In the evening of the first day I spent in Mut I climbed to the top of a low hill close to the town to look at the dune field that I hoped to cross. A more depressing sight it would be impossible to imagine. Not only were the sand hills in the neighbourhood of the town much higher than those we had encountered on leaving Kharga Oasis, but they extended as far as it was possible to see to the horizon, and obviously became considerably larger in the far distance, where they were evidently of great height.
I returned to my rooms with the gloomiest forebodings, wishing I had never been such a fool as to tackle the belad esh Shaytan, or “Satan’s country,” as the natives call this part of the desert, and wondering whether, when I attempted to cross those dunes, I should not end, after a few hours’ journey, in having to return completely beaten with my tail tightly tucked between my legs, to the Nile Valley. I lay awake for most of the night in consequence.
But daylight as usual made things look more cheerful. Anyway I could have a shot at it, and as my camels did not seem to be in very good order I decided to give them a rest and to feed them up into the best possible condition, before subjecting them to what appeared to be an almost impossible task. In the meantime I thought I might as well see something of the oasis, and at the same time collect what information I could about the desert.
So a few days after my arrival at Mut I set off with the mamur, the policeman and the doctor to stay for a night with the ’omda of Rashida, leaving the caravan behind me.
For the first two hours after leaving Mut, till we reached the village of Qalamun, our road lay over a barren country largely covered with loose sand, which proved to be rather heavy going.
Qalamun is rather a picturesque village, and seems to have been built with an eye to defence. A great deal of land in the neighbourhood is covered with drift sand, which in places seems to be encroaching on to the cultivation, though not to be doing any serious damage. An unusually large proportion of land in the neighbourhood is planted with date palms, and, as the water supply seems to be fairly abundant, the place has a prosperous well-to-do air. In some cases the wells appear to be failing, as a few shadufs for raising the water were to be seen. These and a few Dom palms gave the neighbourhood a rather distinctive appearance. Of course we visited the ’omda. The sheykhs of this village—the Shurbujis by name—claim to have governed the oasis ever since the time of the Sultan Selim, “The Grim.”
On leaving Qalaman we made straight for Rashida, most of our road lying through cultivated fields, planted mainly with cereals. Before reaching the village, we passed a large dead tree—a sunt, or acacia, apparently—which is known as the “tree of Sheykh Adam,” and is supposed to possess a soul. The wood is reported to be uninflammable.
Shortly before reaching Rashida, we were met by the ’omda and some of his family, who had ridden out to meet us, all splendidly mounted on Syrian horses, gorgeously caparisoned with richly embroidered saddles and saddle cloths. These joined on to our party and rode back with us to Rashida.
Kharashef.