It is both interesting and amusing to listen while Afghans and blacks or blackfellows and Chinamen converse. Not that they make a practice of so indulging; there are entirely too many vernacular difficulties in their way.
One such attempt at conversation was suggestive to me of two blind men who, getting drunk together, led one another up wrong turnings, until, after a final and protracted endeavour to get back to anywhere near the starting point, they found themselves both hopelessly lost.
Each has a way peculiar to his class of directing that luckless traveller who may be so ignorant as to make enquiries of him.
You ask an Afghan how many miles it is to a certain place. He slyly leads you on to make a guess for yourself—and at once cheerfully agrees. "Yes, ten mile," or whatever it may be the other has suggested.
The blackfellow tells you vaguely that the certain place is "L-aw-ong way," "Ova that a way," or "Byen bye you catch 'em all right."
The Chinaman listens very politely to all the questions you put to him, and then remarks with his most guileless smile, "No savee."
Still some white men's directions are not very lucid. One, for example, will say, "When you come to there look out for a small stony hill to the right," waving, as he says, the left hand from him. Also East is spoken of when West is similarly indicated. Others, again, expect a fellow to perform mental gymnastics. One will clear and level a small space upon the ground to serve as a blackboard. He begins, "Now, we'll put it, here's North—" and draws a line pointing due South.
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Mount Breadin Dam is another 20 miles from Francis Well. The track is fair for cycling over. Camped somewhere in the scrub. Dry sand makes a fairly comfortable blanket.