and the dead branches on the gaunt palm trunks sway like corpses on a gallows tree. When I trekked in these parts I always tried to camp for the night above the cliffs, but this was no easy matter, as in places they rose perpendicularly from the ground.
Yet the presence of innumerable sepulchral chambers cut in the cliffs shows that these melancholy valleys were once inhabited. The water here is practically undrinkable. At Gagub there is a well, and on one occasion my men all drank from it, but it was so strongly impregnated with sulphur that it had the same effect as a very powerful dose of physic! There is a great difference between these deep gloomy valleys, with their oozing marshes and dead funereal palm trees, and Siwa itself, with its rich gardens, cool defiles and long green vistas among the trees. From the top of a hill near Melfa, the westernmost oasis, one can see the dome of the mosque at Jerabub. In Siwa the mosques have no domes, so one becomes unaccustomed to the sight of them, and for this reason the dome at Jerabub looks quite impressive, though it is actually only about the size of those that one sees over tombs in numbers of the cemeteries of Cairo.
Jerabub used to be the Mecca of Senussiism, but what glory it ever had has now passed away. To-day it only contains about a hundred half-starving natives, and a few old sheikhs who still teach the children in the zowia (religious school). Lately the people were in such sore straits that the Senussi Wakil, Sidi Ahmed, had to send down a convoy of grain from the coast, and the Siwans who rode into Jerabub to sell things returned with their goods and complained that nobody had any money to spend. The dates in the Jerabub gardens are very inferior, so the Siwans export quite a lot of dates to their neighbours.
The only man of any wealth in Jerabub was an old retired merchant called Mohammed el Ithneini. He was so old, and so enormously fat, that he was unable to walk, and had to be carried about by his slaves in a litter. In his day he had been a great merchant, travelling between Tripoli, Wadai, Egypt and the Sudan, and in course of time he had amassed considerable riches. But lately, finding himself short of cash, with a large family to support, he began to raise money on his belongings.
One day I got information that two men from Jerabub had passed through Siwa on their way to the coast and Egypt without coming to the office to see whether they had anything on which to pay customs. Customs are collected at Siwa on imports from the west. I sent a patrol after them and brought them back to the Markaz. One of them was a grandson of the old sheikh, and the other was his cousin. I examined their camels, and ordered them to turn out their bags, which they did very reluctantly. They spread the contents out on the steps of the Markaz. It was quite like a scene from the Arabian Nights. There were heavy silver anklets, curiously chased bangles, silver earrings shaped like a young moon with filigree bosses from which hung long silver chains with little pendants, rings, brooches, necklaces, several small lumps of gold, two complete sets of trappings and armour for an Arab horse made of silver-gilt and gold-fringed velvet, filigree ornaments and cases for charms and a little bag full of seed pearls; all this was emptied out of two dirty old leather bags. It made a fine show shining in the sunlight and I longed to make a bid for some of it, but I came to the conclusion that it couldn’t be done. They were taking it to sell to a certain merchant in Cairo, so I sent them up with a Camel Corps patrol who were going to the coast, as already the Siwans were casting envious eyes on the stuff. The men returned two months later and told me that they got £140 for the lot, which I myself had estimated as being worth a very great deal more. For several years the old merchant had been sending stuff to be sold in Cairo, and every year I imagine he received as small a price.
Among the valuables in his house there are a number of old Persian and Turkish carpets, but these he keeps as they are too heavy to send about. I had entered into negotiations with him about some of these, but just when the bargain was being completed I got a bad “go” of fever and had to leave for the coast. A few of the Siwan sheikhs have good carpets, but they know their worth and are very unwilling to part with them. Other household articles that some Siwans possess and are very proud of are large brass Turkish samovars which they use with charcoal for making tea. Their owners say that they were originally brought from Constantinople, but now they have become quite like heirlooms, and curiously enough they do not seem to wear out.
South of Siwa, beyond the shifting yellow sand-hills, there is a vast stretch of desert without a single shred of vegetation which reaches down to the Sudan. Only the first hundred miles has been explored, beyond that is terra incognita. The Arabs call this the Devil’s country, and rightly so. In these huge silent spaces one sees incessant mirage, for which the native name is Devil’s water, and frequently “the genii of the storm, urging the rage of whirlwind,” sends a high hurricane of hot stinging sand tearing across the desert, smothering men and beasts in blinding dust, snatching up anything that is loose and bearing it away.
“In solitary length the Desert lies,
Where Desolation keeps his empty court.
No bloom of spring, o’er all the thirsty vast