also enjoy the prospect of a quiet night’s rest.

Night draws its veil over the desert land. The rushing waves thunder in the rocky valley; the stars are reflected in the peaceful creek; the blossoming mimosas make the shore fragrant. An old gray-haired Reis, born and bred among the rapids, approaches the strangers from the north. A snow-white beard ennobles his impressive features; his flowing cloak suggests a priest’s robe. “Sons of strangers,” he says, “men from the land of the Franks, difficult things have ye overcome along with us, but there is harder still before you. I am a child of this land, seventy years has the sun shone upon me, and at last he has whitened my hair: I am an old man, and ye might be my children. Therefore take ye heed to my warning, and draw back from what ye propose—to accompany us on the morrow. Witless ye go to the danger, but I know it. Had ye seen, as I have seen, those rocks which bar the way of the waves; did ye know, as I know, how these waves storm and rage for entrance and passage, how they overwhelm the rocks, and hurl themselves roaring into the depths below, ye would see that only the grace of God, whom we praise and glorify, can guide our poor boat aright, ye would yield to me. Would not the heart of your mother break should the All-merciful refuse us His compassion? Ye will not stay? Then may the grace of the Father of mercies be with us all.”

Before sunrise the shore becomes a scene of activity. Devoutly as before the boatmen offer the prayer of the dawn. Serious, experienced steersmen, who know the river well, and young, strong-limbed, adventurous oarsmen, offer their services to the ancient. Carefully he chooses the most skilful steersmen and the strongest oarsmen; he sets three men to the rudder; and then he gives orders to start. “Men and sons of the land, children of the river, pray the Fatiha,” he orders. And all repeat the words of the first Sura of the Koran. “Praise and honour to the Lord of the world, the All-merciful, He who ruleth at the day of judgment. Thee would we serve, to Thee would we pray, that Thou wouldest guide us in the way that is right, in the way of those who enjoy Thy favour, and not in the way of those with whom Thou art displeased.” “Amen, my children, in the name of the All-merciful! Let go the sail, and bend to the oars.” With rhythmic stroke these dip into the water.

Slowly the pent-up stream bears the boat towards the first rapid. Again, as it nears the rocks, the boat refuses to obey either rudder or oars, but creaking and groaning in every joint, it rushes through the overwhelming waves and boiling foam, through eddy and whirlpool, through narrow channels and abruptly-winding courses, drenched and flooded with water, shaving rocky corners by an arm’s-length, almost touching the teeth of hidden reefs. On it rushes to the second rapid.

From the height of the cataract the eye looks down with dismay at the dreadful violence of the torrent, and one sees at the lower end of the rapid a round block of rock surrounded by foaming waves as if it were the head of a white-haired giant rising above the surface. Like an arrow to its mark our fragile ungovernable boat rushes towards this giant’s head. “In the name of the All-merciful, row, row, ye men, ye strong, brave, noble men, ye children of the stream!” cries the steersman. “Larboard, larboard the rudder with all your strength!” But the boat answers neither to oars nor to rudder. It is not indeed the giant block which endangers the craft, but a narrow channel to the starboard into which we are swept and in which we are hurried on towards a labyrinth of rocks through which no possible pathway can be seen. The men already leave their oars, and throw off any clothes they have on, so that they may be unhampered in swimming. A fearful crash turns all eyes backward: the giant’s head has caught the next boat, which was longer and less pliant, and holds it oscillating over the seething flood. This increases the dismay. All our men regard the crew of the second boat as doomed, and as for themselves they prepare to plunge into the torrent. Then the voice of the ancient pilot rings out sharp and clear: “Are ye mad, are ye God-forsaken, ye children of heathen? Work, work, ye boys, ye men, ye heroes, ye giants, ye faithful! In the hand of the Almighty rests all power and strength; give Him the glory, and bend to your oars, ye sons of heroes!” And he himself takes the rudder, and in a few minutes directs the misguided boat from the “way of sinners” into the “right way”. One boat after another appears in the open water: but not all. The giant’s head still bears his victim, and will most likely bear it until next year’s flood. The ill-fated boat with the women on board was shivered to pieces at the uppermost of this group of rapids. With the crews, happily saved, the skipper prays, as he did before departure, “Glory and honour to the Lord of the World.”

Before the village of Wady Halfa, overshadowed with palms, the boats are moored; the men have gone ashore, and lie in picturesque groups around the camp-fire. Big-bellied flagons, filled with merieza, invite the thirsty; in other vessels the flesh of new-killed sheep is boiling under the care of women and girls who have quickly gathered round. Reeking of castor-oil, they are by no means welcome visitors to Europeans. The notes of the zither and the beating of the drum announce the beginning of the “fantasia”, the feast and the revel. Unutterable comfort takes possession of the boatman’s heart, joyous contentment is expressed in every look and gesture. At length, however, the inevitable fatigue after the heavy anxious work of the day asserts itself. The tarabuka sinks from the wearied arm, the tambura falls from sleepy fingers, and all the voices, which but a few moments ago were so loud, become silent.

Then the voices of the night are heard. The thunder of the rapids resounds down the valley, there is whispering among the crowns of the palm-trees with which the night-wind plays, and on the flat shore the waves splash in rhythmic cadence. The thundering waves and the rippling water, the rushing wind and the whispering palms unite their music in an exquisite lullaby, which leads all the sleepers to the happy land of golden dreams.

A JOURNEY IN SIBERIA.

We had left the populous streets of St. Petersburg and the gilded domes of Moscow far behind us; and before us rose the towers of Nijni-Novgorod on the further bank of the Oka. We had reason to be grateful for the manner of our reception in the two capitals of the Russian Empire. We had respectfully taken leave of his Majesty our own noble Emperor in Berlin, had received cordial recommendations from the German Foreign Office, and had met with a friendly welcome from the German Embassy in St. Petersburg, so we had hoped for a favourable reception in Russia, but the hospitality accorded us far exceeded our boldest expectations. His Majesty the Czar was pleased to give us an audience; princes and princesses of the imperial house deigned to receive us; the chancellor, the ministers, and high officers of state, had all met us with that thoughtful courtesy and obliging complaisance for which educated Russians are noted; and we were furnished with the introductions whose importance we afterwards realized.