Mysteries of the Libyan Desert

by W. J. Harding King

I wanted Abdulla to get on his hagin and follow his tracks at a trot, hoping that in that level country, as Qway was only travelling at a walk, he would be able to overtake him sufficiently to sight him from a distance. But he had not recovered his nerve from the fright he had experienced and flatly refused to leave us, so we continued to follow the tracks together.

After riding for some distance farther, Qway had again climbed to the crest of a low ridge. Here he had stood for some time, his footprints pointing in all directions, endeavouring to pick up the bearings of the depot and the route that he had followed when he had left it.

But that bit of desert might have been especially made for the purpose of confusing an erring guide. As far as could be seen in all directions stretched a practically level expanse of sandy soil, showing no landmark to guide him, except where the great black bulk of Jebel el Bayed heaved itself up from the monotonous surface. We could tell from his tracks that he had reached that point not much before midday, when, at that time of the year, the sun was almost directly overhead, and consequently of little use to indicate the points of the compass. From where he had stood, Jebel el Bayed itself would have been of little use to guide him, for though the hill had two summits lying roughly east and west of each other, the western one was from that point hidden by the eastern, which was of such a rounded form that it looked almost exactly the same shape from all angles on its eastern side.

Qway at last had evidently given up the problem. He had remounted his camel, ridden round a circle a hundred yards or so in diameter in a final attempt to pick up his bearings, and then had made off at a sharp trot towards the north. Abd er Rahman was in ecstasies.

“Qway’s lost. Qway’s lost.” He turned grinning delightedly to me. “I told you I was a better guide than Qway.” Then he suddenly grew solemn. Much as he hated the overbearing Arab, he had worked with him for two seasons, and, as he had said, there is a bond of union between those who “know the nijem.” “He will die. It is certain he will die. He only had five days’ water, and it is four days since he left the depot. He is not going where the water is, but he is making for the ‘Valley of the Rat.’ It is certain he will die of thirst. His camel has had no water for four days.”

Abdulla took a more hard-hearted view, and after the way in which Qway had treated him, he could hardly be blamed. “Let the cursed Arab die,” said the Sudani. “The son of a dog is only a traitor.”

We followed Qway’s footprints for a short distance. But he had been travelling very fast, and it was obvious that we should never catch him up. He was off on a non-stop run to Mut, and as our own water supply was by no means too plentiful, I thought we had better follow his example; so I told Abdulla to take us back to the depot. It was then about noon.

Abdulla looked at Jebel el Bayed, glanced at the sun and looked round the horizon, scratched his cheek in perplexity, and said he did not know where the depot was, but he thought it must be there—he pointed somewhere towards the north-west. Abd er Rahman, however, was emphatic in saying that that was not the right direction, and indicated a point about west as being its position.

After some discussion, as they were unable to agree, Abd er Rahman turned to me and asked me to look at my compass to decide the direction in which we were to go. Unfortunately, I had left the compass in camp and had not been making a traverse of Qway’s tracks, as I had done on the previous day. We had all been too keen on reading Qway’s spoor to pay much attention to the changes in its direction, and so found ourselves in the same dilemma as Qway.

It was a furiously hot still day, and the sun shining almost perpendicularly down made the whole horizon dance with mirage, producing the impression that we were standing on a low sand bank in a vast sheet of water, whose distant shores flickered continuously in the heat haze—a veritable “devil’s sea” as the natives call it.