A well-managed railway leads to Cairo. Strange!—a railway in the land where the grandson of Noe settled, where Joseph outwitted the king’s cunning ministers: Mash el Káheral, the victorious city, called Cairo by the Western barbarians, with donkeys and camels, eunuchs and harems, palm-trees and dahabeeáhs, all within sight of the station, and yet to be pushed into an omnibus! O Western civilization! will you never let this picturesque world
alone? To travel five thousand miles, thinking all the way of riding on donkeys like Ali Baba, or perched high on a camel like Mohammed, and then be conveyed to the hotel in an omnibus, as though in London or New York! I thought I could detect a frown on the Sphinx’s usually impassible face, as one passed it the other day. You can easily imagine the pyramids holding serious debate as to the advisability of ruining themselves as objects of interest by tumbling over and crushing out these new-fangled contrivances. We are going up the Nile, so we steal a hasty glance at the pyramids, nod to the Sphinx as though we had been on speaking terms for three or four thousand years, visit the citadel at sunset, get bewildered at the strange sights, do and see everything in the orthodox style, and are off. Going up the Nile, I determined to write a book, so voluminous notes were taken—measurements and statistics enough to puzzle the brain of an antiquarian; such meteorological observations, too!—Probabilities would have found it hard to digest them. All travellers do this. Coming down the Nile, I concluded that I would not write a book. Most travellers do this. Before going to the East I had no idea of the vast amount of literature existing touching Egypt, the Egyptians, and the Nile trip. Returning, I was conversant with it. I had seen the people through the richly-tinted glasses of euphonious Curtis, had studied them through the sombre spectacles of erudite Wilkinson and Lane. I had watched them through the soft lens of a woman’s tender mind, and been startled at their wondrous doings under the magnifying-glasses of highly marvellous Prime. I intended telling why I
went to the East. Most writers think an apology due their readers for leaving home, or, at least, that they should give their reasons, the difficulties of engaging a dahabeeáh, to report what the reis said, and how our dragoman answered him—all in broken English, of course. But I will simply tell a short story—how certain pale-faced howadjii from the West sailed up to the second cataract of the Nile and back again, and what befell them.
The wind blew from the north, and we started. Now, it is a peculiarity of the Nile trip that the wind always blows from the north before the dahabeeáhs start, although it generally takes four or five pages to tell it, after “everything is on board and all impatient for the start,” and the reader is left in some doubt as to whether the boat is going at all. But as the course is to the south, and these boats cannot tack, the reader may now understand why he is kept so long waiting until “the breeze blows fresh from the north, the great sail drops down like the graceful plumage of some giant bird, and the shores glide past like the land of the poet’s dream.” We commenced the voyage by running aground, and we continued it somewhat in the same way. We did not travel on land; for I said something above about the direction of the wind and its connection with our starting, so that one might infer we were on a boat. But scarce a day passed that we did not run aground at least once, and often three or four times. Finally we became so used to it that, seated in the cabin, we could tell by the shouting what means were being employed to shove the boat off. The invocations were always the same. Would a good Moslem, think you, call upon
any but the two sacred names, Allah, Mohammed—the God and the Prophet? But the intonations of the voice told the story. Grunting out these sacred names, starting from the extremity of the toes, struggling and fighting with each nerve and muscle as they came up, told us unmistakably that they were pushing with long poles. Now a fearful colic seizes the crew; they groan and cry, and in the deepest misery implore God and the Prophet to free them from their sufferings; and we are well aware that they are in the water, making pretended strenuous efforts to raise the boat with their backs. A bright, lively chorus tells us that they are setting sail. A dead silence informs us to a moral certainty that they are eating their meals. Let me tell you something about the dahabeeáh; for it is to be our home for many weeks. The Sitta Mariam, as we called it, was ninety-seven feet long, sixteen in width, and drew three feet of water. The forward part was reserved for the use of the crew. In the hold they kept food and clothes. On the deck they slept—the more fastidious ones on sheepskins, the others upon the bare boards. In the Orient everything is just the reverse of the Occident. We cover our feet and expose the head while sleeping. They wrap up the head with care, and expose the feet to the sometimes chilly air of the night. A box placed near the bow, six feet high, the same width, and two feet deep, served for a kitchen. Aft of the forecastle were nine state-rooms, and a dining-saloon fifteen feet square. A flight of steps led to the upper deck, which extended to the stern of the boat. Handsome Turkey rugs, divans, and easy-chairs made this a most comfortable lounging
place for the howadjii; and, in sooth, when not eating or sleeping, we spent all our time here. Near the stern we had a poultry-yard, several coops filled with turkeys, chickens, and squabs. We always had one or two live sheep with us, carried in the rowboat—called felluka—which floated astern. The foremast was placed near the bow, and from its summit, forty-two feet from the deck, swung the large yard or trinkeet, one hundred and fifteen feet long. From this was suspended the triangular sail called “lateen.” When furled, the rope was so bound around it that, although securely held, yet, by a strong pull directly downwards, it was immediately let loose. In the rear, aft the rudder, we carried a smaller sail of the same description, called a “balakoom.” The boat was of three hundred and eighty ardebs—about forty tons—burden. I have said that we called it the Sitta Mariam, or “Lady Mary.” Originally it was named The Swallow, and the year before a native artist had been engaged to paint this name upon it. Thinking the word should be written as an Arabic one, he commenced at the wrong end. To add to this, by some mischance he omitted a letter; the result was the name on the side of the boat in large, bold letters, “Wallow.”
A few words concerning the ship’s company. The howadjii were four Americans. The next most important personage is Ahmud Abdallah—i.e., servant of God—our dragoman, he of the olive-green suit and red fez. Has any one ever determined the precise etymology of the word dragoman? Often I am constrained to think that it is an abbreviation of the words “dragger-of-man.” On one point I am clear: this will give a more accurate idea of the
position of the individual than any other yet suggested. From the time you come in contact with one of this species until you run away from him—for he will never leave you, unless your money should become exhausted—he is continually dragging you around. Do not think the howadji is bullied by his dragoman. On the contrary, the meekness, suavity, and urbanity of that individual are beyond description. He receives his master’s orders in silence and with bowed head, but a keen observer might often detect a sneering smile, showing how little he thinks of obeying them. Ahmud was a handsome Arab, thirty-six years of age and an Oriental Brummel. What a wardrobe of bright-colored trousers and richly-embroidered vests he had! Each afternoon he would squat cross-legged upon his bed, and ponder for an hour or more over the sacred mysteries of the Koran. An hour scarce sufficed to dress, and then he would appear on deck in his suit of bright Algerine cloth, the little jacket relieved by a white vest set off with red or blue, his feet encased in red slippers beautifully contrasting with his stockings of immaculate whiteness, on his head the jaunty fez. When the sweet breezes were wafting us softly up the stream, and a stillness and repose unknown in other lands seemed to pervade all nature, Ahmud, in his gorgeous attire, would appear on the quarter-deck, seat himself in the most complacent manner, light his cigarette, and appear the ideal of self-satisfaction and contentment. We had contracted to pay him a certain sum per diem; in return he was to supply boat, sailors, food, and everything requisite for the voyage—as he expressed it: “You pay me so much every day; no put hand in
pocket at all.” When reproved, he would become sulky like a spoilt child, and remain in that state for several days, replying as concisely to our questions as politeness would permit, and otherwise having nothing whatsoever to say to us. Ali Abdakadra, his brother-in-law, was a fine-looking young Arab of twenty-three. He was supposed to be the assistant dragoman. My private opinion—of course not communicated to him—is that he was solely interested in supplying those materials with which the highways of another and still warmer clime are thought to be paved. This is not a very lucrative occupation, nor one conducive to man’s advancement in this world; but, notwithstanding our advice, he persisted in it. I do not think there ever issued from the lips of any man so many resolutions of doing so much, so many good intentions; and I am morally certain that so many resolutions and intentions never before were so utterly fruitless. Shortly after we started he came to me full of excitement, and informed me that he was going to write a guide-book for the Nile. “Now,” said he, “there is Ibrahim, our waiter; he has made this trip several times, and yet knows nothing about the temples or tombs—I doubt whether he has even seen them. This is my first trip. I will take notes and write a book. Will you lend me your Murray to assist me?” I consented. The book remained unopen in his room for two months. I then called the loan. He took not a note, but left many, on temples, obelisks, and tombs. When visiting temples, Ali was the first to arrive, and when we came up we were informed by enormous letters, written with a burnt stick, that Ali Abdakadra had visited that temple on the current day. When sent upon an
errand he did not wish to perform, he would proceed at a pace which could be easily excelled by a not overfed crab. One of our party, at Ali’s earnest request, spent some time instructing him in taxidermy. He would take back to Cairo any number of birds and sell them; had even counted his profits, and told us how he would expend them. Result: He half-skinned a hawk in the most bungling manner, and then left it hanging up until the offensive odor caused us to order it to be cast overboard. Ibrahim Saleem is our waiter—not a talker, but a worker, a model of neatness and propriety, performing his duties with perfect regularity and order. Reis Mohammed Suleyman, a short, well-built man, is the most laborious of them all. The responsibility of the boat is upon him, and he is fully equal to it. He is a very quiet man, except when angered, and then through his set teeth swears by Allah and the Prophet to wreak the direst vengeance upon the offender. He is pious, however, and prays frequently. When a sheep is to be killed, he is the butcher; and never was sheep more skilfully killed and prepared for the table. Any sewing of sails, clothes, or of anything else that is to be done is brought to him and, squatted cross-legged on the deck, he is transformed into a tailor. In the evenings, when the rest of the sailors amuse themselves with song and dance, Reis Mohammed will sit for hours in perfect silence, holding the line in his hand, and, after thus patiently waiting, will draw up a catfish weighing from twenty to thirty pounds. He is devotedly attached to his merkeb (boat), and woe betide the unfortunate sailor who injures it in the slightest manner! It is customary, when we reach the