But we have far to go, and the camel incident is unfortunate. More time is lost as that contrary brute refuses to lie down for his mistress. I am a delighted spectator of a two-round fight between it on the one side, and my policeman and the girl on the other. The latter has him by the tail; everything that is vixenish in her nature is aroused. Her hair is disarranged, her eyes sparkle and her nostrils dilate. As she clings to that camel's caudal appendage she is devil enough to want to bite it. The policemen have him by the head, and as their end goes up the girl's end and the girl come down. As her end goes up they and their end come down. First round—honours even. Second round—the camel, with a grunt of disgust, throws up the sponge, kneels down, has a rope slipped and knotted round his bent forelegs ere you can say "knife!" and the affair is over. We leave him being loaded by the girl, and two old women who happen to come up. His language is shocking, and the last sight I have of him is as he alternately has his ear "clipped" by the girl's small hand, and his ribs kicked by her bare foot, the while she bangs her goods, none too gently, on his back.
At six o'clock we halt at a well for ten minutes to give our mule a drink. This is last water before reaching our baggage camels. Riding camels may not be ridden for some time after they have drunk water. On from the wells until eight o'clock, when we halt for a cup of tea and a biscuit, overhaul the gear and give the camels an hour's rest. From nine until midnight we trot through the moonlight, passing many caravans travelling as we, at night; nothing can cross this plain when the sun is high. From twelve to one another halt, then up to catch our first glimpse of the hills to which we go. The caravans hail us as we pass, "Salaam, aleikum!" (Peace be on you!) To which we reply, "Wa aleikim, Salaam!" (And on you be peace!)
I am shown the spot where a policeman died of thirst, and another where a Midgan fell behind the caravan he was accompanying, and likewise perished. From four to five we halt once more, and, taking water from our well-filled chaguls (canvas water-bags), make a cup of sorely needed tea. Day is breaking so we must not loiter.
At nine o'clock, thoroughly tired out, we ride into Bokh, a watering-place at the foot of the Somaliland maritime hills. The road over the plain we have passed—we have covered sixty-five miles—should be passable for camels only, but the wonderful little mule carrying Mahomed, the interpreter, has trotted beside us and enters camp as fresh as paint; that is to say he looks no more tired, for he always looks tired, than he did yesterday.
Bokh has wells, hence its importance. My tent is pitched on a flat, stony, open piece of ground at the foot of the hills and close to one of these wells. As I write two girls are leaving it with goat-skins, full of water, strapped to their shoulders. Three camels packed with hides emerge from the bush beyond the well, led by an elderly man who carries spear and circular shield. He is followed by an individual dressed in dirty cotton knickers, a French military coat, and with head and face almost hidden by a dirty cloak. This latter person is from Abyssinia, and carries a Gras carbine. The camel is laden with earthenware pots filled with ghee, cunningly packed in bent cane guards. Now a large kafila[8]—some half-dozen men and as many women—has arrived, and its owners are relieving the camels of skins and ghee they bring. Loads off, the men and a couple of women, lead the animals to the wells. In their hands they carry home-made wooden basins which they fill with water for the beasts to drink. The other women are arranging the loads, bringing firewood, or lighting the fires. Their clothes are dirty and they seem tired, though they set so briskly about their work.
A lady, carrying her husband's spear and stick, has approached to look at me. She boasts silver ear-rings, has a string of amber beads around her neck, wears a dirty cloth, but in spite of her clothes looks, like all the women, clean and wholesome. She has gone and I still watch the well. Two young girls, unmarried—this is easily distinguished, as their hair is uncovered by the gauze affected by married women—have driven up some goats. It is a shallow well, and the nimble-footed goats can get down to the water. One black billy has already gone in, and, as the others come up, pokes his bearded face over the side of the well. His companions, mistaking him for a lion, dash wildly away. We all laugh. The two girls, with that gait peculiar to women all the world over, run after their goats and drive them back. Here come the sand-grouse in flocks. Before they came a few old crows were making themselves conspicuous, but now take a back seat. If you could sit with me and watch the endless procession of men, women, children, animals, and birds, coming and going, crossing and re-crossing, from apparently nowhere at all, you would realise how precious water really is, be it even as filthy and evil-smelling as from the wells here.
The police corporal has taken down our camel tanks, each holding twelve gallons, and is having them filled. To-morrow we camp at a waterless spot. Our allowance of water will be one gallon each. Though not really important on this journey, woe betide the man who tries to wangle more. Better for him that he should steal a purse filled with gold than a bucket measure of water, the loss of which on some safaris might quite easily mean a man's life.
The shades of night are falling swiftly, as they always do in the tropics, but the wells are still crowded. It has been a hot day; there has been no shade, and my head aches; so, though the well fascinates me—I sit at my camp table facing it and can see every move—I shall lay down my pencil for to-day.