II
This morning the baggage camels marched at two a.m.; we aristocrats of the riding brigade moved out at four a.m., by which hour the numerous caravans, camped at the wells last night, had all gone. As we rode out of camp we passed, close to the wells, two huge piles of stone about sixty yards in circumference, and eight feet high. On to one of these I climbed to find it was crater shaped. Evidently there had been a chamber, or hollow, underneath, the roof of which collapsing had given the crater-shape to the top of the mound. My escort implored me to descend. There was, they said, a great snake living amongst the stones whom it was wise to respect.
Did they know who had piled up these stones? I asked. They did not. Perhaps the Gallas, but no one knew.
There were things buried there, they said.
What sort of things? They could not say, but, as they evidently held the place in awe, I relieved their feelings by descending and mounting my camel. Then on through the moonlight—bright as day. On our left and right rough rocky kopjes, dotted here and there with the typical stunted thorn trees of Somaliland; a patch of grass here, a tuft there, accentuates the grey monotonous rocks and stones. Day broke to find us passing through a dry river bed, and we routed out an old hyena, whom we stopped to watch. He made off down the bed, then turned, came back a few yards, stood and looked at us; but not for long; he is suspicious and must keep on the move—a few yards to the right, again to the left, and halted. Now like a man bereft of sense, with no idea of his direction, he took the hill, rising straight out of the bed, climbed for twenty yards, stopped to look back at us, moved away along the side of the hill, changed his mind, came down half-way to the dry bed, stopped again, and took us all in with a long stare. Had we not followed the sneaky fellow's movements we should now mistake him for a stone, so still he stands, so perfectly does his colour and shape harmonise with the rough grey boulders scattered on the hillside.
"Give him one shot," counsels my orderly.
"Not a bit of it," I reply. "He has done us no harm. Advance!"
At seven, by following an easily graded but stony track, we top the summit of the pass between the hills above last night's camp. There are hills and more hills ahead. A camel caravan is approaching from the south. At its head a young girl dressed in a cotton petticoat, with a robe draped from her shoulders and looped up round the loins, giving what, I believe, is described as a very full hip effect. As she comes close I can see this effect is accentuated by a number of parcels stored in the pocket-like folds. A Somal woman, true to her sex, is a perfect artist in the way she drapes, and gives effect to, the simple clothes that cover her body.
From now on we pass through a gorge-like valley over a stratum of greyish rotten rock tilted on edge. I amuse myself by pushing away with my stick the sharp points of rotten stone that stick up by the side of the track over which we walk and lead the camels. Between the grey layers of stone are occasionally sandwiched layers of white, and the rocks on the hillside above take on a reddish tinge, which, though there is the scantiest of vegetation, just saves the scene from being depressing. We pass a loaded camel—one of ours—lying down. He insists, despite the vigorous persuasion of his syce, in remaining in that position. He is bored to death with the two water-tanks he is carrying; and when a camel makes up his mind to throw up the sponge nothing on earth will change it. I, therefore, give orders for the tanks to be emptied, Women from a passing kafila rush with their bowls and ask for the water. When it is all gone the camel is pleased to rise and proceeds grumblingly on his way.
By half-past eight we have headed the baggagers and descend onto a flat plain in a horse-shoe of hills. Here, thank God, on the banks of a dry water-course, are trees large enough to give us shade from the sun, and here we halt. As I select my tree some gerenauk run across the river-bed, and, for the sake of the pot, I chance a snapshot. By bad luck I wound a poor beast who disappears into the scrub. Cursing my luck and folly, I call on my orderly to follow with a water chagul, and come out from my shade to go and finish off the fell work. But luck is with me after all. Instead of a chase for hours, as I had expected, I come up with my quarry in ten minutes and administer the coup de grâce. My orderly—although I am sure the animal is stone dead, but tactfully refrain from saying so—makes a show of finishing him off in the orthodox Mahomedan fashion, so that the flesh may be lawful to all true believers, and we return to camp. At two o'clock the baggage camels are loaded and sent off; we soon follow. We keep to the foot of the hills, follow a dry water-course, and pass through the most arid of country, leading our animals. At six-twenty we are well ahead of the baggage, so halt under a patch of low trees. There is water to be had for the digging; we need not have carried so much water after all.