Near this camp are many mounds like those at the wells of Bokh. There also is a circular hut, well built, the first of its kind I have seen in the interior of Somaliland. Once a Sheikh of real repute halted here for a few days and this hut was built for his comfort. I can call up the scene of the nomad Somals collecting from all sides to build the wretched structure. It is nevertheless, to me, a symbol of the fanatical religious fire that burns within their bosoms. That and nothing else, excepting perhaps an earthquake, could have moved them voluntarily to do what is called a job of work. They were doubtless fired by the same spirit that inspires us to raise up loftier, nobler buildings for the glory of God and our religion. That only a hut resulted is typical of the great difference between the willingness of their spirit and the strength of their flesh.
The name of this place is Yebil-Kên, "the place with no grazing." But there are more trees here; the tufts of grass are more numerous and you need not look far for one; all the same it is a dreary spot. Wonderful are the people who find a living for themselves and their cattle.
Last night it rained, and I had my bed carried into the tent. We have climbed high, so the night was not hot; for once—the first time in months—I felt pleasantly cool. This morning the sky was cloudy, and we did not march until daybreak. Climbing, by an easily graded track over another pass, which we entered at the end of the horse-shoe plain between two steep hills, and following a water-course across rough stony ground, we came into camp, where cook had coffee, hot bacon and eggs, waiting on the table.
Until now nearly all the people we have met have been travelling to the coast with skins, ghee, and other commodities to sell. This morning the country passed through is being grazed by the Abrian section of the Gadabursi. Several kafilas of families on the move have passed the camp, and I was successful in obtaining permission from the owner of one to take a photograph. The women hid their faces when I pointed the camera, but I managed to get some good shots.
Somals are past masters in the art of packing. It is wonderful to behold the natty way in which a family on the move has stowed away its household goods and utensils. A Somal woman packs her effects on the camels back as daintily as her more civilised sisters do theirs in wardrobes and chests of drawers. The wear and tear of hard travel, apart from the difficulty in procuring manufactured utensils suitable for the purposes required, has called into play the ingenuity of the aboriginal man and woman. Water vessels made from closely woven grass, and practically unbreakable, could not be bettered, for the work they are used for, by anything made in Europe. The thick mats, used as camel pads, when spread over the tent canes, packed away so neatly on the camel's loads, keep out the hot sun better than any canvas or cotton that has ever been produced by the looms of Europe.
Everything the Somal carries is made for utility's sake, but man's nature, be he civilised or savage, ever craves for a little comfort over and above the bare necessities of life. God knows these people meet with little enough of the former. Good shade from the hot sun should be properly classed as a necessity. In any case, Somal mats are the last word for the purpose.
Turn a European loose here, with his wife: give him a few head of cattle; spare him the children—they would only make his lot the more impossible; cut him off from civilisation, and, in two months' time, he and his wife would either be dead or on the point of suicide. But here a Somal may thrive and be happy. His wife will plait mats and do practically all the work, besides bearing his children. The man will do all the praying to God—it is his pastime—but for it the woman has no time—and all the fighting, should there be any. He and his wife will wrest more than a living from this barren country I look across, provided always that he has the cattle. He can find everything else needed, from the means to make fire—two sticks—to medicine for his tummy—the leaves from a wild plant—where the European could find nothing but the acme of desolation and despair.