Part 26

Perhaps every one who crosses a stretch of desert in the Nile-lands sees the devil’s sea; but there is a real and most living desert picture, a sight of which is not granted to all. On the extreme limit of vision, raised perhaps by the mirage and veiled in vapour, a number of riders appear; they are mounted on steeds swift as the wind, with limbs like those of deer; they approach rapidly, and urging to full gallop the steeds which till then they had restrained, they rush down upon the caravan. It always gave me pleasure to meet these haggard, picturesquely-clad men; they and their horses seemed to be so thoroughly harmonious with the desert. The Bedouin is indeed the true son of the desert, and his steed is his counterpart. He is stern and terrible as the desert day, gentle and friendly as the desert night. True to his pledged word, unswerving in obedience to the laws and customs of his race, dignified in bearing, lofty in discourse, unsurpassed in self-restraint and endurance, more sensitive than almost any other man to deeds of prowess, to glory and honour, and not less to the golden web of fancy into which his poetic genius weaves such wondrous pictures and twines such tender fragrant flowers; yet is he cunning and crafty towards his enemies, a bounden slave to his customs, unscrupulous in his demands, mean and paltry in his exactions, greedy in his pleasures, unrestrained in cruelty, terrible in revenge, to-day the noble host, to-morrow a threatening and shameless beggar, now a proud robber and again a pitiable thief. In short he is to the stranger as fickle and changeful as the desert itself. His horse has the same keen, fiery, expressive eyes, the same strength and agility in its thin, almost fragile limbs, the same endurance, the same frugality, the same nature as his master, for they grew up together under the same tent, they rest and dwell beneath the same roof. The animal is not the slave but the companion, the friend of its master, the playmate of his children. Proud, spirited, and even savage in the open desert, it is as quiet as a lamb in the tent; it seems altogether inseparable from its master.

In all the deserts which are, in name at least, under the sway of the Khedive of Egypt, the Bedouins no longer fill the rôle which was theirs in earlier times, and still belongs to them in Arabia and in North-west Africa. For between them and the Egyptian government there is a strict treaty which binds them to allow caravans to pass through their haunts unmolested. Thus robberies in the desert are of the rarest occurrence, and an encounter with the Bedouins raises the less apprehension, since these children of the desert are usually the owners of the hired camels. At the same time the true lords of the waste still love to cling to the old customs and to retain a semblance of their dominion, so that it is prudent before setting out on a desert journey to claim safe-conduct from some recognized chief. With this in possession, an encounter took form somewhat as follows.

One of the sunburnt horsemen sprang forward from the troop, and turned to the leader or head of our caravan.

“Peace be with thee, O stranger!”

“And with thee, O chief, be the grace of God, His mercy, and His compassion!”

“Whither journey ye, sirs?”

“To Belled-Aali, O Sheikh.”

“Do ye journey under protection?”

“We journey under the safe-conduct of his Excellency, the Khedive.”

“And no other?”

“Also Sheikh Soliman, Mohammed Cheir Allah, Ibn Sidi Aulad Aali, has granted us protection and peace.”

“Then are ye welcome and blessed.”

“The Giver of all blessings bless thee and thy father, O chief!”

“Have ye need of ought? My men will supply it. In Wadi Ghitere are our tents, and ye are welcome there if ye seek rest. If not, may Allah grant a prosperous journey!”

“He will be with us, for He is merciful.”

“And the Guide on all good ways.”

“Amen, O chief!”

And the troop wheels off; rider and steed become one; the light hoofs seem scarce to touch the sand, the white burnooses flutter in the wind, and the poet’s words rise into memory--

“Bedouin, on thy steed, thou art a poem in thyself!”

Such are some of the fascinating pictures shown to the receptive eye. The more intimately one comes to know the desert, the more it grows upon one, alleviating and lessening all toil and discomfort. Yet the last hours of the journey are those of greatest joy. When the first palm-village of cultivated land appears in sight, when the silver line of the sacred river is once more visible, gladness fills the heart. Men and beasts hasten as if to prove that the glad reality is not an illusion which may vanish in the mist. But the goal becomes more and more distinct; it seems as if we had never seen fresher colours, we fancy that nowhere else can there be trees so green, water so cool. With a final effort the camels push on, far too slowly for their impatient riders. Friendly greetings reach our ears. The village on the Nile is reached at last. From all the huts throng men and women, the aged and the children. Inquisitively they crowd around the camp, men and women curiously questioning, youths and maidens eager for the dance. Tambura and tarabuka, the zither and drum of the country, invite to motion; and the dancing-girls gladden the eyes of strangers and countrymen alike. Even the creaking of the water-wheel on the river, formerly a thousand times cursed, seems musical to-day. The evening brings fresh joys. Comfortably couched on the cool and elastic divan, the foreigner pledges the native in palm-wine or merieza--the nectar of the land; while the sound of zither and drum, and the rhythmic hand-clapping of the dancing youths and maidens form a merry accompaniment to the dainty banquet. But at length the approaching night begins to press its claims. Tambura and tarabuka sink into silence and the dance comes to an end; one after another, refreshed and well-content, the travellers seek rest. At length only one is left, a son of Khahira, the mother of the world, whom sleep still refuses to bless. From beside the flickering camp-fire comes his simple, tremulous song--

Sweet night, dear night, thou mak’st me sad, Longer thou seem’st and alway longer; No peace from thee I ever had, With thee day’s pain grows ever stronger.

Oh, gentle night, how long, how long, Since these poor eyes last saw her beauty! Seeing aught else they do her wrong; When will she come to claim their duty?

Oh, tender night, now hovering near, Lighten Love’s load, and my undoing! Bring Peace to me, Peace to my Dear, Shelter my Sweet, and speed my wooing!

But this lover’s plaint also dies away, and the silence of the night is unbroken save by the murmurings of the wavelets on the sacred river.

NUBIA AND THE NILE RAPIDS.

In order to understand and appreciate this chapter the reader should bear in mind that the Nile is in flood from June to about the end of September, being at its highest in the latter month, and at its lowest in April. At low Nile the rapids present a very different appearance from what they do at high Nile.

Egypt and Nubia, though immediately adjacent, and closely connected by a river common to both, are essentially different countries. Through Egypt the sacred Nile flows with leisurely dignity, through Nubia it rushes in furious haste; over Egypt it distributes its blessings widely, in Nubia it is hemmed in by high rocky banks; in Egypt it triumphs over the desert, in Nubia the desert is supreme; Egypt is a garden which the river has formed after thousands of years of ceaseless labour, Nubia is a desert which it cannot conquer. Of course this desert has its oases like any other, but they are few and scarcely worth considering in comparison with the lands on both sides of the stream which remain in unchangeable sterility and desolation. Throughout the greater part of the long winding valley which forms what we call Nubia, dark, gleaming masses of rock rise from the bed of the river or from its immediate vicinity, and over wide tracts prevent the growth of almost all vegetation. They have for their sole adornment the waves of golden yellow sand which are blown from the deserts on east and west, and gradually slide down the rocks into the river. The sun beats from the deep-blue and rarely cloudy sky; for many years together not a single shower refreshes the thirsty ground. In the deeply cut gorges the life-giving waves of the fertilizing stream contend in vain with the unimpressionable rocks, on which they hurl themselves roaring and foaming, blustering and thundering, as if enraged that their generosity is met with ingratitude and their beneficence with disdain. The field on which this battle is waged is the region of the rapids.

Very few travellers who visit the lower valley of the Nile ever reach the rapids of its middle course. A few go beyond the so-called first cataract, scarcely one in a hundred passes the second. Wady Halfa, a village immediately below the second group of rapids, is the usual goal of travellers; only purposes of exploration, the passion for the chase, or some commercial enterprise, leads any one further south. For it is at Wady Haifa that the difficulties of a journey into the interior really begin, and it is therefore not surprising that the great majority turn the prow of the boat homewards at that village of palms. But no one who is young and vigorous, energetic, and not too luxuriously inclined, will ever regret if he pushes farther south. In the Nile valley, which is by no means rich in picturesqueness, the region of the rapids is quite unique. Grandeur and beauty, sombreness and gaiety, desolation and overflowing life mark the scenes that here follow one another in quick succession; but they are all desert pictures which this landscape presents, and one must forget conventional standards in order to appreciate them as they deserve. The man who is unable to appreciate the desert, to revel in its wealth of colour, to endure its scorching heat, and to find refreshment in its solemn night, would do well to avoid the desert of the Nile. But he who travels through the country of the rapids with open eye and receptive heart, who in his frail boat engages, wherever possible, in the struggle with the furiously foaming waves, will have his whole life enriched with precious memories. For never will the impressive spectacle that his eye has looked on fade from his mental vision, never will the sublime melody the stream has sung in his ear cease to echo in his soul. Such, at least, is my experience, and I have journeyed through the rocky valley of Nubia on land and on water, up the river and down, contending with the waves, ay, and with hunger and want, and looking down on the rapids from the tops of high cliffs as well as from the camel’s back.