Classic Audiobook Collection - The Lost Oases by Ahmed Hassanein ~ Full Audiobook [adventure]

Episode Date: February 13, 2024

The Lost Oases by Ahmed Hassanein audiobook. Genre: adventure In 1923, Egyptian diplomat and explorer Ahmed Hassanein sets out with a small caravan of guides, attendants, and stubborn camels on a gamble that borders on obsession: to cross the Libyan Desert and confirm the rumored whereabouts of oases that exist, for most of the world, only in fragments of tradition and the half-finished notes of earlier expeditions. First published in 1925, The Lost Oases is Hassanein's firsthand account of the miles of sand and stone, the brutal arithmetic of water and direction, and the delicate human negotiations that make survival possible when maps become guesses. As the journey pushes farther from the familiar, Hassanein must balance scientific purpose with the realities of desert life: tribal custom, wary local powers, and the ever-present threat of exhaustion, illness, and a single wrong decision. Vivid scenes of night camps, wind-scoured horizons, and hard-won companionship are paired with reflections on faith, fatalism, and the strange clarity that solitude can bring. Part expedition record, part spiritual travel narrative, this is an intimate portrait of endurance and discovery at the edge of the known world. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:12:55) Chapter 02 (00:22:02) Chapter 03 (00:39:42) Chapter 04 (00:54:04) Chapter 05 (01:15:43) Chapter 06 (01:29:02) Chapter 07 (01:41:37) Chapter 08 (01:57:48) Chapter 09 (02:30:15) Chapter 10 (02:59:36) Chapter 11 (03:36:47) Chapter 12 (03:57:26) Chapter 13 (04:18:33) Chapter 14 (04:44:06) Chapter 15 (05:06:51) Chapter 16 (05:29:08) Chapter 17 (06:01:36) Chapter 18 (06:29:12) Chapter 19 (06:52:39) Chapter 20 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Lost Oasis, Chapter 1, the Desert On my first trip through the Libyan Desert, I took a vow. We had lost her way, and we had lost all hope. There was no sign of the oasis we sought, no sign of any well nearby. The desert seemed cruel and merciless, and I vowed that if ever we came through alive, I would not return again.

Two years later, I would have. was back in the same desert, at the same spot where we had lost our way, and landed at the same well that had saved our lives on the previous occasion. The desert calls, but it is not easy to analyze its attraction and its charm. Perhaps the most wonderful part of desert life is the desert night. You have walked the whole day on blistered feet because even walking was less painful than riding on a camel. You have kept up with a caravan with eyes half shut. You follow mechanically the rhythm of the camel's steps. Your throat is parched, and there is no well in sight.

The men are no more in the humor to sing. Their faces are drawn with exhaustion, and with eyes bloodshot, they keep a vague, hopeless look on the ever-faint line between the blue of the sky and the dull yellow of the sand. The sheepskin water vessels dangle limply on either side of the camels. We do not talk very much in the desert. The desert breeds silence. And when we are in trouble, we avoid one another's eyes.

There is no need for speech. Everybody knows what is happening, and everybody bears it with fortitude and dignity, for to grumble is to throw blame on the Almighty, a thing that no Bedouin will do. To the Bedouin, this is the life that was intended for him. It is the root that God decreed him to take. Maybe it leads to the death that the Almighty has chosen for him.

Therefore, he must accept it. No man can run away from that which God has decreed, says the Bedouin. Wherever you may be, death will reach you, even though you take your refuge in fortified towers. But it is at such times as these that you vow, if your life is spared, that you will never come back to the desert again. Then the day's work is at an end. Camp is pitched.

No tents are erected, for the men are too exhausted, too careless to mind what happens to their bodies. And night falls. It may be a starlit night, or there may be a moon. Gradually a serenity gets hold of you. Gradually, after a day of silence, conversation starts. Feeble jokes are cracked.

One of the men, probably the youngest of the caravan, ventures a joke with more cheerfulness than the rest, and his voice is pitched in a higher key. Unconsciously, the Bedouins attuned their voices to that higher, louder pitch, and the volume of sound increases. The desert is working her charm. The gentle night breeze revives the spirit of the caravan. In a few minutes, the empty fantassas are used as drums, and there is song and dance. At the first sound of music, men may have been tending the camels, repairing the luggage or the camel's saddles, but that first note brings all the caravan around the embers of the dying fire. Everyone looks at his comrades to make sure that all are alive and happy,

and everyone tries to be a little more cheerful in his neighbor to give him more confidence. There is a game of make-believe, a little ghastly in its beginnings. We force ourselves to be cheerful, to make light of our troubles. The camels are all right. I saw to that wound, and it is not so bad as I thought, says one. Boo Hassan says he has cited the landmark of the well, not far to our right, says another. We work ourselves up by degrees to a belief that everything is really all right. It is a bluff, maybe, from beginning to end, but the charm of the desert has prevailed. It is as though a man were deeply in love with a very fascinating but cruel woman.

She treats him badly, and the world crumples in his hand. At night she smiles on him, and the whole world is a paradise. The desert smiles, and there is no place on earth worth living in but the desert. Song and dance take out from the men of the caravan the little vitality that is left after the ravages of the day. their spirit is exhausted and they fall asleep. They sleep beneath the beautiful dome of the sky and the stars. Few people in civilization know the pleasure of just sitting down and looking at the stars. No wonder the Arabs were masters of the science of astronomy.

When the day's work is done, the solitary Bedouin has nothing left but to sit down and watch the movements of the stars and absorb the uplifting sense of comfort that they give to the spirit. These stars become like friends that one meets every day, and when they go, it is not abruptly as when men say farewell at a parting, but it is like watching a friend fade gradually from view with the hope of seeing him again the following night. To prayers, oh ye believers, prayers are better than sleep. The cry comes from the first man of the caravan to awake. A few stars are still scattered in the sky. The men get up, and there is nothing better illustrates the phrase

collect their bodies. Every limb is aching, and again their throats are parched. Yet what changed men they are. There is hope in them, confidence, perhaps an inward belief that all will come well. The world then is a gray void, and only the morning fire breaks the cold north breeze. Our eyes instinctively turn to the east where the sun is rising. If there are no clouds, there comes a yellowish tinge in the sky that throws a curious, elusive, elongated shadow behind camels and men, so faint that you can scarcely call it a shadow at all. Then comes a reddish tinge that gives warmth. It is just between dawnbreak and sunrise that there is color in the desert. Once the sun is risen, there is nothing but the endless stretch of blue and yellow, and the blue fades and fades until by midday the sky is

almost rung dry of color. Morning brings new vitality. Night brings peace and serenity. These are the hours wherein one learns of the desert's charm. In the silence of these vast open spaces, human sensitiveness becomes so sharpened that eventually the desert traveler feels the nearness of some inhabited oasis. Likewise, his instinct tells him of the few hundred miles that separate him from any breathing thing. In the silent infinity of the desert, body, mind, and soul are cleansed. Man feels nearer to God, feels the presence of a mighty power from which nothing any longer diverts his attention. Little by little, an inevitable fatalism and an unshakable belief in the wisdom of God's decree bring resignation even to the extent of offering his life to the desert without grudge.

There are times when he feels that it really does not matter. The desert brings out the best that is in every man. Civilization confronts the crowd with danger, and each one fights for himself and his own safety. In the desert, self becomes less and less important. Each tries to do the best he can for his comrades. Let disaster threaten a caravan. There may be one man who can see a chance to save himself, but I do not believe there is a Bedouin who would desert his comrades and so save his own life. One of the most appalling things that can happen in the desert is a shortage of water, and you would think that in such a case you would try to keep what water you have for yourself. Instead of that, you find yourself with your favorite water bottle, taking it in your arms, going around the man,

asking, would any of them like a drink? As nonchalantly as though there were plenty of it and despair. The question of personal safety is eliminated. Whatever happens, let it happen to the whole caravan. You do not want to escape alone. That is the feeling that gets a hold of you. I never ceased to marvel at the Bedouin's serenity and courage, which nothing disturbs. In desert travel there are three elements. Camels, water supply, the guide. Camels, the best of them, and for no apparent reason, give in. As it happened when I left Kufra, and one of my best camels died on the second night.

Well, on the other hand, the weakest camel of the caravan, which left Kufra tottering under its load, went through the whole trip about 950 miles and arrived tottering at El Fasher. God will protect it, said its Bedou and owner, when rebuked for bringing such a sorry animal. And in truth, God did protect it. The death of a camel is a serious matter, for it means throwing away most, perhaps the whole of its load.

Water is carried chiefly in sheepskins, and the best of sheepskins, tested for days and weeks beforehand, have suddenly started to leak or the water to evaporate from them. Or in night trekking, two camels may bump together and cause one or two sheepskins to burst. And then the guide, for various reasons, may say that his head has gone round and round, which means he has lost his head. If there are clouds that hide the sun for a few hours or one mistake in a landmark, it may cause the guide to lose his way.

but there is one thing still more necessary than these three items, Camels Water Guide. It is faith, profound and illimitable faith. The desert can be beautiful and kindly, and the caravan fresh and cheerful, but it can also be cruel and overwhelming, and the wretched caravan beaten down by misfortune, staggers desperately along. It is when your camels droop their heads from thirst and exhaustion. When your water supply has run short and there is no sign of the next well. When your men are listless and without hope.

When the map you carry is a blank because the desert is uncharted. When your guide, asked about the route, answers with a shrug of the shoulders that God knows best. When you scan the horizon and all around wherever you look, it is always the same hazy line between the pale blue of the sky and the yellow of the sand. when there is no landmark, no sign to give the slightest excuse for hope. When that immense expanse looks like, feels like a circle, drawing tighter and tighter around your part's throat.

It is then that the Bedouin feels the need of a power bigger even than that ruthless desert. It is then that the Bedouin, when he has offered up his prayers to this almighty power for deliverance, and when he has offered up his prayers and they have not been great, It is then that he draws his jurt around him, and sinking down upon the sands, awaits with outstanding equanimity the decreed death. This is the faith in which the journey across the desert must be made. The desert is terrible, and it is merciless, but to the desert all those who once have known it must return.

End of Section 1. Section 2 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad-Hassanian. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 The Planning of the Journey This is the story of a journey which I made in 1923, from Solem on the Mediterranean to El Obed in the Sudan,

some 2,200 miles. In the course of it, I was fortunate enough to discover to lost oases, our canoe, and Oenot, which previously had not been known to geographers. My journey was primarily a scientific expedition, but I have tried in this book to avoid wearying the reader with technical matters and to write a straightforward narrative, which may be of some interest, even to those who are not acquainted with Egypt, the Sudan, or the Libyan Desert.

It had always been my greatest ambition to penetrate to Kufra, a group of oases in the Libyan desert, which had only once been visited by an explorer. In 1879, the intrepid German Rolfs had succeeded, but he had barely escaped with his life, and all his notebooks and the results of his scientific observations were destroyed. In 1915, I had been fortunate enough to meet in Cairo, Sayad Idris Elsinusi, the famous head of the Sunusi Brotherhood,

when he was returning from a pilgrimage to Mecca. The capital of the seducey is Kufra, and when in 1917 I went on a mission to Sayad Idris with Colonel the Honorable Milo Talbot, C.B.R.E., a distinguished officer who had retired from the Egyptian army, but had returned to the service during the Great War. And renewed my acquaintance with that notable man at Zootina, a little port near Jeddibia and Sireneica,

I seized the opportunity and told him of my ambition. Sayad Idris was most sympathetic and asked me to let him know when I proposed to make the expedition so that he might give me the help and countenance without which a journey to Kufor could not be undertaken. I met him again at Akrama near Tobruk and told him then that I would set out as soon as I was free from my war duties. At Tobruk, Francis Rod, an old Ballyol friend was with me, and we decided that we would go together. When the war was over, Mrs. Rosita Forbes, now Mrs. A. McGrath, brought me a letter of introduction from Mr. Rod and asked that she might join us. We proceeded to plan an expedition Atro, but when the time came, Mr. Rod was prevented from making one of the party. Finally, in 1920,

Mrs. Forbes and I set out by ourselves, and with the friendly cooperation of the Italian authorities and the promised countenance and assistance of Sayad Idris, who provided us with our caravan, we reached Kufra in January 1921. But this trip to Kufra, interesting as it was, only tempted me to explore the vast unknown desert which lay beyond. There were rumors, too, of lost oases, which even the people of Kufra knew only by hearsay and tradition.

And I returned to Cairo, resolved to make another expedition, and instead of coming straight back from Kufra, as Mrs. Forbes and I had done, to strike south across the unknown desert until I came to Wadai and the Sudan. Again, on the first trip, our only scientific instruments were an aneroid barometer and a prismatic compass. It was not, therefore, possible for me to make exact scientific observations, and all that I brought back was notes for a simple compass traverse of the route based on the meager material I had obtained.

I was eager to check Rolf's observations and to determine once and for all the place of Kufra on the map. In 1922 then, I submitted my plan for a journey across the desert from the Mediterranean to the Sudan to his majesty King Fuad I, who had been gracious enough to display his interest in my first trip by decorating me with a medal of merit. He sympathized warmly with my project, directed that I should be given a long leave of absence from my official duties,

and later caused the expenses of the expedition to be defrayed by the Egyptian treasury. Indeed, my expedition could not possibly have met with the success that it did, had it not been for His Majesty's invaluable support. I completed my preparations, and in December 1922 I had collected my baggings, and the house of my father, so that, in accordance with the ancient practice of my race, it might be blessed before I set out on my expedition across the Libyan Desert. Chapter 3. The Blessing of the Baggage Allah Yassad Khatak, may God guide your steps.

The Arabic words fell reverently on the air of the great bare room where candlelight and clouds of drifting incense contended for supremacy. Along the walls bulked a strange collection of baggage, big boxes, little boxes, sheepskin water bags, tin fountasas for carrying water, stuffed food sacks, bales of tents, carrying cases of leather and metal containing scientific instruments, and my own personal kit. After the bustle of getting everything corded and tied and strapped and arranged in order, a hush had come as we took our stand in the middle of the room. outside the Egyptian night had fallen, and across the garden the faint hum of the evening life of Cairo entered our windows. We were three. Myself, Abdullahi, anubian from Aswan, who was to be one of my most trusted men, and Ahmed, also from Aswan, looking half a wreck after a spell of city life as he stood beside us, but later to prove himself an excellent cook

and on the trek the life of the party. Before us stood a tall old man with a white, flowering beard dressed in a deep orange-colored silk caftan. His delicately wrinkled features spoke of the piece that comes with saintliness. His long, slim fingers clicked softly against each other the amber beads of a rosary. The white smoke from the incense in the wrought silver sensor, held by a servant beside him, mounted in a delicate. spiral. The saintly man put aside his rosary and lifted his hands, palms upward toward heaven.

His voice, thin with age but clear with conviction, sounded the prayer for those about to go upon a journey. May God guide your steps, may he crown your efforts with success, and may he return you to us safe and victorious. He went around the room, swinging the sensor rhythmically before each pile of baggage and uttering little prayers. This was a traditional ceremony of blessing of the baggage, made sacred by ages of Arab usage at the setting out of a caravan. It has largely fallen into disuse in these later days, but in the house of my father, who walks through life deeply absorbed in scholarship and the faith of the prophet, it was the most natural thing in the world when the only son was going forth into the desert. As I stood before the saintly man to

receive his blessing, I was no longer an Egyptian of today, but a Bedouin going back to the desert where his father's fathers had pitched their tents. Then I turned and I went to my father. For 15 years since I had been sent to Europe for my education, our ways had rarely met. Sometimes I wish that I had studied the subjects in which he was interested so that I might profit by his profound learning. He is going to live in another generation, Let him get the education he will need for it, my father had said once of a fellow scholar of mine. But now, when I was returning to the desert from which our forefathers had come, we knew what was in each other's minds and understood.

After a moment's silence, he put his hands on my shoulders and prayed, May safety be your companion, may God guide your steps, may he give you fortitude, and may he give success to your undertakings. The baggage blessed. Adula and Ahmed took the heavy stuff and set out for Sollum, leaving me with the scientific instruments and the cameras for more careful handling. On December 19th, I left Alexandria by boat for Sollum. End of Section 2.

Section 3 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4. Supplies and equipment The 21st found me disembarking at Solem, which is a tiny seaport close to the western frontier of Egypt. There we were to take camel and go by way of Jagub to Jallo, the important center of desert trade, where our own caravan would be organized and the Great Trek southward begun. A journey like this of mine always has several starting points, each with its own. own variety of emotions and experiences. In the dimly lighted, incense-scented room in my father's

house, the enterprise was a kind of dream, fascinating in its possibilities, but hardly yet real. At solemn came the practical reality of assembling stores and equipment, packing and repacking to get everything into the smallest compass and most convenient shape for handling. Checking it all over to make sure that nothing had been forgotten, and arranging with camel owners for the first stage of the trip. At Jalow would come the third start, with my own caravan at my back and the road to Kufra, already traversed but by still no means familiar, before me. Then the last setting out of all, as I rode out of Kufra with my face toward the unknown and the unexplored. Abdullahi and Ahmed were already at Solem, with the heavy baggage, and the camels

were arranged for, the agreement only awaiting my approval. We proceeded to get our outfit and supplies and order. Some description of the two Egyptians who accompanied me throughout the expedition may be of interest. Abdullahi was a Nubian from Eswan, heavily built, well set up and strong, with a pair of small eyes deeply set that could mask a malicious sense of humor with great indifference or dignity. A man of about 40, he was well educated and knew his Koran well. I met him first in 1914 when he was attached to the Idrisi family in Egypt,

and I took an enormous liking to him because of his deeply rooted sense of humor and his loyalty. He was honest, too, extremely honest, and therefore I put him in charge of the commissariat. In Abdullahiz kit, one could always find anything that was needed, from strips of leather with primitive Bedouin needles for mending shoes to elaborate contrivances for propping up a broken tent pole. He was ready, moreover, with inaccuracies to suit every situation, whether he wanted me to appear to be a wandering Bedouin from Egypt or a merchant or an important government official when we landed in the midst of officialdom in the Sudan. Abdullah had one peculiarity. Between sunset and an hour or two later, it was apparently a most difficult task to keep him awake, though he might be sitting

down, holding a discussion, he would go on dozing as he sat. On one occasion we had just finished dinner, and it being about the hour, Zerwali, my Bedouin loyal companion who joined our caravan at Jallo, as a joke, took a lot of Zatar, a strong scent used for flavoring tea, and put it in Abdullahis tea. In between doses the latter woke up, tasted his tea, knew what had happened, said nothing, but simply put back his glass. After a while, however, Abdullahi turned around and said to Zerwali, I believe you are expecting a man to see you. I think I hear him coming. As Zerwali got up to look, Abdullahi quietly changed round the glasses so that Zirwali drank the highly flavored tea, while Abdullahi dosed off peacefully once more.

Abdullahi's business instinct came out at its best when we arrived at inhabited country toward the end of the journey, and we were short of food. He collected all the odds and ends at the caravan, including empty tins and bottles of medicine, even the few used Gillette blades, and bartered them with the natives for butter, milk, spices, and leather. It was Abdullahi also who was greatly upset when I showed my

film of the expedition at a lecture given before His Majesty King Fuad at the Royal Opera House in Cairo. When Abdulehyve found that he appeared in many of the pictures with a tattered shirt, he resented being shown to his king in such an unsuitable garment and asked if something could not be done so that he should appear in a shirt that was cleaner and less well-worn. Ahmed, too, was a Nubian from Aswan, a slight, wiry fellow who never gave in. He was my valet and cook. Although very well educated, he became a cook because he liked to live a free life. Had he become a religious man, as his father wished,

he would have been obliged to lead a model life, and that, apparently, did not appeal to him. He was always cheerful, and though no one in the caravan did so much cursing, the Bedouins did not mind him. At a word that Ahmed said, had it come from any other, there would have been bloodshed. but the Bedouins got accustomed to him, and there was only one row. After his cooking was over,

Ahmed used to sit down with the Bedouins and scorn their knowledge of religion. He would prove his superiority by reciting from memory bits of poetry about religion and the Arabic language and some of the prophet's sayings. Never once said Amit failed to make me a glass of tea, even in circumstances of the greatest difficulty. On one occasion, after a whole night's trek, he was suffering badly from a hurt foot. And as we were pitching camp, I told him casually that I did not want any breakfast or tea until I had slept and ordered him to go to bed at once. Nevertheless,

just as I was getting my shelter ready, Amad arrived with a steaming glass of tea. He cursed all the Bedouins, but there was no Bedouin in the caravan for whom, if he felt ill, Amid would not do everything in his power to give him relief. He had learned gradually the use of such medicines as I had, and frequently, when in doubt, would bring me a little bottle to ask whether it was quinine or aspirin. The requirements for a desert trek are simple, and the list of what one takes with one is almost stereotyped. For food, there are, first of all, flour, rice, sugar, and tea. All the people of the desert are very fond of meat, but naturally it cannot be carried. One must either shoot it by the way or go without. Tea is the drink.

in the Libyan desert rather than coffee, and for that there are two reasons. The first is religious, the second is practical. Said Ibn Ali El Senussi, the founder of that interesting brotherhood that controls the destinies of the country through which I was to travel, forbade his followers all luxuries. His prohibition included tobacco and coffee, but for some reason did not extend to tea. His followers, therefore, are tea-drinkers. If you can call by the same name the delicate aromatic pale fluid that graces the tea tables of Europe and America and the murky, bitter liquid which sustains the Bedouin on his marches and revise him at day's end. The second reason is that tea is a stimulant to work on while coffee is not.

Tea is the thing with which to finish off each meal of the desert day and to refresh the weary traveler at the end of a hard day's trek, leaving coffee for the less strenuous. life of the oasis and the home. After these staples come dates, or perhaps they ought to be put first, the camels live on dates, as does a whole caravan when other foods are exhausted, or when there is no time to halt and cook a meal. But the dates are not the rich, sweet, sugary things one is accustomed to for dessert or a picnic delicacy in western lands. The date which one must use for desert travel has little sugar about it. Sugar breeds thirst, and where wells are days apart, the water supply is

not to be prodigally spent. I took some tin things with me, bully beef, vegetables, and fruits. But tins are heavy, and to carry enough food in tins for a long trek would demand a score of extra camels or more. There was a little coffee in our stores, but we seldom drank it. I used most of it for presents to the friends we made along the way. A few bottles of malted milk tablets proved useful as emergency lunches when food ran low. The Bedouins, however, were not keen on them. They fill us up, they said, without the pleasure of the taste. That was our commissary list, except for salt and some spices,

especially pepper for the acida, a pudding of boiled flour and oil made pepper hot. There was little variety, but variety is the one thing one has to give up when one supplies are to be carried by animals who must themselves live cheaply on what they can carry. There were no luxuries, no matter how pleasant they might have been, to relieve the monotony of rice, unleavened bread, dates, and tea. If one has experience in desert travel and the wisdom to learn by it, one takes no foods of which there is not enough to feed everyone in the caravan. On the trek in the desert, there is no distinction of rank or class, high or low. The sole exception to the rule of no luxuries was tobacco. Since only one of my men who were

with me at any time on the trip smoked, however, this was no real violation of the rule. A stock of Egyptian cigarettes and tobacco afforded me constant pleasure and comfort throughout the journey. Next comes water, the one great and unceasing problem of desert travel. Men have lived for an unbelievable number of days without food, whether from necessity or from curiosity, but the man who could go for four days without water would be a miracle. A desert is a desert just because it lacks water. The desert traveler must think first of his drinking supply. We carried water in two ways.

The regular supply was held in 25 Girba's, the traditional sheepskin water carrier of the desert. Each holds from four to six gallons and is easily burst if two camels carrying Gerba's bumped together in the dark on a rocky road. So the reserve water supply for emergencies is carried in fantassas. They are long tin containers, oblong or oval-shaped and cross-section to hang easily along the camel's side. We had four fantassas holding four gallons each and four others holding 12 gallons each. Our full supply, therefore, was something like 200 gallons, enough to last our caravan when it was finally organized on the longest trek from well to well that we were likely to encounter. We carried only our reserve supply at fantassas, although they were less liable to injury

because the Girba's when empty took up so little space. All 25 of them could be carried on one camel, while only two Fantasas went to a camel full or empty. We had no camels to spare. There were also some individual water bottles, but most of them were soon discarded because the men hated the nuisance of carrying them. A few were kept for cooling water later on in the journey

when the weather became hot. The evaporation of the moisture through the canvas, sides of the bottles or bags kept the water within at a pleasant temperature. Four tents, two bell-shaped and two rectangular, and numerous cooking utensils of which the chief was a huge brass hala or bowl for boiling rice, made up the tail of our equipment. For emergencies there was a medicine chest with quinine, iodine, cotton, and bandages, bismuth solicillate for dysentery, morphine tablets and a hypodermic syringe, anti-scorpion serum, which was to plunge me into an apparently serious predicament and rescue me from it,

zinc ointment for eczema, indigestion tablets, and epsom salts. I had a primitive surgical kit and a few dental instruments and remedies which a dentist friend had given me. I was equipped to take care of the simple everyday ills. If anything more serious befell, I should have to say, recovery comes from God. For hunting and possible defense, I took three rifles, three automatic pistols, and a shotgun. By the time of our return, the shotgun had been given as a present, and the rest of the arsenal had been increased by six rifles and one pistol. When the rifles arrived at Solem in their characteristically shaped boxes, it was immediately rumored through the town that I was carrying

a machine gun for some mysterious purpose which gossip elaborated to suit itself. In order to make the report of what I found and saw as vivid and truthful as possible, I took five cameras. Three of them were Kodak's, which functioned perfectly to the end. One, a more elaborate instrument with a focal plane shutter, which was ruined by the penetrating sand, and the last a cinema machine. For all the cameras I carried Eastman Kodak films, which were packed with elaborate care, first in airtight tins, then in tin cases, saw a filled, and finally in wooden boxes. These precautions in packing proved to be none too great in view of the intense heat of the first part of the route and the rain and dampness which we encountered

later on in the Sudan. For the cinema camera, I took 9,000 feet of film. Fortune was with me in all the photographic work. The films were not developed until my return eight months later to Egypt, but the percentage of failures was gratifyingly low. For clothing, I took the usual Bedouin garb of white shirts and long drawers, both made of Calico, and it will endured the voluminous Bedouin wrap. Also silk jackets and waistcoats and cloth drawers, like riding breeches but reaching to the ankles.

The latter were used only on ceremonious occasions, such as entering or leaving an oasis. There were naturally a few changes of each. I did not wish to put on the desert dress until he ended the first stage of the journey, so I left solemn in an old khaki coat and riding breeches, which had already seen their best days. With yellow Bedouin slippers on my feet,

the only possible wear in desert travel, and a jagger woolen nightcap on my head, for the weather was keenly cold, I must have been an amusing figure when we made our start. When traveling into unknown lands, especially in the east, it is important to be able to make presents to those of prominence whom you meet.

I had what seemed to me an enormous supply of silks, copper bowls, and sensors inlaid with silver, bottles of scent, silk handkerchiefs, silver teapots and tea glasses, silver callbells, which the Bedouin is delighted to be able to use

for summoning his slaves, instead of the usual clapping of the hands. When I saw all this array being packed, I felt sure we should bring back half of it with us. But by the time we had reached Kufra, I discovered that not only those who were of use to me this time, but everyone who had rendered the slightest service on my previous trip was expectant of a reward

for services rendered. What with postponed expectations and the opportunities which the present trip afforded me for making presents, we had none too many of the goods I have mentioned. In making these gifts, however, I did not feel that it was so much an endeavor to smooth the way of my expedition as a courtesy from a Bedouin of the town to his brother Bedouin of the desert. Most important of all for the ultimate value of the expedition, if it was to have any, was the scientific apparatus, which is detailed in Dr. Ball's report in the appendix. The fortnight at Solem was filled with busy days. Simple as her equipment was, everything had to be as nearly right as thought and care could achieve.

Things carried on camel back, put on each morning and taken off each night, and built into barricades against the weather and possible attacks, must be snugly and securely packed. At the end of a day's trek, careless or tired camelmen often find it easier to let boxes and bundles drop without ceremony from the camel's sides than to handle them with proper care. End of Chapter 4. Mohamed Hassanian. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 5. Plots and Omen My plans were all made for a trek straight south to Jagbab, when, two days before the date determined upon for the start, an incident happened which disquieted me. I was sitting one evening in my room in the little government resthouse, busy with the figures of my scientific observations. There came a knock at the door. I could not imagine who would want me at that hour, but I went to the door and opened it a little way.

A Bedouin, whom I did not know, was standing there, muffled Bedouin fashion in his jerd. I shut the door quickly and demanded, Who are you? A friend was the answer, which somehow did not convince me. What is your name in business? I asked. I am a friend, and I have something to tell you which you ought to know, explained my visitor through the closed door.

I opened the door and demanded what he had to tell. He came in. You are going by the straight road to Jagbub? He half queried. I nodded assent. Don't go, he continued with vigor. Why not? I asked. The bay is a rich man, he said.

He carries with him great stores to the bounty of God, and the Bedouins are greedy. The rumor is that you have many boxes of gold. I could see that he half believed it, though he was pretending not to. The camelmen have agreed with friends on the road that you should be waylaid and robbed. You will lose your money and probably your life. One can always fight, I suggested. Perhaps, he agreed, if you had plenty of men of your own.

I hadn't, so I proceeded to question him further about his information. The story seemed straight enough, and when I looked at him. learned that my visitor was a relative of a man to whom I had done a good turn when on the last mission to the Sunuzis, I felt that it would be wise to believe him. I thanked him for his warning, and he went away into the night. I sat down to consider the unpleasantly melodramatic situation. The desert people are quick to ferret out your purpose if they can, and if they cannot, to build up imaginary stories to account for what you are and have and intend to do. Much of our paraphernalia was in boxes. Boxes to the Bedouin mine mean treasure. If three rifles in a case could be translated into a machine gun, why should not the cameras and instruments and boxes be translated into gold and banknotes? It was no wonder that the men whose camels we had hired were convinced that I was going into the desert with a vast wealth for some unknown purpose. It was quite possible that they planned to rob me.

It was a cheerful outlook for the very beginning of our journey. A fight, no matter how successful, would be a poor start for our undertaking. I decided that it would be better to avoid this first obstacle in our path rather than to encounter it. Promptly the next day, the camel owners whose pleasant little plan had been revealed to me found themselves discharged. Others, with their camels, were forthwith hired to take me to Siwa. Instead of the straight line to Jagbub, we would go along the two other sides of the triangle whose apexes were solemn, Siwa, and Jagbub. It would materially lengthen the first part of our journey, but, after all, time and distance

were less important than safe arrival. The road by way of Siwa had several advantages. It lay in Egyptian territory and not in the country inhabited by the tribes to which the first set of camelmen belonged. In the second place, it ran through more frequented territory, where a treacherous waylaying of our caravan would have been more perilous to the waylayers. Lastly, our quick departure after the change of plan gave the conspirators no time to develop any new plot if they had wanted to.

It looked safe, and it proved to be as safe as it looked. On January 1st, the caravan started, and three days later, Lieutenant Bather very kindly took me in a motor car to catch up with it. We found the caravan at Dignesh, 36 miles out, and saying goodbye to the lieutenant, I took up the journey. It was then a six-days trek to Siwa. Our spare time was profitably spent in camouflaging the boxes and cases in our luggage to look like the usual Bedouin impedimenta. The only event of interest during the six days was the first of three good omens that foretold success to the trip. On the fifth day in the late afternoon, I saw a gazelle feeding a little distance off our

track. Without other thought than the pleasant anticipation of fresh meat, I set out after it. As I went, I heard discouraging shouts and howls from the men behind me. I could not understand the reluctance to have me go after the game in view of the Bedouin's love of meat. I imagined that they were afraid I would be led away some distance from them and thus hold them. up the progress of the caravan. The reason did not seem quite sufficient, so I pursued my quest. After some chase, I got a shot at the gazelle and brought it down. As I approached the caravan with my game, I was surprised again. The men came running toward me with waving arms and shouts of joyful congratulations. I understood their present state of mind no more than I had

their former one, until the explanation was forthcoming. Then I learned. Then I learned, that among the Bedouins, the first shot fired at game after a caravan sets out is the critical one. If it is a miss, disaster is certain to overtake the caravan before the journey's end. If it is a hit, fortune will smile upon the whole undertaking. The men of the caravan had been reluctant to see me put our luck to the test so soon. If I had remembered the Bedouin travel lore, I should have saved my first shot at game until we reached El Fasher six months later. We were three days in Siwa, hiring other camels for the trek to Jagbub and making few final

preparations. Sewa was the last outpost of the world I was leaving behind. There, the postal service and the telegraph end. Beyond that point, there is nothing to be bought except the products of the desert, or occasionally a little rice or cloth, perhaps at exorbitant prices. In my three days I enjoyed the hospitality and valuable assistance of the frontier district's administration in the persons of the Mamur and town officials and of Lieutenant Lawler in command of the troops there. Siva is the biggest and most charming of oases, springs of wonderful water, excellent fruit,

the best dates in the world, picturesque scenery, and the quaintest and most interesting of customs. For example, if a woman loses her husband, she is kept 40 days without washing and nobody sees her. Her food has passed through a crack in the door. When the 40 days have expired, she goes to bathe in one of the wells and everybody tries to avoid crossing her path, for she is then called Gula and is supposed to bring very bad luck to anybody who sees her on that day of that first bath. In the date market, called Amista, all the dates are piled together, the best quality and the most inferior. No one thinks of touching one date that does not belong to him, or mixing the dates together with a view to gaining an advantage thereby. On the other hand, anybody can go into Amistah and eat as much as he likes from the best quality without paying a million, but he must not take any away with him.

In Siwa, there is a shrine of a saint where people may deposit their belongings for safety. If a man is going away, he can take his bags with the most valuable things and put them near this shrine, and nobody would dream of touching them. Literally, if anyone left a bundle of gold there, no one would touch it, because of the very simple but unshakable belief in them that if you touch anything near that shrine and it does not belong to you, you would have bad luck. for the rest of your life. When I was ready to leave Siwa,

my little group of personal retainers had doubled in number. At Solem, I added to Abdullahi and Ahmed, a man of the Monafah tribe named Hamad. He was the hardest-working individual in the entire caravan. I never saw him tired. He took charge of my camel and later of the horse, which I secured at Kufra.

The fourth member of the group was Ismail, Asiwi. He looked like a weakling, but on the trek he was always the last man to give in and ride a camel. Ismail was the one whom I used to take with me when prospecting for geological specimens or making elaborate scientific observations. Coming from an oasis in Egyptian territory where the post and the telegraph made connection with the outside world, he had less of the wild Bedouin's suspicion that interprets every simple action of the stranger into something with an ulterior motive. Why should the bay be chipping off bits of rock,

the Bedouin might say to himself, unless there were gold in it, or he intended to come and conquer the country? Not so Ismail. If the bay wanted a bit of rock, that was for the bay to say. We left Siwa on the 14th with our new caravan. Our last link with the outside world was broken.

At the first stop, I took off my faded khaki, and put on the Bedouin costume, and felt myself now a part of the desert life. The effect upon the men was immediate. Till now they had approached me with embarrassment and awkwardness. Now they came up naturally, kissed my hand in Bedouin fashion, and said, now you are one of us. Our second good omen befell us a few miles out of Siwa. We found dates in our path where some unfortunate date Mertz, taking his cargo to market, had had an accident. Dates in the way are a promise of good fortune for the journey. Often when a Bedouin is setting out with his caravan, friends will secretly go ahead and drop dates where he will be sure to pass them. With my first shot and the gazelle

and the dates in the path, we had every reason to be cheerful. But the best omen of all was to come. I had sent two men ahead with a letter to Sayad Idris at Jagbug to inform him of my approach. In the desert, one does not rush upon a friend or a dignitary headlong and unannounced. There should be time for both to put on fresh clothing and go with dignity to the meeting as becomes gentleman of breeding. Two days out from Siwa, I was riding some distance behind the caravan and presently came upon it halted. I asked the reason for the unusual stop and receive the reply. Messengers have come to say that Sayad Idris will be here within the hour.

The men could scarcely conceal our excitement. To be met by the great head of the Sanusis himself at the beginning of our journey was the most auspicious of omens. The rest of the message was indicative of the etiquette of the desert. He asked the bay to camp so that he may come to him. We immediately made camp, and before long the vanguard of Sayad Idris' caravan appeared and made a camp in their turn a short distance away. A half hour later, Sayad Idris himself, with his retinue, advanced toward my camp, and I went to meet him. Sayad Idris met me with warm cordiality, and we renewed the acquaintance made on our previous meetings with deep gratification on my part and apparent pleasure on his.

The former trip could never have been successful without the countenance he gave to it and the assistance he rendered. How much more the present one, which was to take me three times as far and into more completely unknown regions. In his tent, we lunched on rice, stuffed chicken, and sweet bedou and cakes, followed by glasses of tea delicately scented with mint and rose water. I told him but my plans and gave him news of the outside world. He was interested to know the final issue of the peace conference at Versailles.

At his suggestion, I brought all the men of my caravan to his tent to receive his blessing. As I stood with them and heard the familiar words fall from his lips, there came irresistibly to my mind that moment in the incense shrouded room in Cairo and my father's blessing upon my undertaking. Then my imagination had leaped out to meet the vision of the desert, the camels and Bedouin life. Now the need for imagination was gone. I was in Bedouin kit with the camels of my caravan behind me and the road to the goal I sought stretching ahead. To my men, the experience of being blessed by Sayad Idris himself was the greatest augury of success that we could have had. Nothing could harm us now.

In the afternoon we said farewell. Both camps were broken, and both camps were broken, and both caravans took up to march. Sead Idris going east into Egypt and I west to Jagbub and the long trail into the desert. As we marched, my men insisted on following the track made by the caravan of Sayad Idris to prolong the great good fortune that had befallen us. End of Section 4. Section 5 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad Hassanan. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. The Senusis Any story of the Libyan Desert would not be complete without some consideration of the

Senusses, the most important influence in that region. The subject is a complicated one. Justice might be done to it if an entire volume were available, but within the limits of a chapter only the important points of Sunusi history can be touched. The Sanusis are not a race, nor a country, nor a political entity, nor a religion. They have, however, some of the characteristics of all four. In fact, they are almost exclusively Bedouins. They inhabit, for the most part, the Libyan Desert.

They exert a controlling influence over considerable areas of that region and are recognized by the governments of surrounding territory as a real power in the affairs of northeastern Africa. And they are Muslims. Perhaps the best short description of the Sanusis would be as a religious order whose leadership is hereditary and which exerts a predominating influence in the lives of the people of the Libyan Desert. The history of the Brotherhood may be roughly divided into four periods.

In each, it took its color from the personality of the leader. These were, respectively, Sayyed Ibn Ali El Senusi, the founder, Sayad al-Madi, his son, Sayad Ahmed, the nephew of the latter, and Sayad Idris, the son of El-Madi, the present head at the brotherhood. Sayad Mohammed Ibn Ali El-Sanusi, known as the Grand Sanusi,

was born in Algeria in the year 1202 after the Hegera, which corresponds to 1787 in the Christian calendar. He was a descendant to the prophet Muhammad and had received an unusually scholarly education in the Karawan University in Fez, and at Mecca, where he became the pupil of the famous theologian Sidiamid Ibn Idris El Fazi. He developed an inclination to asceticism and a conviction that what his religion needed was a return to a pure form of Islam, as exemplified in the teachings of the Prophet. At the age of 51, he was compelled to leave Mecca by the opposition

of the older sheiks who challenged his orthodoxy. He returned through Egypt to Sarinayika and began to establish centers for teaching his doctrines among the Bedouins. At this point, an explanation of the meaning of three Arabic words will elucidate the text. They are Zawiya, Ijuan, and Wachil. A Zawiya is a building of three rooms,

its size depending on the importance of the place in which it is situated. One room is a school room in which the Bedouin children are taught by the equan. The second serves as a guest house in which travelers receive the usual three days' hospitality of Bedouin custom. In the third, the Iquan lives. The Zawiya is generally built near a well where travelers naturally stop. Attached to the Zawiya is often a bit of land which is cultivated by the equan. The equan are the active members of the Brotherhood who teach its principles and pre-saccomplish.

EQUAN in Arabic is really a plural form, which means brothers. But the singular of the word is never used, equan having come to be used for one or more. O'Aquil is the personal representative or deputy of the head of the Senussis. The Grand Sanusi found the Muslims of Sirenik have fallen into heresies and in danger of rapid degeneration, not only from a religious but from a moral point of view. Some small examples may serve to illustrate this point.

At Jebel Akdar in the north of Seraenaika, certain influential Bedouin chiefs had established a sort of a Kaaba, an imitation of the true one at Mecca to which every believer, who could possibly do so, should make his pilgrimage. These founders of a false Kaaba tried to establish the theory that a pilgrimage thither was a worthy substitute for the Hodge, the authentic pilgrimage to the central shrine of Islam. The keeping of the month of Ramadan as a time of abstinence and religious contemplation

is an important tenet to the Muslim faith. The Bedouins used to go before the beginning of Ramadan to a certain valley called Wadizaza, noted for the multiple echo given back by its walls. In chorus, they would shout a question, Wadizaza, Wadizaza, shall we keep Ramadan or no? The echo, of course, threw back the last words of the question, No, no, no. Those who had appealed thus to the oracle would then go home,

justified in their own minds and the desire to forego the keeping of the fast. There were also prevalent among the Bedouins, remnants of old barbaric customs, such as the killing of female children to save them from the evils which life might bring, which stood between them and their development into worthy exes, exponents of Islam. In such circumstances, what the founder of the Sunusi Brotherhood had to give in his teaching and preaching of a return to the pure tenets of Islam met a poignant need.

Said Ibn Ali El Sanusi founded his first Zawiya on African soil at Siwa, which is in Egypt close to the western frontier. From that point, he moved westward into Seraenica, establishing Zawiyas at Jallo and Gila. He traveled westward through Tripoli in Tunis, gradually spreading his teachings among the Bedouins. His reputation as a saintly man and as a scholar had preceded him, and he was much sought after by the Bedouin chiefs, who vied with one another to give him hospitality. On his return to Sirenaica in the year 1843, he established at Jebel Akhtar near Durna a large Zawiya called El Zawiya, the White Zawiya. Until this time he had no headquarters, but led a life of a wandering teacher.

He settled down at El Zawiya El Beda and received visits from the leading Bedouin dignitaries of Sirenaica. The grandson of He preached a pure form of Islam and strict adherence to the laws of God and his prophet Muhammad. His teachings may perhaps be best illustrated by a passage from a letter to the people of Wajonga in Wadai, the original of which I saw at Kufra and translated. The passage reads as follows. We wish to ask you in the name of Islam to obey God and his prophet. In his dear book he says, praise be to him, O ye, who are believers, obey God and obey the prophet.

He also says he obeys the prophet has also obeyed God. He also says, he who obeys God and his prophet has won a great great victory. He also says those who obey God and the prophet, they are with the prophets whom God has rewarded. We wish to ask you to obey what God and his prophet have ordered, making the five prayers every day, keeping the month of Ramadan, giving ties, making the hodge to the sacred home of God, and avoiding what God has forbidden, telling lies, slandering people behind their backs, taking unlawfully other people's money, drinking wine, killing men unlawfully, bearing false witness, and the other crimes before God. In following these, you will gain everlasting good and

endless benefits which can never be taken from you. The principal concern of the founder of the sinuses was with the religious aspects of life. He did not sit out to be a political leader or to grasp temporal power. He counseled austerity of life with the same enthusiasm with which he practiced it. He taught no special theological doctrines and demanded acceptance of no particular dogmas. He cared much more for what his followers did than for any technicalities of belief. His only addition to the Muslim ritual was a single prayer, which he wrote and which the sinuses use called the Hezb. It is not opposed to anything taught by the older theologians, nor does it add anything to what is found in the Quran.

It is simply expressed in a different language. In the letter to the people of Wajanga, which I have quoted, another passage describing his mission which God had laid upon him as that of reminding the negligent, teaching the ignorant, and guiding him who has gone astray. He forbade all kinds of luxurious living to those who allied themselves with his brotherhood. The possession of gold and jewels was prohibited, except for the adornment of women, and the use of tobacco and coffee. He imposed no ritual and only demanded a return to the simplest form of Islam as it was found in the teaching of the prophet. He was intolerant of any intercourse, not only with Christians and Jews, but with that part of the Muslim world, which, in his conviction, had digressed from the original meaning of Islam.

In the year 1856, Sayyid Ibn Ali founded at Jagbub, the Zawiya which eventually developed into the center of education and learning of the Sunusi Brotherhood. His choice of Jagbub was not haphazard or accidental, but a demonstration of his wisdom and practical sagacity. He conceived it to be of first importance to reconcile the different tribes of the desert to each other and to bring peace among them. One more quotation from his letter illustrates this point. We intend to make peace between you and the Arabs, the people of Wajonga to whom this letter is addressed, are of the black race, who invade your territory and take your sons as slaves and your money.

In so doing, we shall be carrying out the injunction of God, who has said, if two parties of believers come into conflict, make peace between them. Also, we shall be following his direction. Fear God, make peace among those about you, and obey God and his prophet, if you are believers. Jagbub was a strategic point for his purpose. It stood midway between tribes on the east and on the west, who had been in constantly recurring conflict. With his headquarters there, the Grand Sunuzi could bring his influence to bear on the warring rivals

and carry out the command of the prophet to make peace among the world. those about you. From a practical standpoint, Jagbub was an unpromising place in which to set up such a center of educational and religious activity as the Grand Sanusi had in contemplation. It is not much of an oasis, if indeed it can be called an oasis at all. Date trees are scarce there, the water is brackage, and the soil is very difficult to cultivate. Its strategic importance, however, was clear, and without hesitation, he selected it as the site of his headquarters. The raids made upon each other by the tribes to the east and the west were brought to an end through his influence. He settled many old feuds, not only between those tribes, but among

the other tribes in Seraenaica. Sayad Ibn Ali lived for six years after establishing himself at Jagburg, and extended his influence far and wide. The Zwaya tribe, who had been known as the brigands of Sirenayaka, fearing neither God nor man, invited him to come to Kufra, the chief community of their people, and established a Zawiya there. They agreed to give up raiding and thieving and attacking other tribes and offered him one-third of all their property in Kufra if he would come to them.

He could not go in person, but he sent the famous equan, Cidi Omar Buhawa, who established the first Sunusi Zawiya at Jof in Kufra, and began the dissemination of the teachings of the Grand Sanusi among the Zawians. Sayad Ibn Ali also commissioned Iquan to go into many other parts of the Libyan desert, and before his death, all the Bedouins on the western frontier of Egypt and all over Seraenaika had become his disciples. He died in the year 1859 and was buried in the tomb over which rises the Cuba of Jagbub. The Grand Sanusi was succeeded by his son, C.D. Mohamed El Madi, who was 16 years old when his father died.

In spite of his youth, his succession as head of the order was strengthened by two circumstances. It was remembered that on one occasion at the end of an interview with his father, El Madi was about to leave the room when the Grand Sanusi rose and performed for him the menial service of arranging his slippers, which had been taken off on entering. The founder of the order addressed all those present in these words. Witness, O ye men, here present, how Ibn Ali Elsinusi arranges the slippers of his son, El Madi. It was realized that he meant to indicate that the son not only would succeed the father, but would surpass him in holiness and sanctity. Then, too, there was an ancient prophecy that the Mahdi, who would reconquer the world for Islam, would attain his majority on the first day of Moharaj.

in the year 1300 after the Hedgera, having been born of parents named Muhammad and Fatma, and having spent several years in seclusion. Each part of this prophecy was fulfilled in the person of Elmadi. The choice as successor to the Grand Sanusi fell upon him. When Sayad El Madi reached his majority, there were 38 Zawiyas in Sireneica and 18 in Tripolitania. Others were scattered over other parts of North Africa, and there were nearly a score in Egypt. It has been estimated that between a million and a half and three million people owed spiritual allegiance to the head of the Brotherhood when Almaty became its active head. He was the most illustrious of the Sunusi family. He saw from the first that there was more scope for the influence of the Brotherhood in the direction

of Kufra and the regions to the southward than in the north. In the year 1894, he was a removed his headquarters from Jagbub to Kufra. Before his departure, he freed all his slaves, and some of them and their children are still to be found living at Jagbub. His going to Kufra marked the beginning of an important era in the history of the Sunusis, and also in the development of trade between the Sudan and the Mediterranean coast by way of Kufra. The difficult and waterless trek between Budapal well near Jal and Ziegan well just north of Kufra, became, in El Madi's time, a beaten route continually frequented by trade caravans and by travelers going to visit the center of the Sanusi Brotherhood. A man could walk for half a day from one end

to the caravan to the other, a Bedouin told me. The route from Kufra, south to Wadai, was also a hard and dangerous journey in those days, and El Madi caused the two wells of Bishra and Sarah to be dug on the road from Kufra to Tecro. Under the rule of the Zuea tribe of Bedouins, who had conquered Kufra from the Black Tabus, that group of oasis was the chief center of brigandage in the Libyan desert. The Zawayas are a warlike tribe, and in the days before the coming of the Senusses, they were a law unto themselves and amissed to all those who passed through their territory. Each caravan going through Kufra, north or south, was either pillaged,

or if lucky was compelled to pay a root tax to the Zwayas. These masters of Kufra were induced by Elmadi to give up this exacting of tribute. He realized the importance of developing the trade of the oases and of the routes across the Libyan desert from the north to the south. He strove to make desert travel safe, and in his day, Bumatare, a Zuea chieftain, told me at Kufra, a woman might travel from Barka, Sirenaica, to what, ad, unmolested. Elmadi also extended the circle of influence of the sinuses in many directions.

Iquan were set out to establish Sahuas from Morocco as far east as Persia. But his greatest work was in the desert among the Bedouins and the black tribes south of Kufra. He made the Sanusis not only a spiritual power in those regions and a powerful influence for peace and amity among the tribes, but a strong mercantile organization. under whose stimulus trade developed and flourished. In the last years of his life, he undertook to extend the influence of the Brotherhood to the southward in person.

He had gone to Gero south of Kufra when his death came suddenly in the year 1900. The sons of Elmadi were then minors, and his nephew, Sayad Amon, was made head of the brotherhood. He was the guardian of Sayad Idris, who, as the eldest son of Elmadi, was his Laud. legitimate successor. The new head of the Sunusis made an abrupt departure from the policies of his predecessors.

He sought to combine temporal and spiritual power. When the Italians took over Sirenaica and Tripoli from the Turks, Sayat Ahmed attempted to unite his spiritual power as head of the Brotherhood with the remnants of temporal and military power left by the Turks. Then the Great War broke out, and he allowed himself to be persuaded by Turkish and German emissaries to attack the western frontier of Egypt. The effort was a complete failure, and Sayad Ahmed was compelled to go to Constantinople in a German submarine. The third of the Sunusi leaders saw things differently from the Grand Sanusi and his son. They had realized that a spiritual

leader cannot be beaten on his own ground, whereas if he takes the field in quest of temporal supremacy, it requires only a few military reverses to destroy his prestige. The power of Sayyed-Eban Ali El-Sanusi and Sayyad al-Madi lay in themselves and in the spiritual influence that radiated from them. Sayad Amin surrendered this influence to rely upon arms, ammunition, and circumstances. When these failed, there was nothing left. From the hands of Sayad Ahmed, the Sanusi leadership fell to the Sunniusi leadership fell to the lineal successor, Seididris. He derives a considerable part of the prestige which he undoubtedly possesses from the fact that he is the son of Elmadi. But even without that advantage, his own

personal qualities would be an adequate foundation for success in the important position to which he has been called. He combines gentleness of disposition with firmness of character to a high degree. He has the loyal allegiance and support, not only of the Sanuzi, equan, but of the people of the Libyan desert. In 1917, an agreement was entered into by the Italian government with Sayad Idris, as head of the Sunusi Brotherhood, by which his right to administer the affairs of the oasis of Jallo, Aujila, Jedhabila, and Kufra was expressly recognized. This agreement was again ratified two years later at Regima. Unfortunately, in 1923, a misunderstanding between the

parties to this agreement caused it to lapse. It is to be hoped, however, that a new arrangement will be entered into between Seididris and the Italian authorities, which will restore to these oasis of the Libyan desert, their peace and prosperity. There can be no question that the influence of the Sunusi Brotherhood upon the lives of the people in that region is good. The equan of the sinuses are not only the teachers of the people, both in the field of religion and of general knowledge, judges and intermediaries between man and man and between tribe and tribe. The letter to the people of Wajonga already quoted clearly illustrates how the Grand Sanusi laid down this office of peacemaking as the duty of the Sanusi brothers. It was developed and made even more important

by his great son, El Madi. The importance of these aspects of the Sunusi rule and maintaining the tranquility and well-being of the people of the Libyan desert can scare be overestimated. End of Section 5. Section 6 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7. The Peace of Jagbab On the afternoon of the second day after meeting with Sayad Idris, we saw the snow-white

kuba or dome of the mosque at Jagbub rising before us. In proper Bedouin fashion, we camped a short distance from the town and sent a messenger ahead to announce our arrival. Two hours later, he returned to say that they were ready to receive us. The caravan went forward, and as it approached the walls, we fired our rifles in the air. We were met at the gate by Cedia sign, the Wachil, or representative of Ceyed Idris in the town, accompanied by a group of Iquan, who are teachers in the school. The students lined up along the way and gave a cheer as we went through.

The warmth of the welcome aroused an echo in our hearts. Entering Jagbub was, to me, like coming home. Two years before, it had been close to the finish of our journey. Now it stood as a starting point, one of several it is true, but still a starting point on the greater journey that was to come. The first time at Jagub had been marked by the reaction that comes, when the long trek is over. Now I was expectant and excited. Journey's end and trek's beginning are both great moments, but the emotions they arouse are not the same. I was impatient to start again,

but one month and four days were to pass before I took the road, for there were no camels waiting for me. Before leaving solemn, I had sent a man, Sayad Ali El Siyate, by the direct route to Jagbub to higher camels and have them waiting when I should arrive over the longer route by way of Siwa. But Ali had apparently vanished into thin air. He had gone as far as Jedhabilia, I learned, without success, for none of the Bedouins on the way from Sollum would let him have the beasts I wanted. At Jeddahbia too he had found no camels available. I waited two weeks with no sign of Ali. Then I discovered that the reason he could get no camels was because of road-fell. from Jagbub to Jallo was used exclusively by Bedouins of the Zawaiya and Majabra tribes,

and no other Bedouins dared to venture upon it. Though I was eager to get going again, I could not resist the charm and peace of the place in which I found myself immured. Jogbub is the center of education and religion. There is no trade here and no cultivation of the soil, except for some small bits of oases where former slaves, who had been freed by Seyd el-Madi when he moved to Kufra, grew vegetables and a few dates. The life of the town centers about the mosque, which is large enough to hold five or six hundred persons, and the school, which is the center of religious education for the Sunusis. Near the mosque are a few houses belonging to the Sunusi family and the equan,

and scattered about, both within and without the walls, are a number of private houses, building with rooms for some two or three hundred students are also grouped near the mosque. Jagbub had reached the height of its importance when Sayad Ibn Ali, the Grand Sunusi, made it the center of the Brotherhood. When his son, Sayad El Mare, succeeded him, the importance of the town continued for about a dozen years, until he transferred the center of the Brotherhood's activities to Kufra. Then when Sayad Ahmed al-Sarif, as guardian of a young Sayad Idris, was in control, Jagbab again flourished as the capital.

Its importance has fluctuated through the years with a presence or absence of the heads of the family within its walls. If Cededrus were to make it again the seat of the Sunusi rule, in two months the school and the town would be overflowing with members of the brotherhood, with students, and with pious visitors to the shrine of the Grand Sanusi. But at the time of my visit, there were only 80 young Bedouins from eight to 15 years of age, studying under the equan. If there had been more teachers, there would have been more students. But at the time of our visit, the head of the Sunusi family, whom we had met on

his way to Egypt, had his headquarters in Jedhabilia, far to the westward. In an inner room of the mosque, a beautifully wrought cage of brass encloses the tomb, where lies the body of that great man, who sought for his people a pure, austere, and rigidly simple form of Islam, untainted by contact with the outside world. To this shrine, every adherent to the brotherhood who can accomplish the journey comes to pay homage and to renew his vows. The students of the school come to Jagba with one of two purposes, either to fit themselves to become Iquan, the brothers of the fraternity,

or simply to go back to their homes in the OASES, educated men with a right to spiritual leadership in their communities. Except for the annoying problem of getting camels to take my expedition to Jallo, about 350 kilometers away to the westward, my life in Jagbub was one of peaceful reflection and preparation for the undertaking before me. The desert demands and induces a quite different attitude of mind and of spirit from the bustling life of the city.

As I wandered about the little town and out into the oasis around it, or stood in the cool, shadowed spaces of the mosque, or sat at times in the tower above it in conversation with learned Bedouins, watching the night fall over the milk-white Cuba and the brown mass of buildings it dominates, they're dropped away from me all the worries and perplexities and problems that the sophisticated life of crowded places brings in its train. Day after day passed, with a morning's walk, midday prayers in the mosque, a quiet meal,

a little work with my instruments or cameras, afternoon prayers, another walk, a meal, followed by the distribution to my men of friendly glasses of tea according to Bedouin custom. Again prayers, and after quiet contemplation of the evening sky with its peaceful stars, retirement to sleep, such as the harassed city dweller does not know. Among all the Iquan whom I met and talked with at Jagbud, there was one who particularly interested me, for he would neither sit and talk with me himself, nor could I learn from his brother Iquan the reason for his strange aloofness. At length by chance I learned the story of C. Di Abin-Bu Gamera. Cidi Adam is a withered old man with a refined, proud face and a bitter

twist to his mouth. Life has not been kind to him in his old age. On my first visit to to Jagub, I stayed at his empty house for three days. I had no chance then of a long conversation with him. This time he came to see me on the evening of my arrival to welcome me back to Jagbab. I felt that a tragedy lay behind this old man. He is one of the Barossa tribe, one of the elite among the Bedouins, and he is as proud as any of them. Yet he does not accept his fate, and for some time I wondered how it was that he, a Bedouin, had not learned to do so. All around me at Jagbub were types of benevolent humanity. C.D. Adam alone stood out distinct from his brethren, a tragic picture of beaten pride.

Late one evening, as I was coming back from the mosque after prayers, I found Mabrook, an old slave of C.D. Almaty's. Peace be on you in the blessings of God, I greeted him. and on you my master and God's mercy and blessing, he replied. I sat down with him, and we began talking about the little patch of cultivation to which he was attending. Hey, he exclaimed, we have not much food, but by the blessings of Citi Almaty, the little we have is as great as abundance anywhere else. Just then a tall, frail figure in a white robe flitted like a ghost across the courtyard. It was Adam Bougamere.

There goes Cedi Adam, I said, pointing after him. He was not looking well when he came to see me today. What ails him, I wonder? Nay, it is not his health, my master. It is an unlucky man who incurs the displeasure of our masters, meaning the Sunusi chiefs. The poor man is suffering for his brother's bad faith. It was then that the story of Bougamira was unfolded to me by Mabrook.

Sidi Busef Bougamera. Adam's brother, was at one time that trusted an all-powerful Wachiel of C.D.L. Madi at Jagbub. When he was quite a child, a wall fell upon him and smashed in his head. The great C.D. El Seduci, founder of the sect, was fortunately nearby. He took the child's head and bandaged it together, saying, This head will one day be a fountain of knowledge and enlightenment. His prophecy came true.

Boussay's father sent the child to Jagbub when the Grand Sanuci settled there and left him to study at the mosque of Jagbub. He became the leading equan and great professor of Jagbub. He was also a poet of no small merit. After the death of the Grand Sanusi, C.D. Omadi took him up and made him his sole Wakil at Jagbub when he left for Kufra, entrusting him with all his property and the management thereof. But God will that he should become an example to the other equan of one who betrays the Asai, the master's, trust. He ran with the world and was seduced by her. He squandered much of C.D. Elmadi's property and sold many of his slaves, putting the money in his own pocket. It was decreed that he should

be punished. He wrote a letter to a big governor in Egypt telling him that C.D. Elmadi was away at C.D. Elmadi was away at C.D. L. Mady was a way to defend it, and that it was an opportune moment to occupy the place. Why he did this is inconceivable as nobody ever had any desired to occupy Jagbab. But doubtless, Boussaf thought he might get something out of it. At that time, Sidy Muhammad El-Aid El-Sinousi, a nephew of El-Madi, was staying at Jagbab. He heard that Busef had written a letter and was sending it to Egypt, and that he had arranged for a messenger to take it across the frontier after nightfall. El-Aid at once dispatched to Iquan to whey the messenger and bring him back the letter.

Two days later, the messenger was brought. Elabid saw the letter but said nothing to Boussafe. He simply ordered a caravan to be prepared for Kufra and asked Boussafe to accompany him. The latter tried to excuse himself on account of old age and health, but Elabid insisted. He had no alternative but to go. So they set out on the silent journey across the desert

and on arrival at Kufra. The letter was shown by Elib to Cidi Elmadi. On the Friday following their arrival, after the midday prayers at the mosque of Taj and Kufra, Cidi al-Madi called together all the equan, including Busef. Cedi Busef, thou knowest what thou hast done. There was a hush. Everybody in the mosque tingled with excitement, knowing there was something to come. But we shall not punish thee. Thou shalt live. Thou shalt draw thy pay and thy rations according to custom. God alone will punish those who have betrayed our trust.

But thou shalt read aloud to this gathering of the equan the letter which thou hast written with thine own hand. Buseif had no alternative but to read the letter. The equan were silent, though there was much surprise, for this was thought to be the most trusted man of Seid El Madi. Henceforward thou shalt be relieved of the trouble of looking after our affairs, said C.D. El Madi, dismissing him. Busef was then led to his house, a sick man. He died a few days later. His two sons died in the following few months. His remaining two daughters were taken in marriage by members of the Sunusi family. All his books, and it is said he possessed the best library in the Sunusi Circle, and his property were taken by the Sanusi family. The only remaining man of his family is Adam,

his brother, who had inherited the empty house at Jagbub, and the stigma attaching there too. With the death of Adam, the family will be extinct. End of Section 6. Section 7 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. Meals and Medicine At intervals there were pleasant marks of hospitality from the Sunusi leaders at Jagbub. There are various forms of hospitality among the Bedouins,

depending upon the rank both of the host and of the guest, and upon the circumstances of the given case. When a traveler comes to an oasis or a town in the desert, he has with him his own caravan, provided with all the necessities of living. He does not put up at a hotel or go to a house, or go to a desert, friend's house to live, but sets up his own establishment, either pitching his tents and making a camp, or perhaps, as happened to me at Jagbub, at Jallo, and again at Kufra, occupying a house put at his disposal by someone in the place. Then comes the question of entertainment and honor from the dignitaries

of the community. They may either invite one to luncheon or to dinner in their own houses, or send a meal to the guest at his own house or camp. first form of hospitality I shall describe when we reach Jallo, where I was entertained by 12 or 15 notables in turn. The second form was that which I received at Jagbub. This variety of hospitality may be extended from three to seven days, depending upon the respective ranks of host and guest. Several days after my arrival, Citi Ibrahim and Citi Moheeddin, young sons of Sayyad Ahmed, the former guardian of Sayad Idris, who is now in Angora, boys of 13 and 15 years of age made a beau jest of showing me hospitality. There arrived at my house a Bedouin of the Barossa tribe

with two slaves laden with food. They set before me a feast of at least a score of dishes, and I was bidden to eat. The representative of my hosts sat courteously by, himself not touching a morsel, while I tasted the dishes in turn. No mortal man could eat them all and live. It was his function as deputy host to see that I lacked nothing to make the meal a satisfying and pleasant one, and to entertain me with conversation while I ate. The men of his tribe were the aristocrats of the desert, tall, erect, handsome, proud, and with a spirit and courage of lions. A barasi, if he were alone in the midst of an alien tribe, would not hesitate to meet an insult or a discurtesy with instant challenge and to fight the whole lot single-handed

if it came to that. Under his solicitously attentive eye, and waited on by the slaves who accompanied him, I ate my meal. I am not sure that I can remember the full tale of the dishes that were set before me, but they ran something like this. A rich meat soup made with butter and rice, a great dish of boiled meat, a big bowl of rice, a big bowl of rice, and rice, and, a big bowl of rice, with bits of meat in it, eggs, hard-boiled, fried, and made into an omelet with onions and herbs, tripe, meat and tomato sauce, meat croquettes, sausages, vegetable marrows, Bamiya or okra, Muluquia, an Egyptian vegetable with a peculiar flavor of its own, marrow stuffed with rice

and bits of meat, cuscus, a distinctively Arab dish made of flour and steamed, a salad, a kind of blancmage or pudding of cornflower and milk. Bedouin pancakes with honey, a sweet pudding of rice, a delicate kind of pastry made of flour with raisins and almonds. This last is an Egyptian dish rather than one native to the desert. The slave who had cooked my meal, knowing me to be an Egyptian, had put forth her best energies to please me, and as a climax had provided this Egyptian delicacy. At home we call it Saad El Hanak, that which fills the mouth. It fills the soul of the epicure with joy as well. In the Bedouin cuisine, meat predominates, generally lamb or mutton. True hospitality without meat is impossible for the desert dweller to imagine. It is the keystone

of the structure, not only of Bedouin hospitality, but of Bedouin living, except a of course, when one is on the trek and cannot get it. A guest must be given meat, and it must be meat specially provided for him. When a Bedouin invites one to dine with him, he slaughters the sheep expressly for his visitor. As a rule, he will neither prepare the meal nor even kill the animal until one has arrived in order that there may be no doubt that the preparations were made expressly for the guest. He carries his courtesy to the point of asking a guest on his arrival to partake of a meal to lend him a knife with which to slaughter a sheep, for hospitality demands that the guest shall be convinced that full honor is being done to him.

The great variety of dishes on the Bedouin menu, when a friend or a stranger is being formerly entertained, is the essence of the ceremony. The greater the number, the better the host, and the higher the honor he is able to pay the partaker of the meal. Bedouin entertaining concentrates itself upon food, for in the desert there is nothing to be had in the way of pleasure except eating. In the primitive surroundings of an oasis,

to eat is the whole story. Two incidents of that month in Jagbub interested me as illustrating how, with all their differences, the east and west are often humorously alike. The one incident was common. but the other had pathos in it as well as humor. I had given instructions that no one who came to my house in quest of medicine should ever be turned away. Cedizuela and Iquan had appealed for help for his cough, and I had given him a bottle of

cough syrup. Two days later, he appeared again. He said the first few doses had done him so much good that he had quickly finished the bottle. Might he have another bottle? Abdullahi, who was present at the interview, after his departure growled out a cynical comment. Yes, he found it sweet and pleasant to the taste. He takes it as a delicacy and not as a medicine. The comment was probably accurate. More than one child I had heard of during my years in England, whose cough persisted strangely so long as the cough medicine was sweet and tasty. I am afraid that my men used to boast about the things that could be done with what we had among our stores. The Baskari, after Amit had been pulling his leg about my having medicine for everything, came to me to ask for something to cure a slave girl of absent-mindedness. I could only reply

that from my experience in various lands, to keep a servant from forgetting was as easy as to prevent water from sinking into the sand. The second incident involved two men as different as day and night. There came to my house one day a slave of the Wakil sent by his master to consult me. It was a matter about which Citi Hussain could not approach me in person. Bedouin adequate forbids a man to talk to another about his wife, or even about any particular woman who is not known to both of them. But a slave could say for him what is dignity forbade him to speak in person. The slave's message was that the wife of the Wachil had born no children, which was a keen disappointment to her husband. Surely, his master thought, I must have in my medicine chest filled with the wonders of

the science of the West some remedy for the poor woman's childless state. My thoughts went straight back to my last days at Oxford. An old colleague servant was an excellent fellow, but most inordinately shy. He came to me one day as I was preparing for the journey home, and with a tremendous summoning of his courage, proffered a request. It you would allow me, sir, he said, to ask a favor? My wife and I have no children. The doctor can't help us. He has nothing to suggest. Now, sir, back in that country of yours, I've heard it said they have wonderful talismans that will do all kinds of things. I'm not one who has believed much in having to do with magic, but this is a very special case. Do you think you might find me a talisman and send it on?

If it's not asking too much, sir? the face of his anxiety and the courageous breaking down of the barriers of his shyness, I could only answer gravely but sympathetically that I would do what I could. But the necessity did not arise. He had died, remembered by belly old men past and present, before I came to Oxford again. In the case of Cedius Sign, however, I could not put that matter off. The slave was waiting for an answer, and doubtless his master was waiting for him.

I thought quickly. I gave the slave half a bottle of Horlick's malted milk tablets with solemn instructions that three were to be taken by the lady each day until all were gone. When the slave had left, I reflected on the amusing parallel between the two cases. There in Oxford, the West, having exhausted all that science had to offer on behalf of the universal desire for offspring, had tried to draw upon the spiritual resources of the East, Here in Jagbub, the East, finding all its spiritual appeals of no avail, had turned to the

science of the West for aid. East or West, we alike believe in the miraculous power of the unknown. But all this pleasant, peaceful life and courteous hospitality did not produce camels. I sent messengers out into the surrounding country in quest of the beasts, making my offers of money for their hire larger and larger as time went on, but I could get no favorable responses. I invoked the aid of C.D. Assign, but he professed himself powerless. I sent a messenger back to Siva with a telegram to Sayad Idris in Egypt, informing him of my predicament and asking his aid. As soon as could be expected, a reply came directing C.D. Assign to give me all the existence in his power.

Still, the Wachial seemed to be unable to help me. At last, when things began to seem hopeless, Zawya caravan arrived from Jallow on its way to Siwa for dates. I wanted those camels, but of course their owners had no desire to turn back without the dates they had come for. However, a way was found to persuade them, for I communicated to them through Cedia sign

the news that an order had been issued by the Egyptian government forbidding Zawyas to enter Egyptian territory until they had composed their differences with the Awat Ali who live in Egypt and with whom they had a feud. Since they could not go to Siva, which is in Egypt, without fear of punishment, there they were stranded at Jagboob with nothing to do but go back the way they came.

That was precisely the way I wanted them to go. The combined effect of the order of the Egyptian government, of the message from said Idris, of the persuasions of Cedia sign, and of the promise of exorbitant prices for higher their camels, which they succeeded in dragging out of me because of my necessity, finally made them agree to take me to Jaloh. The quiet days of contemplation under the shadows of the white Cuba

and the anxious days of striving for the means of continuing my journey came to an end at last. On February 22nd, 34 days after I had entered Jagbab, I turned my face to the westward and set out for Jallo. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohamed Hosenean. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9. Sandstorms and the Road to Jallo.

I left Jagbub in accordance with the best. tradition. It was a day of a sandstorm. The Bedouins say that to start a journey in a sandstorm is good luck. I am not sure, though, that they are not making a virtue of necessity. It is though an Italian were to say that it is good luck to set out when the sun is shining, or a Scotsman when it is raining. Sandstorms are a commonplace in the desert, but as an experience, there is nothing commonplace about them. The day dawns with a clear sky and no hint of storm or wind. The desert smiles upon our setting out, and the caravan moves forward cheerfully. Before long a refreshing breeze comes up from nowhere and goes whispering over the sands. Almost imperceptibly it strengthens, but still there is nothing

unpleasant in its blowing. Then one looks down at one's feet, and the surface of the desert is curiously changed. It is as though the surface were underlaid with steam pipes with thousands of orifices through which tiny jets of steam are puffing out. The sand leaps in little spurts and whirls. Inch by inch the disturbance rises as the wind increases its force. It seems as though the whole surface of the desert were rising in obedience to some upthrusting force beneath. Larger pebbles strike against the shins, the knees, the thighs. The spray of dancing sand grains climbs the body till it strikes the face and goes over the head. The sky is shut out, all but the nearest camels fade from view. The universe is filled with hurtling, pelting, stinging, biting legions of torment.

Well, for the traveler then, if the wind is blowing at his back. The torture of the driving sand against his face is bitter. He can scarcely keep his eyes open, and yet he dare not let them close, for one thing worse than the stinging of the sand grains is to lose one's way. Fortunately, the wind comes in driving gusts, spaced in groups of three or four with a few seconds of blessed lull after each group.

While the gusts are making their assault, one turns one's face away, pulls one side of one's cuffia forward like a screen, and almost holds one's breath. When the lulls, comes, one puts the Cuffia back, takes a quick look about to see that one has kept one's bearings, then swiftly prepares for the next attack. It is as though some great monster of fabled size and unearthly power were puffing out these hurtling blasts of sand upon the traveler's head.

The sound is that of a giant hand, drawing rough fingers in regular rhythm across tightly stretched silk. When the sandstorm comes, there is nothing to do but to push doggedly on. A Around any stationary object, whether it might be a post, a camel, or a man, the eager sands swiftly gather, piling up and up until it remains only a smoothly rounded heap. If it is torture to go on, it is death itself to halt. A sandstorm is likely to be at its worst for five or six hours. While it persists, a caravan can only keep going, with careful vigilance that the direction be not missed.

When the storm is at its fiercest, the camels will be scarcely moving, but their instinct tells them that it is death to halt. How instinctively wise they are is shown by the fact that when it begins to rain, they sense no such danger and will immediately stand still and even lie down. The storm drives the sand into everything one possesses. It fills clothes, food, baggage, instruments, everything. It searches out everything. every weak spot in one's armor. One feels it, breathes it, eats it, drinks it, and hates it.

The finest particles even penetrate the pores of the skin, setting up a distressing irritation. There are certain rules about the behavior of sandstorms which every Bedouin knows and is quite ready to tell the stranger to the desert. The wind that makes a storm will rise with the day or go to sleep with the sun. There will be no sandstorm at night when there is is a moon. A sandstorm never joins the afternoon and evening. These are excellent rules, but on our trek to Jallo, every one of them was broken. We had storms when the moon was shining and storms when the night was dark. We had storms that began before dawn and storms that did not pause till long after the sun was set. We had storms that not only joined afternoon and evening,

but wiped out the line of demarcation between them. We had little storms and great storms. We had little storms and great storms the worst I had yet seen. Storms that were short and storms that were long. Storms by day and storms by night. But even under this interminable bombardment, I did not lose the spell of the desert's charm. Sometimes at evening, when we had been battling doggedly against the flying squadrons of the sand for hours,

the wind would stop dead as if a master had put up a peremptory finger. Then, for an hour or so, the fine dust would settle slowly down like falling mist. But afterward the moon would rise, and under the pale magic of its flooding light, the desert would put on a new personality. Had there been a sandstorm? Who could remember? Could this peaceful expanse of loveliness ever be cruel? Who could believe it? The Tric de Jala was therefore not an easy one. The sandstorms were a constant annoyance, and sometimes a menace. The latter part of the way led through a country of sand dunes, and the caravan had to go winding about among them. To keep one's course straight to the proper point of the compass in spite of

those wriggling and twistings, takes all one's skill and attention at the best of times. When a sandstorm is torturing and blinding the whole caravan, the task becomes a staggering one. Nevertheless, we pushed steadily on, making on the whole good time of it. In spite of the viciousness of the attacking sands, there were hours of pleasure on this trek. Memorable were the genial evenings when we all gathered around the fire of Hatab for our after-dinner glasses of tea. Then stories would begin to go around.

Old Moghahib, with a firelight playing on the gray hairs of his shaggy beard, would begin by telling bits of Zawai'i history when his grandfather used to go to Wadi to fight the black tribes and bring back camels and slaves. Sala would follow with a tale of the great prophets that his cousin had made on his last trip to Wadai when he did not have to fight anybody but brought back leather, ostrich feathers, and ivory to sell in Barka, which is the Arabic name for Saradaica. Then I would turn to Ali and demand a love song.

He was a poet of sorts and betrothed to Hassain's sister. If the girl is anything like her brother, the boy is not doing badly for himself. Ali would look to his uncle for permission to comply with my request and find the old man busy with his rosary pretending to be oblivious of the turn that matters had taken. It does not befit the dignity of a gray-haired Bedouin to sit and hear love songs from the younger generation. But his respect for me keeps him from leaving the gathering. Finally he mutters in his beard, Sing to the bay, since he likes to hear our Bedouin songs.

Ali's pleasant voice rises on the evening air, and the beads of old Moghab's rosary fall through his fingers with the deliberate regularity characteristic of a man who is conscious of nothing but his devotions. So Ali sings, I went singing, and all men turn to hear me. It is Kadra who draws the song from my soul. Red is her cheek, like spilt blood, slim and round she is like a reed. None so young, none so old, not to know her. I met her in the way. I will flaunt her like a scarf upon my spear.

As his voice dies away, is it my imagination, or are the rosary beads and Mogheib's fingers moving a little faster? After a pause, Ali sings again. Thou slim nars. Sissus of the gardener's pride, thy mouth flows honey over teeth of ivory. Thy waist is slender like the lions running in the chase. Wilt thou have me, or thinkest thou of another? Thy form is rounded like a whip. To lie on their breast, where to be in paradise. Love cannot be hidden, but fate is in the hands of God.

There is silence in the cap, except for the murmur of the dying fire and the clicking of the rosary. But the rhythm of the beads has significantly changed now. Toward the end of Aalise song, Moghaiib's fingers had stopped dead for a moment and then hurried nervously on as though to deny that they had halted. The old man had been a great lover in his time, and the boy's song had stirred his blood with memories. Perhaps it was fortunate for others around the fire that they had no clicking rosary beads to betray them. After Boo Salama Well, which is the day's trek from Jogbub, we were going through a region where there were remains of a petrified forest.

At intervals we passed great blocks of stone erect like guideposts along the way. Ages ago they had been living trees, but now the forces of nature had transferred them from the vegetable kingdom to the mineral. A few smaller bits of petrified wood were scattered about, but most of those were hidden beneath the sand. The larger tree sections had remained visible because the etiquette of the desert demands that anyone passing such a fallen landmark

shall set it erect again. It is also good form on a newly traveled track to build little piles of stones at intervals as notice to later comers that here lies the way. Sometimes one comes upon a tree or a shrub on which hangs shreds in patches of clothing and there one is under obligation to add a thread or a fragment from his own outfit. These accumulating tokens confirm the tree as a landmark to later comers

and afford the encouragement of the thought that others have been this way before. In the dead waste and monotony of the desert, any evidence of the passing of one's fellow man is a cheering incident. The sight of camel dung, the bleached bones of a camel, or even the skeleton of an unfortunate traveler, are welcome to the eye, for at least they show that a caravan had passed that way. Shortly after leaving Jagbub,

we came upon a different kind of landmark. It consisted of a row of small sand hillocks, like ant hills stretching across the track. It is called Alam Buzaffar, the Boozafar landmark, and it is the sign and symbol of a pleasant Bedouin custom. On any trek, the newcomers to that particular route are expected to slaughter a sheep for those in the caravan who have come that way before. The custom is called Boo Zafar.

If the novices do not awaken promptly to their responsibilities, the veterans give them a hint. One or two of them dash ahead of the caravan and build a row of sandpiles across the way. When the caravan reaches a significant landmark, they call out suggestively Boo Zafar, Boo Zafar? invariably the hint is taken, a sheep is slaughtered, and the ceremonial feast is held. In our caravan there were several who had not gone over this route before, including myself. I bought a sheep before leaving Jagbub so that we who were new to this route might give Boo Zafar to the old-timers.

The Alam-Bu-Zafar that we came upon, therefore, was not of our making, but left by some other caravan. We were fortunate in finding grazing for our camels almost every day until we reach Jallo. Sometimes, it is true, we had to go out of our way to reach the patches of green among the sand dunes, but we always found them. Three kinds of vegetation grows sparsely and infrequent spots in this part of the desert. Belbaal is a grayish green bush whose foliage is not good eating for the camels. It grows only in the vicinity of a well. Ordinarily the camels will not touch it, but if very hungry they will. Then unceasing vigilance is necessary to save oneself from the annoyance of having a sick camel on one's hands.

Damran is a similar bush, but with darker foliage and with brown stems which make good fuel when dried. This is excellent food for the camels, and they eat it eagerly. The third variety of vegetation is Nisha, which grows in tufts of thin leaves up to a foot high. This too makes good grazing. It is only in the winter months, however, when the scanty rains come, that these plants are available. No Bedouin would think of making a journey between Jallo and Jagbub in summer without carrying a supply of fodder for his camels. On the tenth day from Jagbub, we reached the well of Hesalia, the first water after Boussalama. It was marked by a few trees and small green bushes.

and after we had scooped out the drifted sand with our hands, the water seemed good. But the after-effects were not so pleasant. Two days later we found ourselves on the outskirts of the oasis of Jallo. Before we could enter, a messenger came rushing to meet us. He carried a letter from C.D. Mohamed El Zirwali, the equan, who had been directed by Sayad Idris to accompany us to Kufra, asking me to camp outside until they could prepare to receive a properly. Said Idris, before he had left Jallow two months before, had told them that I was on the way

and directed that I should be shown all possible courtesy. They had expected us long before this, and when we did not come, they decided that I had changed my plans. We withdrew a short distance from the town and camped. A few hours later, an impressive group of a score or more Bedouins came out and drew themselves up in a long line before the village of Labba, one of the two villages that make up Jallo. Dressed in our cleanest and most ceremonial clothes, and my men provided with ammunition for the complimentary salute, we went forward.

I approached and took hands with Citi Sunusi Gatorbu, the Kaimakhan or governor of the district, the members of the Council of Jala, and other prominent citizens. The Kaimakam made a speech of welcome to which I replied, My men fired their guns in salute, and we passed into the town. I went to the house which was put at my disposal and received a visit of ceremony from the Council of Jallo

and from C.D. El Fadil, the uncle of Sayad Idris. After dinner with Sunusi Gatorbu, I spent the evening in discussing plans for the trip with C.D. Zerwali. End of Section 8. Section 9 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad Hasse. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 At the Oasis of Jallo

Jallo Jallo is one of the most important oases in Sirenica. It lies about 240 kilometers from the Mediterranean at its nearest point, beyond Jadabia, and about 600 kilometers from Kufra, which is directly south. The oasis is not only the largest producer

of dates in all the province, but it is the trade outlet for the products of Wadai and Darfur, which come through Kufra. Everything from the outside world that goes to Kufra passes through Jallo. The desert is a sea, said El Bishari, a prominent chieftain of the Majabra tribe, and Jallo is its port. It was at the height of its importance, something like 30 years ago, when El Maudi maintained the Sunuzi capital at Kufra. In those days, caravans of two or three hundred camels came and went between Jallo and the south each week. But when I was there, the traffic had shrunk to less than a tenth of that. In summer, however, it is swollen by the demands of the date harvest.

There are two villages at Jallo, over a mile apart, Erg and Laba. Between and around them are scattered the date palms in picturesque profusion to the number of nearly 100,000. Twelve miles to the west lies Ujila, which is the ancient oasis mentioned by Herodotus as famous for its states. In Ujila is

the tomb of Abdullah al-Sahabi, who is reputed to have been a clerk of the Prophet Muhammad. Whether such is actually the case is somewhat problematical. But at least the prophet did have a clerk named Abdullahi al-Sahabi, that Abdullahi did come

in North Africa, and the tomb of a man of that name is found at Ujila. Many a tradition has been based on flimsyer evidence. The story is told that the Grand Sanusi found the body of Sahabi buried in a remote spot, and forthwith saw in a vision the spirit which had once inhabited the body. Dig up my body, said the ghostly visitor. Put it on a camel and go forth. Where the camel halts, there you shall build my tomb. The Grand Sanusi obeyed the injunction and journeyed till he came to Ogila. There the camel stopped dead and refused to go on, and on the spot the tomb was built.

The founder of the Sanusi sect and all the members of the Sanusi family and even their prominent equine are believed to possess occult powers at second sight. Seidel Madi is credited with having particularly strong occult powers, which the Bedouins call miracles. One of the equan at Jagbab told me the following story about Sayad El Madi. An ignorant Bedouin came to him intending to study under him at Jagbub. Suddenly the man realized that it was the sewing season and that he had nobody to look after the sewing of his land.

So he thought it best to go away till after the crop season and then returned to his studies. He went to say goodbye to Sayad al-Mati. He entered the room, sat down, and, as is the custom, waited until he was spoken to. Sayad al-Madi appeared to ignore him for a few minutes. The man felt sleepy and just dozed off for a minute or two, awaking to Sayad-El-Mati's gentle voice saying, Now you feel at rest, and you know that matters have been arranged for you.

In that short time, the man had seen in a dream his brother plowing his land and sowing the barley-crow. Now you shall be our guest, continued the said, and study and pray that God may guide you to the right path. All will be provided for as you have seen, and you will have no reason to worry. God is merciful, and he looks after us all. The man remained at Jagbub, and afterward went home just in time for the harvest. On his return to Jagbub, he told one of the equan that not only had his crop been sewn as he saw in the dream, but the place seen and the time of the dream were exactly corroborated by the facts. Another incident was told me by the Comic-Con of Jallo. He was traveling with a party

from Benghazi to Jagbub to visit Seidel Madi. They missed a well and were in dire straits. At night, a man, the least enthusiastic of the pilgrims, turned to him and said, now that you have brought us to visit this wonderful man, Sayad el-Matti, will you ask him to send us some water if he be saintly as you say he is? That same night at Jagbub, Seidel Mottie, so the story goes, ordered two of his slaves to take five camels loaded with water and food, and going out into the open, he indicated the direction they should take, adding that until they met a caravan, they must not stop by the way.

In due course, they came across the caravan, in distress and rescued it. There are some of the old equan still living, whom even members of the Sunusi family themselves avoid displeasing because they fear their occult powers. One of these who lives at Kufra was the equan of a Zawiya in Seraenaika. A Bedouin once brought some sheep to water at the well, and some of them strayed into the patch of ground attached to the Sawiya

and ate the young barley. The equan warned the Bedouin, to stop his sheep from doing this, and the man pretended to pay attention, but was really determined that not only these sheep, but the whole flock, should go in and help themselves to the crop. And when the equan came out again, it was to see all the flock feeding on his barley. May God curse them, he cried, the sheep that ate the crop of the Zawiya. The story goes that not a single sheep emerged alive from the Zawiya garden.

Until this day, the Bedouin's feeling. the Sunusi family not so much because of any temporal power, but on account of the spiritual powers with which they credit them. A Bedouin, cursed by one of the Sunusi family, lives the whole time in fear of something awful about to happen to him. His friends, even his own people, try to avoid his presence lest the curse upon him should account for a harm to them also. There is the famous case of the chief clerk of Sayad el-Mati who lies in Kufra now half paralyzed. I went to see him. He was quite happy and very content in spite of the fact that he could not move his body. On my second visit, he was getting confidential, and half-believing,

asked if I had any medicine for his malady. I hesitated, for I did not want the man to lose hope entirely. He saw this, and without even giving me the chance of answering him, said, no, it is decreed that it should be this. It was my fault. Sayad el-Mati wanted me to journey north. I could not disobey him, but I tried to avoid the journey. I went as far as Hawari and there wrote to him pretending to be ill. The answer came by a messenger that if I were ill, I should certainly be relieved of the journey. The next day I was struck with paralysis and brought back to Kufra, and had been here ever since. That was 25. years ago.

The Kaimakam at Jallo told me a story when we were discussing miracles. He said that on one occasion there was a very severe sandstorm which nearly covered the hole of the tomb at Aujila. So they brought the slaves to dig it out again. As it was being dug out, the Kaimakan came into the chamber which contained the shrine and noticed a very strong smell of incense. He called one of the slaves and asked whether he had burned. any incense. The man denied it. Yet till now, upon occasion, a visitor to the tomb will smell this incense,

though it is known that none has been burned. Jalo is the headquarters of the Majabra tribe of Bedouins, the merchant princes of the Libyan desert. A few Zawayas are also found there, but the Majabras make up the great majority of the 2,000 inhabitants of the two villages. The Majabras have wonderful business instinct. The Majbari boasts of his father having died in the bassoor, the camel saddle, as the son of a soldier might boast that his father died on the field of battle. When I was in Jallo, the Italian authorities, who were then on unfriendly terms with Ced Idris, had prohibited the sending of the goods from Benghazi and other points of Seraenica into the interior. Consequently, prices of commodities at such inland places had Jeddibia went up with a leap.

Majabra merchants, arriving at Jala with caravans of goods from Egypt, heard of this abnormal situation in the north. Without a moment's hesitation, they changed their plans, trek north instead of south, and sold their goods to splendid advantage in Jeddahbia. Then back they dashed, if the camel's pace of less than three miles an hour can be so described, to Egypt or the south for another caravan load,

arrived again at Jala with their merchandise, they inquired carefully as to comparative conditions in the markets of Jadabia and Kufra and directed their further journey accordingly. Considering the remoteness of the desert places, Jallow five days from Jadabia, Kufra from 12 to 18 days from Jallow, and the snail-like speed of a caravan,

news travels across the desert with surprising swiftness. At least it seems so. I suppose the true explanation is that all things are relative, and while the news moves at a camel's pace, so does everything else. Well, the Majabras are the great traitors of the Libyan desert. The Zouyas have also their claims to prominence. The rivalry between the two tribes is always present under the surface, and occasionally it flashes forth into the light.

There is some envy of the Zawaias by all the other tribes of Seraenna, because the man's second in importance to Sayad Idris among the Sunusis is Alipasha al-Abdia, who is a Zawai. Abdiya is a splendid soldier, a powerful support to Sayad Idris, and a man much trusted by the Sunusi leader. One evening after dinner at Jallo, some expression of this rivalry was given by Cidisala, who belonged to no tribe in Sireka, and was in fact a sheriff or descendant of the prophet in an argument with Mogahib and Zerwali, who were both Zawaias.

Mogahib launched into a little history of the achievements of the Zawaias. Citi Salad listened to the Suez Uly's Ulyde of the tribe, shook his head and remarked, their history may be as glorious as Citi Mogueaib tells us, but they do not fear God. At this, Mokaiib burst forth, by God, Cedis D. Sala, they may not fear God, but neither do they fear man. Woe unto him who dares molest their caravan or attack their camp. Then he came quickly over to me and continued, We have the blessing of El Madi upon us,

for it was to our headquarters in Kufra that C.D. Almadi came, and from which he disappeared. The Senusses will never say that El Madi died, but always that he disappeared, or some equivalent expression. In fact, there is a legend among them that he is not dead, but wandering over the earth until such time as he shall come again to his desert people. To the Zawaius, El Madi is the most beloved of the Sunusi leaders because it was he who moved the center of activity of the Brotherhood to Kufra, their headquarters. The Cuba of the mosque that he built

is the glory of Kufra. In my own experience, the Zawayas at time showed hostility and made it clear that, although I was a Muslim, the son of a religious man, and and a confidant of Seid Idris, they did not want me in Kufra. Some of them even expressed the hope that they would have seen the last me when I left Kufra. In spite of this scarcely veiled antagonism

to me, however, I never expect to find better men for a desert journey than the Zouayas who form part of my caravan. Zerwali, in particular, a typical Zuea Bedouin, was the best of companions and the most reliable of associates.

The Bedouin of Sireneica has in him the blood of the Arabs who passed through the north of Africa on their way to Spain. Although he has mixed with other native tribes of North Africa, he still preserves the old Arab tradition. In the case of a murder among the Sanusis, the Bedouins have their own law. As a rule, the Sanusi-Equan intervenes as a peaceful intermediary. He takes the murderer and an old member of his tribe and goes to, to the murdered man's camp, pitching camp nearby. The equan then approaches the family of the murdered man saying, He who murdered your man is here, and taking him by the hand, he adds, This is he who murdered your son. I hand him over to you that you may do as you will with him.

Usually the answer is, may God forgiving, and may God's justice and mercy fall upon him. Thereupon, the equan starts arranging for the blood money, which is generally $3,000 and a slave, the market value of the latter being known. The injured party may choose between accepting the money or having its equivalent in camel, sheep, or other commodities. The money may be paid in installments, extending over from one to three years, and the arrangement is generally carried through. In very rare cases, or a deep root,

feud, the family of the deceased refused to accept the blood money, which means that they intend to kill the murderer himself, or else one of his relations or a leading member of his tribe. Bedouin boys and girls mix freely. It is only in the higher families that the women are kept in seclusion. As a rule, a boy knows his sweetheart, and he goes to her camp and sings to her generally in verse of his own making. If she likes him, she comes out and answers his song, not rarely in words of her own composition also. The boy then goes and asks for the girl from her people, paying a dowry if an agreement is reached. Then with ceremonial, he goes with his friends and takes the girl home to his camp amid displays of horsemanship and much firing of guns. Cases have

been known of elopments, which usually end in feuds between tribes, for the Bedouins look upon the man as having stolen the girl from them. There is a marriage contract, in many cases drawn up by the equan, and the marriage takes place according to the Muslim religion. Marriages take place at a very early age, according to the development of the girl, who may be 13 or 14, while the boy is between 17 and 20.

Bedouins who can afford it marry more than one wife, but in that case the first wife remains the mistress of the house and takes precedence even over the favorite wife in anything that has to do, with household management. I have heard of many cases of lads going off their heads through falling in love with a girl they could not marry. A Bedouin boy once came to me to ask for medicine.

He looked very frail. He was slim, with a rather refined face, and spoke very little. I have come to ask you for medicine to give me health, he said. He shook his head when I asked him what was his ailment and answered, God knows best. There was something queer about the problem. boy, something that puzzled me, but as usual in these cases, a few malted milk tablets were wrapped up carefully in paper and given to him with strict orders not to take more than three

each day. When the boy had gone, an elderly man came to my tent. He squatted on the floor. May God give you health and make your hand give recovery. My son came to you just now, and you gave him medicine. I have come to explain his ailment. He is always weak and a flea. He is always weak and afflicted by headaches. When night falls, he shuns everybody and seeks solitude. Often he goes out to spend the night in the open. I told the old man that the medicine I had given the boy was the only one I had that might give some relief. Recovery comes from God, replied the man in a sad voice. We know his remedy, but it is decreed that he should not have it. The boy is in love with a girl whose parents refuse to give her to him in marriage.

Why don't you make an effort if you know that this is the reason of your son's illness and try to get the girl in marriage for your son? It is too late now, replied the father. She is already married. But God knows best. She may be many days' journey away from here, but she is suffering from the same ailment. With that he rose and left my tent, a resigned pathetic figure. At Jallo, as at Jagub, there were no.

camels waiting for me when I arrived. But the reason was not the same, nor the uncertainty so disturbing. The higher than necessary camels had been arranged for, and Omar Bou Helega, their owner, was ready to start just as soon as the beasts returned from grazing. No good Bedouin starts out on a long trek until his camels have been fattened and especially have had their fill of green fodder. A long stretch like that, de Kufra, with no grazing on the way, means feeding. the camels on dried dates exclusively. Dates, say the camelmen, are hot on the liver. Therefore, they prepare their animals for the ordeal by a course of green feeding before they start. Buhalegas camels had been taken to a nearby grazing grounds for this course of preparation,

and on the appointed day for their return, they did not appear. The next day I wondered about them, the second day I was concerned, and the day after that, worried, lest when taken from grazing, the beasts might have run away. However, they had not done so. They put in their appearance on the fourth day, and when they came, they were in excellent condition. I hired 35 camels, paying a high price for them. I could have bought the beasts outright for from 12 to 18 pounds, while Buhelega demanded 13 and a half pounds for their hire for the two or three months journey to Abisha in Wadai. But it was better so. If I had owned the camels myself, the responsibility for their welfare would have been all mine. It would have been my men who had them in charge,

with no motive beyond a general one of loyalty to the leader in the job for carrying the camels through in good condition. But when Bu Halega's men went along with his own animals, they were sure to have the best of care. During the trek to Kufra, he kept his eye, expertly on each one of them. If a camel weakened or seemed ill, he shifted loads to meet the emergency. He did everything to keep them fit to the journey's end, and his care of them was worth to me all that it cost. In addition to camels, I needed more men. The four who had been hired in Cairo, Solomon, Siwa were still with me, Abdullahi, Amad, Hamad, and Ismail. I now added five more. Sir Wally, Sunusi, Sunusi Bu Hassan, the guide,

Saad who came from Ojila, Hamid, and Farage a slave. Bu Helena had with him his son and two camelmen. The list was supplemented at the last by five Tibus, nomadic blacks from Tabesti, a region northwest of Wadai. Abdullahi and Zerwali were the two headmen at the caravan. The former was in command of the luggage and the commissariat, while Zirwali was in charge of the camels and the men. They were the best companions that any man could have on a desert trek.

We needed clothing, certain articles of food, and shoes, especially the last. The heeless Bedouin slipper is the only possible wear for the desert, but it will wear out, and it often has to be repaired on the way. It was necessary to be sure that each of us had not only shoes, but the leather that we should need for patching them until we reached Kufra. At Jallo I found a famous shoemaker, Himayda, whom I had met at Kufra two years before. I had with me the very shoes that he had made for me then, with souls badly in need of patching. Great was his delight when I took them to him for his ministrations.

He was a venerable-looking personage, whom it would have been easy to take for a judge or a member of the council at least. He came to my house day after day to work on the five pairs of shoes he made for me, on the making of shoes from my men, and on the repairing of our saddles and other leather of Gutraman. It was a pleasure to give him a meal and then invite him to a friendly glass of tea. One day he was coughing as the tea was brought, and I expressed sympathy for his ailment. He looked at me across his glass and answered in his quiet voice, But your tea always stops my cough, C.D. Obey.

Not other tea, but yours always does. I did not ignore the hint so gracefully given. Him I had received his little packet of the miraculous tea as a present before we left Jallo. Besides my shoes in the leather, I bought cloth for clothing for my men, butter, oil, barley, firewood, and eight Gierbes. A liqueja, who was the famous. favorite slave of Sayad Idris, and had been made by him his trusted personal Wachiel and Jallo, told me that his master had directed him to put all his store of supplies of every kind at my

disposal. I thanked him, but did not avail myself of the offer. I had just come from Egypt, well equipped, and I knew how much these stores meant to those who lived in this isolated spot. Besides the making of preparations, my ten days in Jala were spent in receiving and giving entertainment and in scientific work. The entertainment was up to the best Bedouin standards. The first day I dined with Sunusi Gatorbu, the Kaimakan or governor of Jal. The second day I lunched at the House of El Bishari, the most important of the Majabra merchant chiefs, waited on by my host and his sons. The third day, luncheon was sent to me by members of the council, and I was joined in the repast by Zerwali, the caddier judge,

Alikaja, and Mugahib. After the meal, I had a talk with Akadi on Sunusi history and was shown letters from the Grand Sanusi and from El Madi, his son. Dinner that day came from Hodge Farahat, another Majbari merchant, with Akimakhan, Zirwali, Alikaja, Moghaiib, and Abdullahi as sharers of the feast. We discussed the custom of boozeh. Zafar, which all agreed must not be a meal, but the slaughtering and eating of a sheep. On the fourth day, I lunched at the house of Hodge Ali Bilal, a majbari. My diary records the fact that

there was the usual crowd and a very good lunch. Dinner was sent to me by Hodge's side, also one of the Majabra merchants, and the Kaimakans, Irwale and the caddy joined me in it. On the next day, I lunched at the house of Hodge Gryebel, and that evening my most interesting experience in the way of hospitality took place. There were living at Jallo several ladies at the Sunusi family, including the wife of Sayad Idris and his sister. Shortly after my arrival at Jallo, they sent me an invitation to dinner. This was an unusual occurrence for Bedouin women of high class do not offer entertainment to men, as women of the Western world may do with perfect propriety. I realized, of course, that I would not actually dine with my hostesses in person,

but I was appreciative of the unprecedented honor, nevertheless. At the appointed hour, Zirwali and the Kamkan came to escort me to dinner. The house which the ladies occupied was the former government house of the days of Turkish rule. We were ushered into a spacious room where the soft light from a magnetic, Brass Lantern and innumerable candles served to deepen the mellow tones and the rich combinations of color of priceless rugs and silken cushions. C.D. Solid, who was the husband of one of the Sunusi ladies, acted as host on their behalf. Under his hospitable direction, a splendid banquet was served to us by half a dozen slaves. When we had eaten all that was demanded by courtesy, and, I am afraid,

much more than was required by nature. The banquet was completed with a washing of our hands and basins brought by the slaves, the ceremonial three glasses of tea, the sprinkling over us of rosewater, and the burning of incense before us. Then the chief slave came and deferentially whispered in my ear, Would the bay care to hear some music?

There was a gramophone with records made by the famous singers of Egypt. The bay had only to command. Perhaps to the disappointment of my companions, I do not know, but quite to my own satisfaction, I courteously declined the offered entertainment. There was something rare and precious in the perfumed atmosphere of that softly lighted room which the coming of voices from beyond the desert would have profaned. Partly the beauty of the place, the remoteness from the world, but especially the sense that I was the guest of noble Bedouin women, who were hidden from me by the customs of our eastern lands,

but were in a real sense present through their gracious hospitality and kindly thoughtfulness, made of that evening a unique memory. I told a slave to convey my respectful salams to the ladies and to tell them how much I had been touched by their courtesy.

Then I went out into the clear desert night with a soft breeze stirring little breaths of incense from the folds of my jerd to remind me vividly of the peace and mystic calm of the room from which I had come. The next day I returned the hospitality of those who had entertained me so generously. My room, with its dry mud floor and travel-stained luggage, ranged about the walls,

could not bear a comparison with a charming apartment in which I had dined the night before. But Alicajat took it upon himself to see that we were made as presentable as circumstances would permit. With a pair of beautiful brass lanterns and a few rugs borrowed from Sayah, Edvis' house, and some other accessories, he created a very decent imitation of a banquet hall. My guests included the Kaimakam, members of the council, the two Iquan, the judge, Alicajah, Musa, the captain of the Sunniusie artillery, and Zerwali. Dressed in my best Bedouin robes, I waited on them as a Bedouin host should, and when some of them who had been out into the world asked me to sit with them and eat, I assured them that I would, when they were

my guests in Cairo. Ahmed, my cook, had laid himself out to provide several distinctively European dishes to give a note of novelty to our entertaining, and the delight of my guests was great at his achievements. My banquet ended the round of entertaining, and for a day or two I was permitted to lunch and dine in peaceful solitude. It was a relief, grateful though I had been to my generous hosts for their hospitality. An important part of my activities at Jala was the making of scientific observations. I observed the sun and the stars to determine the latitude and longitude, and took regular readings of the aneroid barometer and thermometer for the determination of the altitude.

My observations on the latter point, when finally worked out in relation to barometric records made on the same days at Siva, disclosed the interesting fact that the level of Jallo is 60 meters higher today than it was when Rolfs ascertained it in 1879. He found Jallo almost exactly at sea level. I found it 60 meters higher. I saw the explanation of it going on before my eyes. The drifting sands were climbing slowly up the trunks of the palm trees and against the walls of the houses, threatening to engulf them. Some of the inhabitants had already moved their houses and rebuilt them on higher levels. It is the steadily accumulating sand, driven by sandstorms and gathering wherever trees and houses stop its progress that has raised Jallo nearly 200 feet above sea level in 44 years.

The house I was living in, and at which the barometric readings were recorded, was from 15 to 20 meters higher than the rest of the houses at Jallo. In the taking of my observations, I had to be cautious, for the Bedouins are suspicious of anything so elaborately scientific-looking as a theodalite. They were sure to say that I was making a map with a view to coming back and conquering their land. The first time that a Bedouin chief and the man who was to guide us to Kufra caught me at my theodalite, I had to explain hastily and persuasively that I was getting data for the making of a calendar for the month of Ramadan. Abdullahi, who was of course known. not a Bedouin, was invaluable to me in the camouflaging of my scientific activities.

In fact, he was rather a specialist in the manufacture of those little inaccuracies that smoothed the path of life and preserve the social amenities. One day we were using the theodalite some distance from the town. A native demanded what we were doing, and Abdullahi said we were taking a picture of Jallo. How can that be at such a distance? demanded the Bedouin. Abdullah had his explanation ready. The machine attracts the picture so that it comes right out and flies into it, he asserted glibly. But how can a box attract a picture? demanded the incredulous Bedouin. Abdullahi's struck an attitude.

Ask the magnet how it attracts the iron, he commanded rhetorically, and the debate was closed. End of Section 9. Section 10 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohamed Hosenean. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 On the Trek On Thursday, March 15th, we were ready to track. I got up at 6 to pack and get my baggage ready. As is usual on the first day of a journey,

when the caravan is not yet shaken down and accustomed to the routine, it took us three hours to load. We were to follow the Bedouin custom of tag hees, which means going to a nearby well before beginning a journey, and spending several days, sometimes a week, in final preparations, away from the distractions of town life. Budapal well, 30 kilometers from Jallo,

was the point where we were to make our tag hees or preparation. When the packing was well underway, the Kaimakam, Notables, and Iquan, came to give us the ceremonial mohada or farewell. We squatted together and discussed the prospects for the journey. I had made the same trip to Kufra two years before under somewhat more favorable conditions, and nevertheless we had lost our way before getting to Kufra. It had been cooler then, two months earlier in the year. The winds and sandstorms had not been so incessant, and the caravit.

had been smaller. The problem of providing camels, their fodder, men, and food, equipment for the men did not arise then, as the whole caravan was produced complete and provided for by the generosity of Sayad Idris, a fact which had a considerable effect in lulling suspicions of the Bedouins and subduing their hostility to strangers. On this occasion I had to arrange for the camels and personnel, and so big a caravan caravan, journeying with the quantity of unusual luggage necessary for a long journey, naturally aroused curiosity.

On these long, waterless treks, nature is often the only enemy, and she can be one if she chooses. The men of my caravan worked well together. The four whom I had brought from Cairo, Salam, and Siwa, got on excellently with all the people we met. Sir Wally, the Sunusi-Equan, delegated by Sayad Idris to accompany us, was kindness itself, and did everything in his power to make the journey as comfortable as possible. I felt no real concern over the outcome, no matter what nature might choose to do.

When the camels were all loaded, we went through the dignified ceremony of the farewell. We took our stand in two half-circles facing each other, the men of my caravan and myself in one, and the chiefs of Jallo and the equan in the other. solemnly and reverently we raised our hands, palms upward, for prayers that the journey should be a blessed one, that God would guide us and return us safe to our homes. We read the Fat Ha, the first chapter of the Koran, the oldest of the equan saying the amen.

Then we shook hands and parted. The shouts of the men urging on the camels were echoed by Lulius from the women of the village, and we were on our way. As we passed El Leba, the second village of Jallo, a pleasant incident occurred to send us cheerfully on our way. The solitary, graceful figure of a girl appeared beside her path, her face hidden from us by the bedou and veil. With one voice the men nearest her called out the traditional greeting. Wahjik, wajik, your face, your face! The girl turned and demurely drew aside her veil to disclose the finely chiseled features, the clear olive skin, and the shy yet dignified expression of a Bedouin maiden.

The men shouted with delight at her beauty and her courtesy. To complete the tradition, I ordered them to empty gunpowder at her feet. Hamad and Saad performed the graceful ceremony, first one and then the other. The man danced slightly toward her as if to the imaginary rhythm of a Bedouin drum, his rifle held in both hands over his head, the muzzle pointing forward, shouting a desert love song as he went. Just in front of her he dropped lightly on one knee, brought his gun to the vertical position,

but upward, and fired a hair's breath from her feet. So close was a shot and so accurate his aim that the girl's slippers were singed by the powder flash. She did not flinch at the explosion, but stood gracefully erect in her. pride at the honor done her. Singed slippers are a mark of distinction in the desert that any Bedouin girl cherishes. When Saad had followed Hamad's example, another shout rose from the men of the caravan,

and we moved on. The girl smiled after us, as flattered by the homage that had been paid her as we were by the good omen of a pretty face crossing our path at the outset of our journey. Within an hour, we were in the open desert again. Eight hours trekking brought us to Budapal Well, where we were to stop a day. We took matters easily that first night, with singing and conversation about the campfire till after midnight. When the camp had settled down for the night, I took my pipe and went for a stroll.

This was always one of the pleasures of my life in the desert, that last pipe of peace before turning in, and of peace it always was. If the day had been good, there was contentment. if bad there was hoped for the next day and faith at all would be well. During the whole journey, I never went to sleep with anything really worrying me, worrying, that is, my mind itself, no matter how I might have been tried by the occurrences or by conditions. The next day was spent in final preparations. Boo Halega, the owner of the camels, arrived with his own little caravan of three camels.

During the day another man had come from Jallo to catch up with us, We had been in need of rope and twine, but the price asked by the dealers had been too high. So Abdullahid chatted with them and left the actual closing of the bargain to the last minute. Then he had arranged with a man named Sunusi Bujabir to bring the rope after us to Budafal. When this man arrived, he came to my tent to tell me that his brother was in Wadai and to ask me to take him with us. He would work to pay for his passage. I looked him over and quickly decided, that he would do. I discovered particularly that he had a sense of humor, almost, if not quite, the most valuable asset in desert travel. Ability may fail, but a keen sense of humor enables one to get

the last ounce out of a man in possession of it. I was ready to take him, but it did not seem possible. We are leaving at once, I said. There was no time for you to make the day's journey to jallow and back for your luggage. I have it, he said. "'Where is it?' I demanded, looking about and bewilderment. "'Here,' he answered, pointing to the shirt he wore and the stick he carried. "'I burst into a hearty laugh at the idea of such an outfit for a hard desert trek, "'and he joined me cheerfully. "'I assured him that he might go and never regretted my decision.

"'He proved to be one of the best men I had.' "'The next morning we watered the camels, "'a process which must not be hurried. Nothing is more important in trekking than the condition of your camels. Not only must they be fat and well-nourished at the start, but they must be allowed to drink their fill with deliberation and permitted to rest after drinking. When the camels were ready, they were loaded with the greatest care

for good packing and loading at the beginning meantime and trouble saved all through the journey. The rapidity with which the loading and unloading can be accomplished day after day, sometimes means a gain of a day or two in time before the trip is over. At 2.30, we were ready to start. As the camels moved slowly off, the sonorous voice of Buhilega rose in the Azzan to calling to prayers, according to Bedouin custom at the beginning of a long trek. It is the Bedouin tradition that those who begin the journey with the Azon will end it with the Azzan. They will, that is, meet with no disaster by the way.

Our caravan had gradually become enlarged until it consisted of 39 camels, 21 men, a horse, and a dog. Our personnel was as follows. Myself and my four men, Abdullahi, Ahmed, Hamad, and Ismail. Zirwali, Bu Ilega, the owner of the camels with his son, his nephew, and his slave. There was also Daywood, Zirwali's uncle, who was going with a single camel to Tyserbo to bring back his wife and daughter. Sunusi Bu Hassan, our guide, Sunusi Bojabir, the boy with a shirt and staff, Hamad Zawaya, another boy who was a pleasant singer,

Saad the Aujuli, Farage, the slave, two Tibu's with their three camels. In addition, there were three other Tibus with three camels loaded with merchandise which they were taking to deliver to merchants in Kufra. We set our faces southward and journeyed toward Kufra. It was hot and windy, and the desert lay about us like an interminable pancake.

The ground was seria, which is flat, hard sand, with a little gravel scattered over it. Our first objective was the Zegan well, which we ought to make in eight or nine days. In the old days, before the time of the Sinooses, it had been the custom to make the trek from Jallo to Zegan in three days and five nights, marching continuously without a stop for food or rest.

But the Sinoosies changed all that. They inaugurated the custom of taking enough water and food to permit the journey to be made in twice the time with adequate rest for camels and men each day. At first our camels moved reluctantly, for they had just left good grazing, it would much rather have gone back to it. Boo Halaga tried his best to persuade the trading Tibus to lead the caravan with their camels, but they cleverly refused. The place of honor at the head of the line is an arduous one. Camels are quite ready to follow others ahead of them, but dislike to go forward independently. So the first camel in the caravan has to be driven and often beaten with a stick to keep him going. The Teabu's preferred to bring up the trail of the procession where their camels needed no urging.

But Halega got even with them later, however, because of their choice of position. It was hot and windy all the afternoon, but in the evening the wind dropped to a gentle breeze, and the desert put forth its full charm. I find recorded in my diary some of the thoughts and feelings on getting back into this whole familiar desert where I was approaching the point at which we lost our way two years before. The same old flat desert and feelings of old memories. How one forgives the desert her scorching sun

and her torturing wind for the calm of the evening, the sunset, and the moon rising, and then that gentle and serene breeze. How easily one forgets the presence of her dangers. It is the full appreciation of simple pleasures that endears the desert to one, in spite of all her harshnesses and crudities. A glass of tea, a cigarette, a pipe when the caravan is asleep, and the fragrance of the tobacco is wafted by the gently stirring air.

A glimpse of the playing of the firelight on the faces of the men of the caravan, some old and rugged, some smooth and youthful. To see men toil, succeed, and fail, and suffer in another sphere of life. Above all, to be near to God and to feel his presence. On the 18th, we got up at six, and the camels were briskly loaded in 35 minutes. The careful first loading at Jallo and Butterfall made speed possible now. Nevertheless, it was 9 o'clock before we were ready for the start. The morning program in camp is not one that can be safely hurried.

The Bedouin dislikes intensely to be rushed over his meals or to be deprived of those moments of leisure thereafter, which are so essential to peaceful digestion and a contented spirit. The wise leader will see that these prejudices of his men are carefully observed. Perhaps this is a good place to set down the outline of a typical day's trek under the conditions which prevailed until we reached our canoe. Although it is March, it is still cold in the morning, and one gets up a little after dawn because it is too cold to stay in bed-lain longer.

Even the sleeping bag in the Bedouin blanket will not keep out the chill. A peep through the flaps of the tent shows that the stars are paling in the sky. Someone has the fire already started, and the first impulse is to get to it without delay. Throwing my dirt about me and wrapping the kufia around my ears, I dash out to the crackling blaze. There is nothing hot about the desert, these crisp morning hours. I stand by the fire and have a look around. There is little life in the camp

yet, though all the men are up. They are huddled close to the warmth, muffled in jords, and every other garment that they can lay their hands on. When water is plenty, steaming hot glasses of tea are handed around, and after they are drunk, the activities of the camp divide. The camelmen go to feed the camels with dried dates, which the beasts munch reflectively, stones and all. A consultation is sometimes held over the camels if some of them have suffered the previous day from two heavy loads. Perhaps a shifting of loads is to sight it on, or better packing and loading recommended. Other men are pulling down the three-tenths, which form the apexes of a triangle with the camels parked at its center. The luggage which had been set up as a barricade against the ice-

wind is sorted out and arranged ready for the loading. Meanwhile, I have been attending to the barometer and the thermometer, registering their readings, filling in the spaces in my scientific diary, seeing that the cameras have fresh films. The voices of the men sound low through the camp, muffled by kufias and extra clothing. At last, breakfast is ready. It may be acida, the Bedouin national dish, a kind of pudding, baked of flour, oil, and spices, or it may be rice. It is an utterly simple meal in either case, but with what keen appetite one attacks it. In the desert, any disinclination for the first meal of

the day that one may feel in city surroundings vanishes away. Breakfast is finished off with the inevitable three glasses of tea, taken slowly and reflectively. Whatever one does, one must not deprive one's men of their tea or hurry them over it. Give a better one a filling meal and let him sip three glasses of tea after it, and you can get any work out of him that you want. Stint him or rush him, and you will get worse than nothing. After breakfast, everyone is warm and contented and ready to work hard. The loading goes on swiftly, diversified at times by the antics of the two or three young and frolicsome camels that seem to get into every caravan. These young fellows resist being loaded and even throw off their loads

when the job is apparently all finished. Zirwali and Abdulihy are alert to see that the loading is done with the utmost care and precision. An extra half-hour spent now may save two or three hours delay on the road later caused by the slipping of the loads or improper distribution of the burdens. When the caravan is all but ready, I have a few words with a guide about the direction of our day's march. He draws a line on the sand and says that there lies our way.

I take a bearing of the line with my compass, a proceeding which doubtless seems to him an absurd if harmless idiosyncrasy of mine, but I like to be able to check with a compass the direction the caravan is taking as the day goes on. On the whole, the precaution proves unnecessary, however, for Sunusi-Bu-Hsan goes straight to his side, mark as a homing pigeon. Only in the middle of the day he sometimes wobbles a bit. In the daytime, he travels by a shadow, and as he explains, when the sun is high and the shadow lies between my feet, then my head goes round. There is one other hour in the day when the guide's task is a perplexing

one. In the twilight hour between the setting of the sun and the appearance of the stars, all directions on the desert's vast disk are the same. and sometimes the compass is useful. Once by means of the bearing I had taken in the morning, I caught the guide in the hour between sun and stars going almost 90 degrees off the right direction. But Nazarul, the accuracy with which a good guide like Sunusi-Bu Hassan steers his course,

is almost uncanny. Our conference over and the last camels loaded, the guide sets out ahead and one by one the camels follow. The men of the caravan have a last warm-up of hands and feet at the dying fire, thrust their feet into the betterman shoes, and hasten after the camels singing gaily. The sun is getting warm by now, and unless there is a strong wind blowing from the north, one disposes quickly of wrappings on ears of the neck and finally with the jerd. The extra garments are flung on the backs of camels, jokes begin to crack,

foot races are run, and everybody is happy to be alive. Gradually the men sort themselves into groups of two and three spaced at intervals along the caravan, chatting about their own affairs or about things in general. Sometimes I walk at the head of the caravan, and again some distance behind it, to keep an eye on the direction it is taking, and especially to enjoy the sense of solitude and remoteness. Toward midday, contemplation of the beauties of nature is sometimes disturbed by other and less romantic thoughts. My mind occasionally wanders toward favorite restaurants and faraway civilization. As I stride along, I imagine myself in Shepherd's grill room in Cairo, and I order Cravet

Al-American with that subtle variation of Rizel-Orentel, which is a specialty of the house. Or I am at Prunais in Paris, ordering Moran Verdaustin, followed by a steak and a souffle. Perhaps it is the Kovah at Milan and a succulent dish of risotto a melanese, maybe strawberries melba at the ritz in London, or again a Circassian dish of rice with walnut sauce, which is the masterpiece of the old and beloved slave who really rules my father's house in Cairo, occupying the privileged position of a treasured nanny

of the long service in an English family. Suddenly, Ahmed or Abdullahioulihy comes along, and without a word pushes a bag of squashed dates into my palm. Dreams vanish, and I eat with as much appetite as though there were no better fare in all the world. There is no halt for lunch, as the camels eat only twice a day. If we have just left an oasis, there is fresh bread, half a loaf, or even a whole one to each man with dates. Later on, that fresh bread becomes hard bread, and still later, no bread at all. but there are always dates.

I have one camel fitted up with a folded tent over its back, so that any one of us may lie and take us ease when tired of walking. Ahmed calls it the club. One day at the lunch hour, Abdullahid demands where I am and whether I have had my portion of bread and dates or not, and Ahmed replies with a twinkling eye and an otherwise gray face, the bay is lunching at the club today. It is entirely possible when you are used to it

to have a good nap on the camel's back and an occasional ride is not to be scorned, but generally one walks for the camel's pace of two and a half miles an hour is an easy one to keep up with, and riding is often more tiring than going on foot. Sometimes during a whole day's trek, a narrow strip of water lies shimmering

on the horizon ahead of the caravan. It never gets any nearer, but continues to beckon, a cool and pleasant invitation until the sun is rolled around to the west, and the mirage vanishes away. It is a purely optical illusion, for there is no water there. Another kind of mirage comes sometimes in the early morning. Then the country far ahead of one appears in the sky at the horizon, as the Bedouins say, upside down. This is not, as as the other variety of mirage is entirely an illusion. It is really the reversed reflection of the country 30 or 40 kilometers ahead of where the observer stands.

As the sun rises higher above the horizon, suddenly the mirage vanishes as magically as it came. There are also other tricks of reflection of light in the desert. Sometimes, for instance, a small pebble the size of a cricket ball seen from a mile away might assume the appearance of a big rock, standing like a landmark. The skeleton, or part of the skeleton of a camel, or a human being,

may take on the most fantastic shapes on the horizon, but the Bedouins know it well. It is absurd to say that the Bedouin is lured by the mirage out of his way, and even to his destruction. The seasoned desert traveler knows a mirage when he sees one. It is entirely possible indeed that the Eighty-a-one, that the upside-down variety may be a positive assistance, since it can suggest what kind of country lies ahead.

The mirage is an interesting phenomenon, but it is not one of the perils of desert travel. In the afternoon, there are several hours of heat, the pace of the camel slackens, and the whole caravan becomes quiet and somnolent. As the evening comes on and it grows cool again, the camels pick up their speed and go into a full, final spurt before the time for making camp. The men sing to the camels then to stimulate their

efforts, and the beasts respond cheerfully to the encouragement. The songs are simple and poetic, full of the atmosphere of the desert life. One of them represents a Bedouin waiting at an oasis for the expected caravan. He sings to the approaching camels, gone is the night, come are the Mazuron to the morning sky. You are here and vanished over all our fears. The singer speaks of his camels. In companies the sand dunes march to meet them, pointing the homeward way. The singer addresses his camels. The sand dudes hide many wells that brim with waters unfailing. You come to their margins like bracelets, rot of gold, and rare gems in far countries. In another, the singer is still addressing his camels. The wells lie hid in the dunes,

masked by the sands drifted over them. You approach them in ones and two, oh you, who reveal hidden places. The last song that I shall set down shows the traditional attitude of the Bedouin to his camel. It is his most precious possession. To give it up without a struggle to the death is dishonor. A Bedouin might wait to take revenge for the killing of a brother or a son, but if his camel were stolen, he would not rest until he found it and brought it back by force of arms, if necessary. He who will not risk his life for his camel, says the Bedouin, does not deserve to have it. So the camel driver sings to his beast. For your sakes, O ye who cherish us, as loving mothers their children,

For your sakes, the sons of nobles have lain stark on the sands, unsheltered by tomb or burial. The men suit the song to the occasion. The first one that I have translated might be used when an oasis was not far off, the second when the caravan is approaching sand dune country, the third and fourth when they are nearing a well, and the last when entering a hostile region. At sunset I make it a point to be near the guide and unobtrusively to check him up with my compass in those uncertain hours before the stars come out.

When the dark falls, the lantern is lighted and given to the guide. Then we follow that a lucy pinpoint of yellow in the darkness. It winks a provocative invitation to follow, but we can never reach it. The camels like to have the lantern ahead of them and move briskly forward in pursuit. 12 or 13 hours of walking, if conditions have been good, bring us to the end of the day's trek, though sometimes we cannot go on for so long. Ederya Ayan, home for you who are weary,

is shouted by the guide and repeated by every man in the caravan. Then the men collect the camels and divide them, the water camels here, those carrying tents over there, the camels with luggage for the barricade yonder. The camels are barriced, kneel with grunts of satisfaction to have their loads removed. Now we must be vigilant, for men tired by a day's trek are likely to be careless, and let boxes with precious instruments or cameras fall with disastrous violence. The baggage is arranged in a barricade, if the night promises to be windy,

and the tents are pitched in their triangle, unless the night is particularly calm and pleasant. I could never decide which moment was fuller of satisfaction, that in which the tent was set up after a hard day's trek, or that in which it was pulled down, preliminary to taking the road again. Then the fire is built, and the leaping flames of the hot-dab throw a warm glow over the sand. The first thing is tea. Now I realized of the full of virtues of the dark, bittersweet liquid that the Bedouins know by that name. They make tea by taking a handful of the leaves and a handful of sugar

and boiling them briskly in a pint of water. The result would drive a housewife of the West almost insane, but it is a wonderful stimulant after a hard day's trek in the desert and a glorious reviver of one's energies and spirits. The men of the caravan are not slow to prepare and eat the evening meal, to feed the camels, and then dispose themselves for sleep. But I must compare my six watches and wind them, record the photographs made during the day, change the cinema films in the darkness, no mean feat in itself, label and store the geological

specimens I have collected, and write up my diaries. The glasses of Bedou and tea which I have drunk helped me to accomplish these duties, and then probably stimulate me for a walk in the desert. If there's no bitter cold wind, I go for perhaps a half a mile, looking back from time to time at the silhouette of the caravan against the sky. The dark masses of the tents, the baggage, and the kneeling camels touched here and there with flickers of light from the dying fire, in the midst of that immense sea of sand, make a picture full of mystery and fascination. All about me is silence. There is no wind whispering in the leaves, no murmur of the waters of a brook such as one hears in the wooded wilds, no slap and plash and swish of waves against the ship's side, such as are always present at sea.

Nothing but silence. Silence, the sands, and the stars. End of Section 10. Section 11 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohamed Hassanian. This Libra-Box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 The Road to Ziegan Well From this point, I shall set down the days as they are recorded in my diary. Sunday, March 18th, start at 9 a.m., halt at 8.30 p.m. Make 46 kilometers. Highest temperature, 21 degrees, lowest, 3 degrees.

Cloudy all day, clear in the evening. Just a few drops of rain in the afternoon. strong northeast wind which develops at 2.30 into a sandstorm. Wind drops at sunset and gets up again at eight in the evening. The sun is not visible and the guide's course not so straight as usual, as shown by the compass bearings which I take often during the day. At 5.30 the sun appears and he corrects his course. At 7.30 he is traveling by the north star, which the Bedouins call El Jadi. The ground is generally the same as yesterday's, though slightly undulating. At intervals all day we come across patches of big, dark-colored pebbles.

In the morning there was excitement when we sighted on the horizon a series of hazy dots that meant the approaching vanguard of a caravan. My binoculars were brought into play and passed around among the men. Rifles were unslung from their places on the camel's backs, and the Tibu's ran to get their spears. The men raged themselves on the side of the caravan nearest the oncomers, and held themselves alert until we should find out whether they were friendly or hostile. It did not take long to recognize them for friends.

Then men from each party met and squatted down between the two caravans to exchange the news while the two lines of camels plotted past. Tongues flew as they heard and told who had been married, Who was dead? Who had made money? What new feuds had arisen, or what old ones had been ended? Then the envoys sprang up, bade each other godspeed, and hastened after their respective caravans. This is the desert wireless at work. Monday, March 19th, start at 8.15 a.m., halt at 8.30 p.m. Make 49 kilometers. Highest temperature, 22 degrees, lowest 5 degrees.

Weather, fine and clear, strong northeast wind, which drops at midday, few white clouds in the afternoon. Sun is very warm, making our progress slow, but evening is cool and the pace is quickened. Ground very flat, hard sand covered with fine gravel. At six in the evening, cross a slight depression with a patch of gray stone on the right and a white stone on our left, about two kilometers distant. All of us, men and camels, were getting into our stride. The Bedouins and Tebow's indulged in foot races and played practical jokes. The Tebow's are simple, primitive fellows with delightfully naive habits of mind. Being poor, they take the best care of what possessions they have.

They dress in a simple cotton shirt and a pair of drawers and devote as much attention to making these garments last as long as possible. When a Tibu rides a camel, for instance, he takes off his drawers to save wear and tear and hangs them on his camel's back. When he sleeps, he also removes his garments to protect them from friction against the sand and wraps himself in his fur cloak. While one of the Tibu's was riding that day, some of the Bedouins took his drawers and hid them. When he alighted and looked for his garment, he immediately feared that it had dropped off and lay somewhere in the desert along our track. Without a moment's hesitation, he set out on the backtrack, running briskly in search of his precious possession. He had become a tiny figure in the vast expanse of sand before we took pity on him

and fired shots to call him to return. He turned reluctantly and soon joined us with downcast face, but the merriment of the jokers told him that something was up, and when his drawers were produced, he was too pleased to get them back to resent the joke. The previous night, some of the campels paid a visit to my tent and threatened to have it down on top of me. They are clever beasts. They like to scratch their necks on the tent ropes. And when all the camp is asleep, they hobble in quest of this innocent form of diversion. First, the camel sticks his head through the flap of my tent to see if I am awake. If he does not hear me resent his intrusion, he then knows I am asleep

and out he backs and sets to scratching vigorously. Soon he is joined by others, and I awake under the impression that my tent is being assailed by a violent storm. Each day I was more impressed with Buhalega as a traveling companion. He was a man of few words with a big heart and generous spirit. His years and his white hair and beard gained him the respect of all of us, for in the desert the man of experience who is bizarre, of the wisdom that comes with age is the invaluable one.

Zerwali and I, therefore, referred continually to Buhalega's judgment. He was tactful at offering his suggestions for my consideration, but I was wise enough not to disregard them. He was constantly on the lookout for the well-being of the camels, and his splendid voice was heard at intervals through the day addressing the camels or the men. The white camel is weary. tomorrow, Ibrahim, we will shift its load to the old brown one, he says to his slave. Talk to them, men, talk to them, he commands, knowing how much better the camels travel under

encouragement. And again, sing to them, Ibrahim. Follow the guide, you beautiful beasts, he exhorts the camels. Pray, Hamad, that saddle has shifted. It will irritate the camel's back. When the twilight comes, he gives the order. Light the lantern, it pleases the camels. The qualities of the camel are seldom, if ever, appreciated on a slight acquaintance. The camel is as clever as a horse, if not more clever, and in some ways is more human. Patient as a camel is an Arab saying, and a very true one. If you ill-treat a camel, he will never forget it, but he will not attack you on the spot.

He will wait, and if you repeat the offense again and again, he makes up his mind to get as revenge. Not, however, when there are many people about. Here he behaves in a most human way. He watches his chances until you and he are alone, and then he goes for you, either by snatching at you with his mouth and throwing you to the ground, or by kicking you and then trampling upon you. There is a case known where a camel trampled on a man and then sat on him, refusing to move even after punishment from the men who ran up to the rescue, wanting to make sure that he he had finished the man, as indeed he had. People imagine that in the desert a camel has to be roped in and led.

As a matter of fact, it is very hard in the desert to keep a camel away from the rest of the caravan, for instinctively he knows that to be left behind his death. So he keeps as near the bulk of the caravan as he can. It is a sad sight to seal camel struggling behind a caravan. It is like the soldier in retreat, unable to keep up with his comrades, knowing that nobody can carry him, and that to fall behind means disaster. The camel also displays his intelligence when he is taken from the oasis and pushed into the waterless trek. Instinctively, he tries at night, even three or four days after the start, to go back to the oasis. There have been a few desert tragedies when all the camels have deserted the men at night,

Either on the outward or the homecoming journey, when the caravan was still a few days from its destination. Or in the event of some accident befallen a caravan, camels which have traveled a certain road for 10 or 15 years will complete the journey alone. As we were approaching Jallo and three days' journey from the camp of the Bedouins from whom I had hired three camels, one of the latter fell desperately ill.

They divided as load between the other two and left him in the desert. I all the time urging the Bedouins to kill him and save him the torches of the death. I even offered to pay them the price of the camel if they would allow me to put an end to him. But as the camel was a pedigreed beast, they refused. They said,

He is only feeling tired. He will go at his leisure back to the camp. I learned afterwards that the camel reached home safely and was feeling much better. Instinctively, again, The camel knows that he has a guide, and if you halt in the middle of the desert to debate some point in regard to the route, the camels crowd round the guide. The moment he moves, they follow him, ignoring the presence of every other member of the caravan, but never overtaking the guide.

Or if occasionally a camel ignores even the guide and goes right ahead of a caravan, then it is safe for the caravan to follow that camel, for he certainly knows the place that the caravan is coming to. The Bedouins say that a camel who has once grazed in an oasis would find his way back to that oasis even if he were several days' journey from it. There is a famous Bedouin story of the sand grouse and the camel who had a competition. The sand grouse said, I could lay my eggs in the desert, travel for days, and come back and hatch them. The camel retorted, If my mother drinks from a well when I am still in her womb, I could travel for days and come back and drink from the same well. I myself have seen a camel head to caravan when we were

four days from a well, the waters of which she had tasted four years before. There is a well-known case of one camel that saved a caravan which was going from Daqla Oasis to the the oasis at Uanat. The guide who had never been to the place before, but was heading toward it, going by the description of another Bedouin, had lost his bearings, and the caravan wandered for 12 days aimlessly. The water was exhausted, and they had lost hope. Suddenly, one of the camels headed the caravan, and they followed him. That camel had been to Uanat a few years before, and when he was two days' journey from Uanat, he smelled the place, and he smelled the place, as the Bedouins say, and landed the caravan right at one of the wells.

In winter, the well-trained camel can go for a fortnight without water, in summer up to 12 days. The Bedouins try to feed their camels always on grazing grass if they can, but when they take them to the Daffa or long waterless trek, they are fed on dried dates, and when the Bedouin can afford it, on barley. Most of the camels found in Xireneica are Hamla or Pack Camels. The best trotting camels are Tibus or Toregs, beautiful white beasts with slim limbs and graceful lines. The average good day's work of a pack camel

is a distance of 25 miles. The thoroughbred Toreg does up to 40 and has been known to do 70 miles at one stretch. The camel can become a very affectionate beast and very devoted to his master. Well-trained trotting camels or hedge-eaters refuse to get up with anybody on their back but their own master. As a rule, the water is carried on the older and wiser camels

who go sedately with no attempt to frolic. They realize that they are carrying the most valuable asset to the whole caravan, and therefore the moment the day's trek is over and we are at the hour of unloading, these older and wiser camels stand apart from the rest, for fear the sheepskins they are carrying be bumped. I have also seen camels walk around the camp and approach the sheepskins lying on the ground, arranged and covered for the night. The camels would take great care to walk around them.

There was one camel that was trained for a long time to carry my tent in all my books and instruments. He was only chosen for that task because of its being of strong and old camel. Every morning when the loading started, he used to come of his own accord and barrack near my tent, and, in his usual supercilious way, wait for the load to be put on his back. The camel is a jealous husband, or a faithful wife, as the case may be. The female camels will never leave their lord and master and always follow him, while woe betide any adventurous male camel who dares to attempt to butt in. Each morning and evening, Buhalega and I rode together and talked about camels in the desert

and Bedouin history. I was careful to ask no direct questions for the Bedouins are suspicious people ready to mistrust your motives. But casual remarks easily bring out interesting comments and information. There was a time, said the venerable old man, when Kufra was unknown to our people.

A Bedo into the Chihuahazi tribe from El Obed, a small oasis near Budafal well, noticed a crow which kept flying away to the south and coming back again as regularly as the sun rises. He watched it for some time and then set out to follow its course southward. He finally reached Tyserboe and, after a day's stop on the outskirts of the oasis, managed to get enough water to take him back. On his return, he told his tribe of date trees and water in the heart of the desert. They formed an expedition which set out for Tyser bow and conquered it, after which they went on to Bozima, Ribiana, and eventually to Kufra itself.

So the Bedouins came to Kufra. I had been casting covetous eyes on Buhilega's horse since I first saw it in Jallo. Abdulihi had inquired for me whether it could be bought, but the price was too high. So I affected indifference and bided my time. No one of Buhalega's family rode the horse but himself. man's dignity would not permit. But he kindly allowed me to use the animal whenever I wanted to ride. In fact, on this journey, it seemed more mine than his. Three of the camels were tired and barriced, knelt down, without orders. They do not behave this way unless there is a good reason for it, and so we shifted their loads to let them have a rest. We lost time in the process, but made it up when the cool of the evening came.

I made it a point to talk with each man in the caravan every day. It kept things running smoothly, and incidentally I picked up some interesting information. I learned on this day that the Bedouins not only knew the tracks of their own camels, but often could tell whether camels which have passed belong to men of the same tribe or not. Tabu camels, they know at once because of the peculiar shape of their hoofs and the long strides they take. The Tabu camels are hardier than the Bedouin animals and can be used both in the northern desert of Sireneica and to the south in the Sudan.

The Bedouins change camels at Kufra when going north or south. I walked with Sunusi Ben Hassan, the guide, and he told me of a trick used by the Bedouins when they are herding camels or sheep. They milk the beasts in the morning and bury the milk in Agurba to keep it cool. But desert marauders are clever, and can easily find where a gerba has been buried,

so the wily Bedouin buries two gerbos, one beneath the other. The bottom one is full of fresh milk, and the top one of stale. The thief discovers the upper gerba and looks no further, while the owner of the gerbis find his fresh milk safe when he returns at night. We met flocks of small birds winging their way north. Some of them were tired and eagerly accepted the water we offered them. one perched on my hand to drink. Sometimes near a well, one of those that is better described as a waterhole,

one sees a few wings, feathers, and bones of birds that tell their sad tale. They were probably immigrants who came across the well and stayed for a few days to recuperate. The well had just been dug by a passing caravan, water was easily available, and the birds grew accustomed to the spot. Little by little the sand drifted up and filled the well, and one day there was no more water, just a damp patch of sand. Or perhaps the birds arrived there too exhausted to fly another hundred or two hundred miles in search of water, so they remained and died.

In the morning at 10.30 we passed sand dunes called El Quimat, eight or ten kilometers to our left, like small white tents on the desert, as their name indicates. At 4.30, we sighted on our left at 30 kilometers the landmark called El Fariege, four sand hills in a row. The name means the little band of men. At 615, we cited the top of another landmark known as Mazul, the solitary one, hazy to the distance in the southeast. We were all cheered by the sight of these landmarks, which indicated our progress. We were confident that we had a skillful guide, but, as the Bedouins say, the good guide is known only at the well. It is only when one has reached the end of the journey that there is certainty that the right

track had been taken. Sunusi Bouhasan demonstrated his remarkably keen eyesight. Very early in the morning, before breaking camp, he announced that he saw I'llquimat, landmark, in spite of the morning missed. It were several hours before other eyes in the caravan could make it out. In the afternoon we passed camel skeletons lying white on the sands. Strangely enough, this is a cheering sign in the desert for two reasons. First, because in the trackless monotony, any sign that others have passed that way is encouraging, and second, because the camel bones are more frequent near the wells. Camels are more likely to die near the end of a trek when, if the water is scarce, they have been pushed too hard by their mouths. And,

The Bedouins do not like to use the word skeleton when they find such a reminder that death has come to this way, so they euphemistically call it gazelle, which means gazelle. Thursday, March 22nd, up at 5.30 a.m. I watched the sunrise at 6.27 a.m. and recorded its time. We started at 8 a.m. and made 48 kilometers over very flat country, hard sand, and gravel. All the morning the Mazul sand dunes were on our left, 25 kilometers distance, but by the afternoon we had passed them. In the morning I heard Zirwali and Abduli discussing this land of astounding flatness through which we were passing. Yes, our country is a blessed one, said Zirwali. Yes, indeed, it has a wonderful future, answered the man from Egypt. It is here, I believe, that the day

of reckoning will be held. It is the only place. It is the only place. God could find that would be big enough and so empty. The Tibus were running far and wide ahead in each side of the caravan in search of Camel Dung for fuel. They lived their life a little apart from the others in the caravan, and so they liked to have their own campfire at night a short distance from the main camp. Camel Dung was the only available fuel. The Tibu's who are sturdy runners would go as much as five miles out of their way to find the precious material. But the Bedouins objected to the Thibu's habit of running ahead and seizing all the dung. It is an inflexible rule of the desert that anything found on the way

belongs to him who first touches it, and the Tebow's appeal to that rule for justification. The Bedouins, however, had a telling retort. You have no guide ahead, nor do you let your camels go first where they will not go without the stick, they said. You want us to lead the way for your camels while you run ahead and seize the dung. That dung belongs to us who would come upon it first if you were back with your camels where you belong. The controversy grew spirited and was finally brought to me for judgment. I decreed that the Bedouins were right and the Tibus should have no fire of their own. They should, however, be given a hot meal from the general commissary. at every night. The Tibus are quite different in many of their habits and customs from the Bedouins.

They often do not use fire in the preparation of their food, though, as I have shown, they do not reject it for comfort and cheer. They dry the inside of the bark from the top of a date tree over a fire and powder it to use as a material for a kind of pudding. They mix it with dates and locusts also powdered. They invite no one to share their meals, as the Bedouins invariably do, nor are they resentful if others do not ask them to share their food. The Bedouins criticized vigorously this failure in hospitality as they consider it. The Tibus leave nothing behind on the track, having a superstitious fear that whoever picks up what they have dropped

would get hold of them too. They are fine physical specimens and good workers, but extremely simple in their habits of life and mind. They are mixing more and more with the Bedouins, however, and learning the Bedouin waves. On this day, one of the camels became ill. Buhilega got down and walked behind it, and then bled it from the tail.

We hoped it would be better after a night's rest. As we were sure of our water supply, we decided to have a glass of tea. Buhalega, Zirwali, Abdullah, and I went on ahead of the caravan, taking the guide with us to set our course right. When we were far enough ahead, we quickly made a fire and brewed tea. As the caravan came up, we handed a glass of tea to each man as he passed.

The caravan did not stop. When the last camel was past us, we packed up our paraphernalia and hastened to catch up with a plotting caravan, Boo Halaga on his camel, Sir Wally and an Abdullahi riding double on a trotting camel, and I on the horse. I must own Baraka was useful to me for several purposes. With him, the camels could be easily brought back from the grazing ground, which they are reluctant to leave to enter this area again. I could ride him to visit places of interest when we halted at oases,

allowing the camels to rest or graze. I could go ahead of the caravan with him or remain behind to make observations or secure specimens unwatched by the men. on his back I could make a properly dignified appearance at the head of my caravan when entering or leaving an oasis. Friday, March 23rd. We made 36 kilometers. There was a strong northeast wind of previous night, starting an hour after midnight.

This wind continued all day, increasing from one to three, and dropped in the evening. It was fair and clear, but cloudy in the late afternoon. At five in the afternoon, we sighted the sand dunes called El Mazeel, 25 kilometers toward the southeast. The men had become interested in making a full day's track and exerted every effort to be underway at eight, intending to walk for 12 hours. But the sick camel interfered with our plans. When the time came to start, it had to be lifted to its feet. Boo Halega shook his head and said, this camel will be flesh to eat before the day is over. Two hours later the camel knelt and refused to rise.

In a few minutes it had to be slaughtered. Three men and two camels were left to bring the flesh after us. Before we had gone far, Bouhelega came trotting up on his horse and said, It is a fat camel. Let us stop for a while. Knowing the Bedouin's love of meat, I halted the caravan while a fire was made, and a feast prepared.

Everyone ate the meat but myself and my two Egyptian servants. Buhalega asked why I did not join the feast, and I told him that I did not care to eat the flesh of a sick camel. It is better than the little fish, he said, referring to some tins of sardines which we had with us. We have seen the camel slaughtered, but who knows what happened to the little fish since they were in the sea. The camel's flesh, which was not eaten at once,

once, the Bedouins dried and cut into thin shreds for flavoring their rice and aceta later on. When we started again in the afternoon, Sunusi Bu Hassan said to me, We will walk until we knock off the young moon, and then we will be able to lunch at the well tomorrow. But when evening came, clouds hit El Jaddy before the young moon had set, and we had to stop and make camp at 10.30 for fear of losing our way. In this part of the desert there was little to discover externally, but a great deal to discover in oneself that could only be brought to light and the silence and calm. It makes all the difference in the world whether one goes through the journey

with the intention of getting back as quickly as possible to civilization again, or whether one lives and enjoys every moment of it. Just as the sun was going down, I saw Zerwally sitting by himself, drawing lines on the sand with a mediter, He was doing this Yazurga, or Science of the Sands, with which the Bedouin tells his own fortune. At intervals, his eyes lifted from the pattern before him, and brooded dreamily on the vivid colors of the sunset. The Bedouin has an appreciation of beauty and irreverence for nature.

How could he help it? Day after day, it is exactly the same. The photographs I took in those seven days might be pictures of the same camp from different angles, so persistently the same was the immense desolate expanse of sand, unmarked except for a camel's skeleton or a few pebbles the size of a walnut. There was nothing to distract one's mind or interrupt one's contemplation. What a peculiar charm this desolate desert has. What a cleansing effect on one's mind and body.

How this constant touch with infinity, day by day and night by night, affects the mind in the spirit and alters one's conception of life. How small and petty one's efforts in the round of ordinary civilization seem. How insignificant one's efforts in this desert actually are. Saturday, March 24th, we were up at 5.30 a.m. tired, for we went to bed at two. It was fine and clear all day. A northeast breeze in the morning dropped at midday, leaving it very warm. A strong northeast wind got up again at 10 p.m. At 9.30 a.m., the country began to change slightly. The sand was softer and the ground a little undulating.

At 10, we came across patches of black, broken stone, which continued all day. At noon, we sighted on our right the first hot tub, dried brushwood of Zegan Valley. At 1.45, we halted for a hot meal and a rest near the first hat-tab we reached. Our fuel supply was exhausted the previous day, and we had had nothing hot to eat or drink since the morning of the day before. At 5.13, we sighted sand dunes to the southeast, about 40 kilometers distance. The dunes ran southward in line towards Zegan Valley. At 8.30, the hillocks of Hatab increased in number and extent. When we started in the morning, we hoped to get to Zegan that day. Later, there was disagreement as to why we had not reached it.

Bu Halega remarked that the guide must have gone too far to the west, or we should have arrived at the well before this. Zerwali, who had selected Bu Hassan for our guide, came to his defense. It was because we lost time slaughtering the camel and feasting the day before that we did not arrive, he said. Hamad had another explanation. The camels are not being driven at all, he said. one sleeps long and gets up at his leisure and the camels are still in sight.

It was the custom of the men to drop out of line for a nap of a half hour or so, the slow pace of the camels and their track in the sand, making it possible for them to catch the caravan easily on wakening. When we halted to make a fire and have the first hot meal in 30 hours, I remembered that this was just where we had lost our way on the previous trip to Kufra in 1921. After our meal, Daywood, Zirwali's uncle, left us with a single camel to go to Tyserbo, which lay a day's journey west of Ziegann.

He proposed to get his wife and daughter and take them to Seraenaika, where there were better prospects for business. Sir Wally had agreed to help him in his affairs in the new region. It must have taken a lot of pluck for the old man to undertake the long journey to the north with two women and but a single camel. I asked him how he would manage it. He told me that the first day they would all walk. The next day, as the weight of water on the camel grew less, his daughter would ride, and on the third day, his wife.

But suppose something happens to your camel, I asked. Protection comes from God, was his quiet answer. I gave him rice, macaroni, tea, and sugar, and when we had said the fata, He departed very happy. The Bedouins were delighted with a great feast of rice and camel flesh, and we went to bed in vast contentment. It was a beautiful night, and I left my tent and spent a few tranquil moments under the golden moon,

and the stars paled by her brighter light. Their serene cheerfulness and encouraging companies sent me back to my bed, as always, with new hope and confidence. This is the entry in my diary for the following day. Sunday, March 25th. Start at 7.45 a.m. Halt at 1.45 p.m. Make 24 kilometers. Highest temperature, 32 degrees, lowest 14. Strong northeast wind all last night and until 4.30 today. Cloudy all the morning, no sun, a few drops of rain at midday. It clears in the afternoon. We walk all away among little hillocks of dry hot-tab gradually increasing from a few inches to eight feet in height as we near the well. The hillocks are interspersed with patches of sand strewn with bits of black

broken stone. The sand gets gradually softer until it is moist a few inches under the surface. At 915 we sighted to the southwest, about three kilometers away, the sand dunes of Elwashka, a small well of the Zegan group. At 9.30 we passed on our left, Matan Buhu, the old well of Zigen. We camp near the few date trees that stand by the best well of the group, El Harash.

In the desert, a well does not mean a nicely excavated and stoned-up arrangements such as one finds in other parts of the world with a bucket in windlass or a pump. In this part of the desert, a well is a spot where water is close to the surface, and can be easily obtained by digging. It is just a damp patch of sand

which the Bedouins scrape open with their hands, getting water at three or four feet down. Between the visits of caravans, the sands drift over the place and choke the waterhole so that each newcomer must clean it out for himself. But the joy of an ample supply of fresh water after days of having just enough for making tea

with no chance of a bath or even a shave is sufficient reward for all the labor of digging out the well. If it has been a long journey, the first thing to think of is the camels. After they have been watered and a good meal digested, washing is the most important item in the program. If the water is scarce, clothes have to wait until the next well,

because the question of water for the trek has to be considered. As soon as the men have rested, sheepskins are filled and left for the night. early next morning two or three men go to see which of the sheepskins has leaked and if possible detect the cause of the leakage. They also make a point of separating the bad sheepskins from the good ones so that on the journey water should be taken on the first day or two from those which leak or are unreliable. The first night at a well, however tired the caravan may be, has always made the opportunity for great rejoicing, singing, and dancing.

Before arriving at the well, one's idea of a rest has been at least four or five days' stay and plenty of water to make up for past probation. Thoughts dwell on the pleasing idea of really having water to splash about with. Curiously enough, after a single day's rest, a fever of restlessness gets hold of one once again, and the luxury of abundance is left most eagerly for the privations of the road. no matter if it be a big well surrounded by a fertile oasis full of comforts of life, yet one returns with a sigh of contentment to the twelve-hour trek and the lunch of dried dates. The well, when scraped out, is probably about the size of a tea table for two.

The moist sand holds the walls together. Usually one leaves it alone a little for the sand to settle, but the water is always sandy and it is too much bother to stay. straight it. Not on one single occasion did I drink a glass of water that was not cloudy, and never did I see the bottom of my zinc cup while drinking. The filter which kind friends said I must take with me, I never used it all until we got to the Sudan, and there the water was really bad. In an inhabited area, you did not know what may have happened to it. And when we tried to get this famous filter working, we found there were no washers for it. So that was the end of the the story of the filter. Dirt in the desert, it may be necessary to remark, is quite different

from dirt anywhere else. It is not unwholesome, for the sand is a clean thing, and the clothes of the Bedouins led in the air. Vermin is there, but it is inevitable, and the Bedouin pays no heed to it. I might have just had my bath, and then I would go and sit down for a glass of tea with my men, and, well, you are bound to collect these things. End of Section 11. Section 12 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13, The Changing Desert and a corrected map.

Monday, March 26th, at El Harash Well of the Zegan Group. Highest temperature 27 degrees, lowest 6th. lowest six degrees, fine and clear with northeast wind, which develops into a bad sandstorm at 11. The storm continues until 6.30 in the evening, and the wind does not go down until two hours later. Our halt at Zegan should have been only for a night, but the severe sandstorm kept us windbound for another day. Zegan is merely a group of four wells, the two that we passed on Sunday, El Harash, where we are camped, and another Boo Zerig, 20 kilometers to the east. During the day, Buhlega talked to Abdullahi about my coming to the desert.

You have audacity, you Egyptians, he said, for your bay to come twice to our country, which no stranger has visited before in my time. That is boldness. Why does he come here and leave all God's bounty back there in Egypt, if not for some secret purpose? He comes to our unknown country to measure and map it, and by God not once, but twice. Even my good friend Bu Halega was suspicious of my intentions in penetrating into his country. I finally discovered the real basis of the antagonism of those who live in the desert to the coming of persons from the outside world. It is not religious fanaticism. It is merely the instinct of self-preservation. If a single stranger penetrated,

traded to Kufra, the cherished center of the life of their tribe, it would be, as the Bedouin says, the camel's nose inside the flap of the tent. After him would come others, and the final outcome would be foreign domination. That would mean the loss of their independence and the paying of taxes. They can hardly be blamed for dreading either of these results. The changes produced by time in the desert, which we are accustomed to think of as eternally the same, are interesting. When Rolf's passed to the westward of Zigan on his way to Kufra in 1879, he reported a broad stretch of green vegetation here. Today, there is no extent of

greenness, merely a great deal of Hatab, dead brushwood. Rolf's statement, however, is confirmed by Bu Halega, who says that when he was a child, his father used to take him to Kufra when he went to get dates, because the Bedouins believe that the waters of the Shakara, the headquarters of the Zawayas near Jallo, are bad for children in the summer. Bouhelega used to be carried on his father's back, most of the way. It was in those days that the drip was made in three days and five nights without halts. They gave the camels but one meal between Jallo and Zegan, and when they reached the latter place, the beasts were fed on the green stuff that was growing there then.

What has seemed like an error on Rolf's part in describing so much vegetation at Zegan is thus demonstrated to be merely the result of a difference in conditions after 45 years. It is probably a variation in the water conditions in the soil, which has turned the living shrubs into firewood. Our trek from Boutifal to Zegan illustrated the uncertainties of desert travel. In spite of all the precautions that we could possibly think of, fuel ran out. One camel died, and two others were so exhausted that they were to fail us soon. The food for the camels was used up also, and from Zigan to Kufra they were fed on date tree leaves gathered at the former place, which was very poor food for them indeed. I picked up from a Bedouin,

a proverb with a cynical slant to it. Your friend is like your female camel. One day she gives you milk, and the next she fails you. On the two evenings at Ziegann, I took observations of Polaris with the Theodolite. When the observations were worked out, I found that Zegan was about a hundred kilometers further to the east-northeast than Rolfs had placed it. He did not visit the place, and therefore could make no observations on the spot, but relied on what he was told by the Bedouins. I found also that Zegan is 310,000. meters above sea level. Tuesday, March 27th. Start at 8.15 a.m., halt at 8 p.m. make 47 kilometers.

Highest temperature, 26 degrees, lowest 8 degrees. Fine and clear, cold, strong northeast wind all day and all night. A few white clouds. From El Harash well, the guide points out the direction of Kufra as being 5 degrees south of southeast. For two hours, hours we walk among Hatab, which extends about 10 kilometers southeast of the well. Then we enter a region of soft sand, a little undulating. The undulations gradually increase until we get into the sand dune country late in the afternoon. At 2.30, we cited a range of sand dunes to the east with a few black stone garras or small hills in between them. They were about 20 or 30 kilometers away and marched off to the southeast as far as we could see.

Later, there were Gerds, sand dunes, to the southwest as well, and at 5.30 the Gerds closed in across our track, and we definitely entered them. So far, however, they were not high nor difficult to cross. The complete separation between the Bedouins and the Tibu's on the march impressed me again. The blacks say that they do not like the Zueyas and fear them. The Tibu camels were well kept and better behaved than those of the Bedouins. Each Tibu camel had a lead rope and did not run loose, as the others did. In the afternoon we passed the landmark of Jabal El Fadil. As with most desert landmarks, its name commemorates someone who lost his life there.

El Fadil was one of the best guides in the desert. He was going toward Kufra from Jallo with a caravan. Sandstorms of great severity swept down upon them. Well, there is no direct evidence of what happened. The testimony of what was finally found told the story eloquently. Fidel's eyes must have been badly affected by the driving sand. He bandaged them, and thus deprived of sight, had those who were with him described the landmarks as they reached them.

Nevertheless, they missed the wells of Zegan, and tried to struggle on direct to Kufra. The desert took them in its relentless grip, and of the entire caravan, but one camel survived. The beast struggled on to its home at Kufra, led by its infallible instinct. There it was recognized by the markings on its neck as belonging to Elthadil.

A rescue party followed the camel's track back into the desert, but its help came too late. The bodies of the men lay still, upon the sand, near the landmark now known by El Fadil's name, the bandage on the old guide's eyes revealed the tragic truth. Wednesday, March 28th, there were heavy clouds all day with little sunshine. It was cloudy, too, in the evening. A cold northeast wind developed at 8 a.m. into a sandstorm lasting for three hours and a half. The cold wind continued on into the evening. A few drops of rain fell at 10.30 p.m.

We walked among sand dunes for two hours, when we entered undulating country covered with broken black stone. It was bad going for the camels. An hour later, the black stone bell ended, and we came into the sand dunes again. At 11.30 in the forenoon, the chains of the Hawaiian hills were on our left, and sand dunes and black stone garras on our right. At 1215, we passed on our left, four kilometers away, Gur al-Maxon landmark, hills of black stone ranging from 50 to 150 meters in height.

At 145, we passed the landmark of El Garra Wobentaha, which means the Gara and its daughter, two sugarloaf hills of appropriate proportions to suit the designation. I talked with some of the Bedouins about our losing our way in 1921.

They showed no surprise. To these desert dwellers, it is all a part of the day's work, losing one's way, one's camels, one's water, or one's fuel. Thursday, March 29th, the lowest temperature this day was not recorded, as the minimum thermometer was broken in the storm. The Hohayish hills were on our left until mid-afternoon. At 11.30, we entered soft and very undulating sand dunes,

difficult going for men and camels. At 1.30, we passed Garrett-El-Sherif to the right, the biggest landmark we had yet seen. It was a ridge-shaped gara, 150 meters long and about 100 meters high, with three smaller ones beside it, two to the south and one to the north. At three, we got into heavy dunes again, and two hours later passed into flat country with harder sand and patches of black stone. At 3.30 in the morning, the worst sandstorm we had encountered began, It swept the tents from the moorings and mine collapsed on top of me,

smashing a few of my instruments and also the small chronometer. With a whole tent on top of me weighted down with a constantly growing load of sand, I was threatened with suffocation, but fortunately I got hold of a tent peg with which I held the canvas away from my face. Some of the men tried to come to my assistance, but I shouted to them to put the sacks of flour and pieces of loaves. luggage on their tents and mine to keep them down. I lay in my uncomfortable position under the tent for two hours or so. The sand came hurtling through the gap in the tent like shot from a gun.

The men and the camel suffered badly. Had the pole of my tent fallen a fraction of an inch to one side, it would have smashed my big chronometer, and then what a difference it would have made to the scientific results of the expedition. To the outside world, the work of an explorer is either failure or success with a distinct line between them. To the explorer himself, that line is very hazy. He may have won his way through, amassed all the information that he sought, be within a score of miles of his journey's end, then suddenly his camels give out.

He must abandon the best part of his luggage. Water and food take precedence. The boxes containing his scientific instruments and his records have to be left behind. Maybe his plight is still worse, and he must sacrifice everything, even his own life. To the outside world, he would be a failure. Generous critics might even call him a glorious failure, but in any case, he has failed. Yet how much is that failure akin to success? Sometimes on those long treks, the man who fails has done more, has endured more hardships than the man who succeeds. An explorer's sympathy is rather with a man who has struggled

and failed than with a man who succeeds, for only the explorer knows how the man who failed fought to preserve the fruits of his work. The Bedouins understood this. There is a trait in their character that surprised even astounded me sometimes until I grew to understand it. There was often no hilarity, no rejoicing when the day's march came to its appointed end. Today we have arrived, but tomorrow, they seem to say. Because you have succeeded today, it is nothing to brag about. It was not by your skill, it was destiny. Tomorrow you may start an easier journey and fail horribly. On my first long trip into the Libyan desert in 1921, between the oasis of Musima, one of the Kufra group, and Kufra, a three-day journey, we came across the remnants

of a perished caravan. There was a hand still sticking out of the sands, the skin yellow-like parchment. As we passed, one of the men went reverently and hid it with sand, a three-day trip, and yet those men had lost their way and died of thirst. There are many gruesome tales of the remnants of a caravan perishing within sight of the well. So far from being deterred from taking the same root, the Bedouin only says that it was God's decree that they should die on the road. Better the entrails of a bird than the darkness of the tomb, one Bedouin told me,

meaning that he preferred to be eaten by vultures. It was a very tiring day, what were the disturbance to our rest during the night and the heavy going through the soft dunes. But the men were cheerful because we were getting near to Kufra. The news that Buhalega, who lived at Hawari, the first halting place on the outskirts of Kufra, was going to slaughter a sheep and provide a feast, was an added incentive. The camels were weak and thin, but three of them, whose home is in Kufra, led the way all day

without being driven, in spite of the difficult walking over the dunes. At 6.45, we cited Garrett El Hawaria, the great landmark that indicates the approach. to Kufra. Friday, March 30th. We started at 7.45 a.m., halted at 5.45 p.m., made 35 kilometers, and arrived at Hawari. A few drops of rain fell in the late evening. The ground was flat, soft sand, undulating a trifle and marked with patches of black and red stone. At 9.30, we entered upon the zone of red sand of Kufra. We came across pieces of petrified wood all day. At 1.15, we passed Garrett El Hawaria and at 3.30 sited the date trees of Hawari. An hour and a half later, we entered the oasis and soon camped

at Awadale. We had arrived at the first outpost of Kufra. This name was given in Rolf's time to the four somewhat widely separated oases of Tyserbo, Busima, Ribiana, and Kibabaabo. Rolls, designation for the present-day Kufra, but now it is restricted to the last named. Hawari is the northernmost part of the present Kufra, a comparatively small oasis with the three villages of Hawaray, Hawahira, and Awadale. 17 kilometers south lies El-Taj, the seat of local government and the principal settlement. It is situated on a rocky cliff overlooking the depression of the oasis proper, which lies to the south and contains the villages of Jof, Boama, Buma, Buma, El Zurich, El Talib, and El Tolab.

I had intended to go straight on to El Taj, the chief town of Kufra the next day, but Buhlega claimed the right of hospitality and insisted that I should stop a day at the oasis, which is his home. After a good night's rest, undisturred by sandstorms or collapsing of tents and a shave, I was quite ready to do full justice to the breakfast sent by the Bedouins of a caravan which had just arrived from Wadai. At the same time, I gathered some interesting information which made me consider making a change in my plans. I sent a messenger on to El-Targe with letters to Sayad al-Aid, the cousin of Sayad Idris, and the chief Sanusi and Kufra, and to Jedawi, Sayad Idris's personal wakil. In the afternoon, in the afternoon, in the afternoon,

Afternoon, Zirwali escorted me to Hawari, where I was received at the Zawiya by the Iquan and the notables of the town. After the usual words of welcome and exchange of compliments, I went to dinner at the house of Zirwali's uncle. The Bedouin chiefs protested that I should not have come direct to Hawari, but should have camped outside to give them an opportunity for a ceremonial reception. They had apparently heard how I was received at Jallo, and would have liked to duplicate for me here. I heard rumors of intrigues among some of the Zawai' chiefs, who were suspicious of my purpose in coming a second time to Kufra, and, as a protest, had refused to attend the dinner. They were influential chiefs, and the news made me determined to press on to El-Targe before they

could send word there in prejudice of my coming. After the meal I rode home through the beautiful moonlight, and on my arrival found a difficult task before me. Egalia, Buhlega's eldest son, had been bitten by a scorpion. With more confidence in my medicine chest than I had myself, Buhlega asked that I should cure him. I took the anti-scorpium serum and went to his house where I found the boy very ill indeed, burning with fever. At the last moment before leaving Cairo,

these serums had been included in my equipment, and a doctor friend while he was shaking my hand and I was saying goodbye to people all around me, explained to me, perhaps most lucidly, just how to employ the serums. It was the first time I had ever attempted that kind of injection, and I tried to conjure up the scene and recall fragments of those parting instructions.

But it only struck me how different was that dimly lit room with the anxious friends and relatives watching my every movement from the hearty send-off when the serum had been added to my stock and trade. However, in spite of my doubts whether the case was not too far advanced for treatment, I administered the serum and went to my camp wondering what the outcome would be. Before long I heard a crowd approaching my tent with loud outcries which sounded hostile to my ears. Probably I thought the boy was already dead, and his death would be laid at my door instead of at that of the scorpion.

I summoned my men to protect the box of instruments, which I suspected would be the first object of attack, and prepared myself for a hostile approach. It was a disturbing moment. But great was my relief when I detected in the cries of those who were coming a note rather of rejoicing than of hostility. Presently, Buhilega entered my tent and thanked me with impressive warmth for the relief which I had given his son.

It was like magic, he declared with fervor, Allah is great. That medicine of yours has made the boy well again. In appropriate terms, I answered, recovery comes from God. Already the fever was abating, and the boy evidently on his way to recovery. I thank God internally for the good fortune which had attended my ministrations. If the boy had died, my position would have been a dangerous one. When my visitors had left, I went out into the moonlight, for a walk among the graceful palms.

End of Section 12. Section 13 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 14, Kufra, Old Friends, and a Change of Plan. Sunday, April 1st. We started at 9.45 a.m. and halted at 2 p.m. making 17 kilometers, and arrived at El Taj. At 1115 we entered a broken, rocky country, very rolling,

covered with patches of black and red sandstone, until we reached Taj. Egalia came to help unloading the camels. He had quite recovered from his scorpion bite and was to go with us to Taj. Breakfast was sent by Bouhelega for me and my men, when I protested that he should not have taken the trouble. He retorted that I should have given the trouble,

in him an opportunity to provide the customary three days hospitality. A little later a slave girl came from him with a huge bowl of rice, chicken, and eggs. She was evidently dressed, especially for the occasion, and was quite charming in her dainty attire of blue cloth with a red sash about her slim waist. I told her that we were starting at once and should not need the food. You may need it on the way, she whispered Shiley, I cooked it myself. If that is the case, I assured her, I will accept it gladly.

She was obviously pleased and immediately went back for another bowl quite as large and inviting. I bowed to the inevitable and set my thanks to her master. We were given a pleasant send-off by the people of Awadale, and I set out at the head of my caravan on Buhalega's horse. We needed no guide just now, for I knew the way myself. Aye, the bay knows the way too well, said Sunusi Ben-Hassan. He will soon become a guide in this country of ours. The approach to Kufra from the north has an element of surprise in it that makes it doubly interesting.

We march through a gently rolling country within a regular ridge of no great height forming the horizon ahead of us. Suddenly the top of the ridge resolved itself into the outlines of a group of buildings. Their walls hard to distinguish at any distance from the rocks and sands they match so well in color and in form. This was El Taj, the headquarters of the Sunusi family in Kufra. As we entered the town, we saw that the ground dropped abruptly away beyond it down to the valley of Kufra. This pleasant valley is a shallow, roughly shaped oval bowl, 40 kilometers in extent on its long diameter, and 20 kilometers on the short one. It is dotted with palm trees, and across it in an irregular line from northeast to southwest,

are strung the six settlements of Boeema, Buma, Jaff, Zurich, Tallulib, and Ptollab. Close to Jaff lie the blue shimmering waters of a fair-sized lake. At this midpoint in the sand-waste of the desert, this expanse of water is both a boon and an aggravation. The mere sight of so much water brings refreshment to the eyes weary of looking at nothing but sand but to the parts throat it is worse than a mirage to the vision

for its waters are salt. On our entry into Taj, I was met cordially by old friends. Sayad El Abed, the cousin of Sayad Idris and the chief Sinusian Cufra was ill with rheumatism but Citi Salah El Bascari the Kaimakam, Sidi-Mamud El Jadawi, Sayad Idris's Wakil,

and several Equin brought words of welcome from him and conducted me to the house of Sayad Idris where I was to stay. It was here that we had lived on the first trip to Kufra two years before, and immediately I felt at home. You will have to initiate your men into the ways of Kufra, said El Bhaskari whimsically. Even Zirwali has not been here for 13 years. At once the hospitality began with coffee brought by the commandant of the troops. I had just time for a short rest before a slave came to take me to the house of Sayad Elabid for a meal.

Led by the same messenger that came for us two years ago, I walked through the same streets and entered the same wonderful house of the Sunusi leader with a curious feeling as though time had stood still or gone back. Elabede's house is a labyrinth of corridors, lined with doors behind which live the members of the family and his retainers. We passed into the familiar room whose spaces seem more richly adorned than ever with gorgeous rugs, many-colored cushions, and stiffly embroider brocades. On the walls hang the well-remembered collection of clocks, spirometers, and thermometers in which my host takes naive delight. The clocks, of which there are at least a dozen of assorted shapes and sizes, were all going strong.

C. Di Sala came to bear me company and to apologize for the enforced absence of my host, Sayad El Abide. There was set before me a feast fit for the gods, or for mortals fresh from the monotonous living of the desert. Lamb, rice, vegetables, mulukia, an Egyptian vegetable, rather like spinach, delicious bread,

sweet vinegar, milk, sweets, followed by coffee, milk with almond pulp, baiting up in it, and finally the ceremonial three glasses of tea, flavored with amber, rosewater, and mint. When the meal was over and I had returned to my house, I had barely time to see about the disposition of my baggage and discuss the question of camels for the next stage of the journey when the slave came to conduct me again to Elabede's house for dinner. El Buscari was again my host, a dignified, kindly figure in a beautiful givah of yellow, and gold, having changed the classical soft Bedouin Tarbush which he had been wearing for a white silk

kufia and a green and gold egal. When the second meal had reached the point of scented tea and incense, suddenly the clocks began to strike, each with its own particular tone, the Arabic hour of three, which then meant nine by the standard of the outside world. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt myself back in Oxford with the hour striking an endless variety of tones from all the church towers of the university town. I went out into the moonlight with the fragrance of the rose water and the incense lingering about me. I stood on the edge of the ridge, overlooking the waters of the lake, and reflected on my former visit to Kufra when this was my goal. Now it was the beginning of the most interesting part of my journey. I heard the voices of Ikban and students,

reading the Hisp in the evening quiet. Abdullahi slipped out of the shadows and stood beside me. This is the night of half Shaban, meaning the middle of the month before Ramadan, he said in a low tone as a man who thinks aloud, God will grant the wishes of one who prays tonight. For several minutes, we two stood there silently. My face was toward the southeast, where lay an untrodden track and oases that are lost, but Abdullahi turned to the northeast where lies Egypt and his family and children.

I did not need to ask him for what he prayed. Monday, April 2nd. At Hwari, I had been told by the Bedouin caravan from Wadi that a French patrol had come north as far as the well at Sara over the main trade route from Wadai to Gufra. This was the route I had intended at first to follow, but it seemed that only the small portion of it which lay between, Sara and Kufra remained unexplored. Again, I had heard vague stories of the lost oases on the direct route south,

which I had planned sometime to explore, although I knew that this direct route to Darfur in the Sudan was practically never used either by Bedouins or by Sudanese because of its supposed difficulties and dangers. The story of the French patrol turned my mind again to these oases, and I determined to try and find them, rather than to follow my original plan. I set out, deciding to do all that was possible to explore these lost oases,

but, failing that, I was to cross the Libyan desert by the beaten road through Wajonga and Wadai, and then turn eastward toward Darfur. Sir Wally and Suleiman Boumatari, a rich Zawaia merchant, came to discuss the trip southward. Bumatari had discouraging counsel to offer as to the route I had now decided to take. Eight years ago, he said, the last caravan to go that way, of which my brother, Mohammed, was the leader, was eaten up and slaughtered on the frontier of Darfur. They went, not as you wish to go, but by the easier route from Uanat to Marenga, a small oasis about 290 kilometers south of Uanat.

This journey you proposed to make is through territory where no Bedouin has passed before. The Daffa, a long waterless trek, between Uanat and Erdi is long and a hazardous one. God be merciful to the caravan at such heat. Your camels will drop like birds before the hot south winds. Even if you get through safely, who knows how the inhabitants of the hills over there will receive you. Do not let your anxiety to travel fast, overrule your wisdom, and keep you from choosing the safe trade route to adjust.

Jenga and Abashy. I thanked him for his advice, but I knew that I should not take it. After luncheon, royally provided by El Abide, I went to visit his son Sharufa. He is an intelligent young man, thirsting for knowledge. He has gone as far into the outside world as Benghazi, and that by no means metropolitan community is still for him the city of the world. He apologized for the illness of his father. and I offered to send medicine which might possibly help him.

Tuesday, April 3rd. It was very warm with heavy clouds and a bad southwest wind. After luncheon as usual, I went to visit Shams Eldin, a cousin of Sharufa and his younger brother. The older boy is very intelligent and has eyes that seem to be asking questions of the world. They offered me three cups of milk with almond pulp and a homemade jam.

I knew that to refuse such an offer is to offend, so I left the house in a state of torpor. Dinner later it said Elabeeds did not improve matters internally. Again I discussed the plan of going by way of Arcanu and Uanat. I was more determined than ever. We would see what Buhalaga had to say when he arrived from Hawaii. Wednesday, April 4th, I was awakened by Jaddewe, who as usual brought me a pot of fragrant tea.

This is comparative civilization, I thought, as I saw Ahmed preparing my shaving kit. There are, of course, times when one welcomes the conveniences and comforts of civilization, but having trekked so far, one feels more at home when on the move than when resting in an oasis. The early part of the day was spent in cutting down most of the wooden boxes and rearranging the luggage in preparation for the long trip south. It required particular care, since from now onward there would be no chance of changing the camels until our arrival at El Fasher in the Sudan about 950 miles. The question of providing new shoes for the men of my caravan had to be attended to, as the Bedouin shoes that were made for them at Jalo had been worn out. Before lunch I had a visit from a few

away at Chiefs, who came officially to pay their respects, and also unofficially to satisfy their curiosity and suspicion as to the size of my caravan and the equipment I was carrying, and if possible to find out what plans I had made for my journey to the Sudan. Lunch, as usual at Sayad El Abides, I had the cheerful news that the medicine I gave him had a good effect. The afternoon I spent in attending to the question of arms and ammunition. Later, I took a long walk in order to make the compass observations of the vicinity of Taj. Thursday, April 5th. Sir Wally had a long talk with Buhalega, who arrived in the night from Hawari.

The latter refused point-blank to go to El Fasher by the Uanat route. Buhalega came to visit me and tried to persuade me to go by way of Wadai. when he saw that his advice would probably not be taken, he became desperate. I had clearly pointed out to him that nothing could change my decision to cut across by the Uwanaat route to El Fasher. By God, it's a dangerous route, he said. And many a caravan has been eaten up by the inhabitants of the hills on the way. They do not fear God, and they are under the authority of no man. They are like birds.

They live on the tops of mountains, and you will have. have trouble with them. We are men and we are believers, I responded. Our fate is in the hands of God. If our death is decreed, it may come on the beaten track to the nearest well. Many as a way of beard has been buried in those unknown parts, he declared. The people are treacherous and they fear neither God nor man. May God's mercy fall on those the Wayans who have lost their lives, I replied. Our lives are no more precious than theirs. Shall our courage be less? The water on this route is scarce and bad, he argued again.

God has said, do not throw yourselves with your own hands unto destruction. God will quench the thirst of the true believer, I answered, and will protect those who have faith in him. He felt himself in danger of being beaten in argument and shifted his ground. None of my men are willing to accompany you on this route, he asserted, and I cannot send my camels either. It is sending them to death. If you find anybody who is willing to hire his camels,

I am ready to pay for them, but neither my men nor my camels are going to take you on this journey. Do what you like, I retorted with spirit. I am going by this route. It will be between you and Sayad Idris, when he knows that Bu Helega has not kept his word. There the argument rested. I had already learned that the few owners of camels at Kufra had been urged by Boo Halega and his men not to help me in my new plan.

He hoped by so doing to force me to accept this plan of the safe route through Wadai. An enormous lunch was provided by Jadawi. The three days of official hospitality of El Abid having ended yesterday, Jadawi as Idris's Wakil at Kufra can now entertain us. Halega was about to leave, but I invited him to partake of our meal, and he accepted. He hoped still to persuade me to change my mind. I hoped even more strongly to convince the old man that the root was not as dangerous as he made it out to be.

After the third glass of tree, we parted, neither of us having succeeded in convincing the other, but I felt that my last words had an effect on him. In the afternoon, the slave came to tell him. me that his master, Sayad El Abed, would like to see me. I had already intimated that he need not be in a hurry to give me an audience, as I knew he was suffering badly from his gout, and it was very difficult for him to come down to the reception room. But he was not willing to have me think that he had violated the rules of hospitality by delaying the audience, and so he very kindly allowed me to see him in spite of his suffering. It was the first time that I had seen Sayad Elabid.

bead on this journey, and as I was ushered into his presence, I thought that he might have come out of a gorgeous illustration of the thousand and one nights. He was dressed in a yellow silk kufthand, embroidered with red braid, a rich white silk burnous, carefully hung on his shoulders. On his head, he wore a white turban with snow-white gauze flowing from the sides. This is the classical headgear of the chiefs of the Sunusi family. He carried in his hand a heavy ebony statured, with a massive silver head. He was a picture of simple and benign dignity, and no one would have suspected him

of being the redoubtable warrior that he really is. He was sitting on a big upholstered armchair, and as I entered he tried to get up. I hastened to him, grasping his hand, and begged him not to make an effort to rise. He was suffering badly from his gout, and the conversation started easily on the subject of his ailment. He has been suffering from,

for many years. At times at night, he said, when the pain is at its worst, I pray to God that he may shorten the number of my days in this world, for I cannot even perform my prayers as I should. We then discussed the question of my trip to the Sudan, and he, too, I found, had been prevailed upon to urge me to take the safer route through Wadai. I pointed out to him that said Idris was now in Egypt, and that I had to hasten to my country to try to repay a little of the hospitality that had been lavished upon me by the Senusses. It was fortunate that the route to the sedan through Uanat is known to be shorter than that through what I. You are a dear friend of ours, he said, and the said, I am sure, would rather have you arrive in Egypt late and safe than to hear that any

harm had befallen you. Our fates are in the hands of God. I replied, our efforts are decreed by him, and I carry with me the blessing of the Sanusi masters. I spoke with an air of determination. Sayad el-a-bed was pensive for a few moments. Slowly he raised his head and lifted his two hands toward heaven. May God make your effort succeed and send you back safe to your people, he said, yielding to my desire. You have visited the tomb of our grandfather at Jagbab and the Cuba of Cedi El Madi here, and you have their blessings. He who struggles and has faith is rewarded by God, he quoted from the Quran. We then read the Fatah, and he gave me his blessing, and again prayed that God might guide our

steps and give me and my men fortitude. I felt very happy as I wound my way through this multitude of corridors and courtyards. I was relieved to know that I had an ally and say it El Abed, and that he would not prove an obstacle in my new plan of going to the Sudan by way of Uanat. All the men of my caravan were there when I entered the house. One look at their faces told me with what suppressed excitement they had been waiting since my departure to say at El Abed to hear his verdict on the journey's house. Slowly I made my way to my room and asked them to come in.

I too had to suppress my excitement, but mine was the excitement of South. success and not of expectation. There was a long pause before I could control my voice and make it as indifferent as it should be. The Sayad has blessed our journey to Uanat and has given me the Fah for it. I dared not even look into men's faces. We have the blessings of the Sunusi masters with us, Sayad El-Abede has assured me, and God will give us fortitude and success, and guidance comes from him. End of Section 13. Section 14 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohamed Hassanan.

This Libra-Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15. Kufra. Its place on the map. Friday, April 6th, the day began with the arrival of an immense bowl of roses, gloriously fragrant, sent by Sayad El-Abed. This is the way the desert relies its name every now and then. I defy the Riviera to produce anything finer than these or more fragrant.

It was Friday, the Moslem Sabbath, and I attended prayers at the mosque. The young Senussi princes were expected, and some of the Bedouins came in their best clothes, but side by side with the richest of silk kufthans were the shabbiest jirds. Everyone took off as slippers as they came in. I watched them for a while. there came a prosperous Suea or Majbari merchant with a crease still fresh and rich robes just removed from the chest and coal in his eyes put in with a madwit, a coal stick, of ivory or brass. The prosperous man maybe has everything upon him new and he smells strongly of scent,

perhaps pure rosewater distilled in Kufra or else musk or other strong perfume from the Sudan. He enters in a dignified way and takes his place. There comes another, in his jerd is tattered and his face is bronzed and withered, not flabby, but he is no less dignified. Clothes play but a small part in this assembly because the natural dignity encourage these people, and those qualities are brought out in relief even more by the tattered jerd than by the fine silks and scents, which sometimes take away something of the personality of the individual. A slave comes. He is the favorite,

slave and confidant of one of the Sunusi chiefs. His silks are as rich and even more vivid, and there is little to suggest servility. He feels his importance and walks with equally dignified grace through the ranks of the worshippers to take his place, maybe next to a dignitary, maybe next to a beggar. At the mosque, the poor not only stand on level ground with the rich and the prosperous, but in a subtle way they have their revenge, for in the house of God, The master is God, and the beggar may feel as great or greater than the rich man, since he is not submerged in the luxury of the world and forgetting God. The old and shabby jerd is, to the Bedouin going into the mosque,

as fit to garment for worship as silken brocades are proper arraignment for a man going to see the Sunusi chiefs. The worshippers are now ready. The Mazine has finished his call to prayer. There is a hush. The young Sunusi princes are entering the mrs. mosque. They take their places that have been reserved for them. All eyes turn toward them, and on account of their youth, they look a little shy and embarrassed. No one rises as the enter, for this is the house of God, wherein God alone is the master. Then the imam mounts the pulpit and delivers his sermon.

On the few occasions that I have been able to attend Friday prayers in an oasis mosque, the theme of this sermon has often been the same, advising the congregation to shun the world in its luxury and to prepare for a life of happiness in the next world by doing good. Beware the ornaments and the luxuries of this world, for they are very enticing. Once you fall evict into them, you lose your soul and stray farther from God. Drawn nearer to God by doing good deeds and obeying his commands. This life will pass away. Only the next world is everlasting.

prepare yourselves for it that you may be happy in eternity. The interior of this mosque is beautiful in the simple dignity of its lines. The walls are bare, whitewashed, scrupulously clean. The floor is covered with rugs or with fiber matting. The worshippers squat cross-legged upon the floor in a very reverent attitude. There are perhaps two hundred of them, ranged in rows, all facing toward Mecca. There are some who count their prayers upon rosaries of amber beads. Others, too poor to have rosaries, record the number of their prayers by opening and closing their fingers.

There are some whose every movement betrays opulence and prosperity. Others, Bedouins of the desert, have a far-away look. The most striking impression is the serenity and contentment written on their faces. Even upon the pinched and haggard face, there is an expression of excellence. which shows that the man has accepted his fate. It is written there that he is living on the verge of starvation, yet he does not rebel. After lunch at Elibed's, Solomon Boumatari came again to talk about the trip south. He reported that Buhalega and Muhammad, who was to be our guide, had met and talked things over,

but Buhalega was still unwilling to go. Abdulahee had spent the day at Jophe gathering what information he could about the Uanat route and trying to find out if the Tibus would let me hire camels from them for the journey thither. After dinner at El Abides, I spent some time in Sayad Idris' library, which he had instructed Jadawi to throw open to me. Imagine a room of medium-sized filled with chests containing books. The ceiling is decorated in vivid colors, the work of an art. a lover of the Sunusis, who came from Tunis simply to do them a service, just as in medieval

Europe, painters and sculptors devoted their lives to adorning churches. Every bit of wood in the room has come from Egypt or Benghazi. There is a window open to the air with only wooden shutters as a protection against the sun. It is not easy to move about, for books and chests of books are arranged along the walls and in the middle of the room as well. There are many very ancient chests used as cupboards and at the same time fitted with attachments at the sides, which enable them to be straightaway loaded upon a camel in case of need. The library is somewhat out of order,

books piled carelessly one on top of another, for Sayad Idris has long been absent. There is a great number of manuscripts enclosed in beautifully-tooled Morocco covers. There are modern books printed in Cairo and in India. There are manuscripts from Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia. With the exception of a few books in the Persian language, all are in Arabic. There are two or three manuscripts of the Quran illuminated in gold. It was a great privilege for me to be allowed to go into this library,

for as a rule, no one is admitted. I found many manuscripts laboriously written on ancient, parchment, works on philosophy, the Arab language, theology, Sufism, a few on poetry and mysticism, another on talismans and magic. Many were the interesting and pleasant hours that I spent among the collection. The surroundings and atmosphere were just right, so remote, so many miles from the world, one felt in the mood to absorb the thought to be found in these manuscripts. Sit in a comfortable chair in the midst of civilization and try to read such books. One ring of the telephone would be enough to make them appear archaic.

Saturday, April 7th. A fine pair of shoes came as a present from Sharufa. The chief of the Zawayas came to pay me another visit. We talked over our coffee about Zuea history. I learned that it was not the Zueyas who first conquered Kufra from the Tibu's, but the Gawasi and Jahama tribes. The names of two of the Kufra villages, Talaab and Zurich, are family names of the Jahama tribe. I gave each of my visitors a photograph of the group which I had taken several days before, and they were delighted with them.

I realized to the full that day the perils of Kufra. Rolfs almost lost his life here by violence. I almost lost mine by kindness. I lunch prodigly at Elabeeds, as usual, and the meal was followed by Kufra. coffee, three glasses of tea with amber rose water and mint, and three glasses of milk enriched with almond pulp. The Sharufa insisted that I should come to his house and offered me three glasses of perfume tea, followed again by three glasses of almond-flavored milk. I reflected that to refuse was to offend and gulped down the beverages, which by now had become somewhat nauseating. The end was not yet. Shams El Din hauled me off to his house.

house and set before me biscuits and nuts and a huge glass of sweet syrup. It was almost more than flesh and blood could endure, but to refuse was to offend. There followed three glasses of coffee, but I stocked forth with all the dignity of a man going to the gallows or the Spartan boy with a fox gnawing at his vitals. As I lay down in my room to recuperate, many thoughts surged through my brain. would that the Bedouin, whoever he was, who selected three as the mystic number to characterize desert hospitality, had died unborn.

But it was lucky that he did not hit on seven instead of three. I came to the desert, perfectly prepared for destruction by the hand of nature or hostile man, but the idea of perishing through indigestion did not commend itself to my sense of the fitness of things. and yet, at the proper time, I went to Elabids again for dinner. Some of the Bedouin chiefs were my fellow guests, and once more the route to the southward was discussed. Buhelega persisted in his refusal to go by way of Uanat.

The conditions laid down by Sayad Idris, he said, called for a journey to Wadai and not to Darfur. He would send neither his camels nor his men that way. I argued like a lawyer that since he had contracted to provide 35 Marhalas or Day's journeys from Kufra southward, it should make no difference to him whether I use those Marhalis to go to Wadai or to El Fasher or back to Egypt. He was unconvinced by this ingenious reasoning, but when he realized that I was determined that El Abid was not opposed to my plan and that I was willing to take fewer camels and originally stipulated, he gave a reluctant consent.

but he would not go himself or send his men. Sunday, April 8th, the affair of Bu Halega's horse came to a head. I bought him for 33 pounds. He was sturdy and a splendid traveler needing to drink only every second day. After luncheon I took Elibede's photograph and had a long talk with him about his malady,

which he bore with true Bedouin fortitude, about conditions in Serenica and Egypt, and about my plans for the trip to the Sudan. I had had bad luck with my scientific work at Kufra. I did not find it easy to escape surveillance and move about unattended or to use my instruments without arousing suspicion. What was worse, it had been cloudy every day since I arrived there, and I had been unable to take observations of the sun or Polaris with the theodolite.

After dinner, I was thoroughly tired. I had used up all the indigestion tablets which I brought with me. I felt that it would be a relief to get back to the simplicity of the open desert again. Monday, April 9th was still cloudy, but a cool breeze was blowing. I spent a quiet day, reading in Idris's library, developing a few films, and buying Gerbiz and barley for the journey. Sayad El Abide gave me copies written with his own hand of letters by Elmadi to various east.

He made me presence of a Moorish knife and a silver scabbard and a flint-locked pistol also beautifully inlaid. Tuesday, April 10th. The clouds cleared away in the afternoon and I took photographs of the valley. I arranged with a shoemaker for shoes for myself and my men and for bandaliers which the men insisted on having in view of the alarming rumors they had been hearing. I met Mohamed Sukhar, who was to be our guide over. over the Uwanaut route for the first time and liked him.

Wednesday, April 11th, Ilebeed had heard of my purchase of Buhalega's horse and sent me a Tuareg's sword and an Italian carbine to carry when I ride him. At last I was able to make observations with my theodalite. I was anxious to see how my results would agree with those of Rolfs. Thursday, April 12th, I sent Sayad Elabed my shot greek, done as a gift. In the afternoon, I rode with Sayyad Muhammad Bhutamanya and Zerwali to Jaff. We were met by the chiefs of the village. I visited the Suk, where the weekly market was being

held, the Zawiya, which is the oldest Sunusi school in Kufra, and the mosque. Jaff is the trade center of Kufra. It was interesting to find side by side in the Suk rifle cartridges whose marking showed them to be 30 years old, Italian tomato sauce in tins from Benghazi, blue and white calico made in Manchester and imported from Egypt, and leather, ivory, and ostrich feathers from Wadi. These products of the South, however,

are not plentiful now in Kufra, except when a merchant who has brought them from Wadai is prevented for some reason from going on to the north to sell them in Egypt or Seraeica. Kufra had seen it its best days as a trade center before the occupation of the Sudan. Then it was easier to find an outlet for the products of Wadai and Darfur through Kufra than by way of the country to the east. Even now, however, there is a contraband trade through Kufra in female ivory and ivory of

less than 14 pounds weight, the exportation of which is prohibited by the Sudan government. In addition to the trade that passes through Kufra, most of the big of the big of the United States. away at chiefs who have enough slaves go in for agriculture. They raise barley and maize. The sinuses are more progressive and grow melons, grapes, bananas, marrows, and other vegetables of the more delicate kinds, all of which are a great treat after the monotonous fare of the desert. They raise mint and roses, from which they make the rose water and mint essence so essential in their ceremonies of hospitality. From a few olive trees, some olive oil is produced in primitive presses. The animals of Kufra are camels, sheep, donkeys, and a few horses. Meat, however, is very

expensive as there is little grazing for sheep in the valley. The animals are fed on pounded date stones, which do very well as a staple diet, but some green stuff is necessary at intervals. The sunooses, who are in everything more progressive than their neighbors, raise chickens and pigeons. The price of slaves, I learned at Kufra, has risen a great deal during the last few years because there are no more slaves coming up from Wadi, an account of the vigilance of the French authorities in that province. Occasionally, the bedemans get around us by contracting a marriage with a slave girl in Wadai, and then when they come back, divorcing and selling her. On one of my travels in 1916, I was offered a slave girl for six gold, Louise, 120 francs.

Now the price varies from 30 to 40 pounds. A male slave costs less. The Bedouins sometimes marry their slave girls, and if one of these bears a male child, she automatically becomes free. The Bedouins have no prejudice against color. That is, if the slave bears the head of a tribe, his eldest male child,

that child, ipso facto, becomes in his turn the head of the tribe, however black he may be. Whereas the children of slaves are slaves, the child of a slave girl and a free man, however poor, is always free, and even though his father dies and he is left an orphan, he can never be a slave. The lot of a favorite male slave, especially as preferable. They have more power and are taken more into the confidence of their masters than free men. They are very well treated and become members of the family. They are well-dressed, for an ill-dressed slave reflects badly on his master,

just as a shabby footman would detract from the glory of a millionaire's Rolls-Royce. The favorite slave of Sayad Idris, Al-Ikaja, is not only the most trusted man of Seid Idris, but he has more power and authority among the Bedouins themselves than many a free man. Such a slave is treated as a confidant. If the slave of Sayad El-Aid came to me with a message, I took it to be absolutely true, knowing that it is his duty to report exactly what he is told. In the same way, if I wished something to reach the ears of Sayadell Abed, and only his ears, I knew that I could tell it without a moment's hesitation to his slave,

and be perfectly confident that it would not go anywhere else. A man's slave is permitted to buy a slave girl. Once when I asked Alicaja about the price of slaves, he complained, they're very expensive nowadays. The other day I bought one and she cost me 40 pounds in gold sovereigns. He said it was such an error that he might never have been a slave himself. The shabbiest slave that you see in an oasis is generally the freed slave, who, curiously enough, is looked down upon by the other own slaves and himself feels ashamed that he's a freed slave and belongs to no one. There are many date trees all through the Kufra vass.

valley, and many of them belonged to the Sanusis. When the Zawaias invited C.D. Ibn Ali El Sanuisi to come to Kufra, each one of them gave the Sanusis one-third of his property, land, and date trees. The proportion of two to one between the date trees owned by the Zawayas and those of the Sunusis has, however in the years since then, been considerably altered in favor of the Zawayas. These regular inhabitants of the valley naturally planted new trees faster, and thus increased their own holdings. One can still see in the valley the walls separating the Sunusi lands from those of the Zueyas. On our way back from Jof, we met a wedding party. The officer commanding the troops at Kufra was being married, and the father of the bride invited me

to empty gunpowder in honor of the occasion. I was glad to pay a compliment to the officer, who was an old friend of mine, and when they fired their guns in salute in good Bedouin style, I rode my horse at a gallop up to the party, pulled him to a sudden halt in front of the bride, and fired my gun into the ground before her. It was astonishing how Baraka, the moment he heard the sound of the guns, took to a gallop and brought me at a rush within the prescribed distance from firing. It was all a part of his training. Friday, April 13th, a slave of Sayad Idris came to be treated for an illness which had lasted for two months.

It seemed to be a digestive upset with continual vomiting. I gave him ether on a piece of sugar, milk, and rice, and by evening he was better. Buhalega arrived from Hawari with 17 camels. I told him to complete the 25 we had agreed upon. I received a visit from the bridegroom and his father-in-law who came to thank me for the compliment I paid to the wedding procession. Saturday, April 14th.

Bu Halega brought the rest of the camels. He was in a dilemma about sending a man with us. He did not wish to send his son or even a slave on such a hazardous journey which none of us might get through alive. On the other hand, there was the off chance that fate might be good to us and let us escape. In that case, remote though it seemed to him, if he had no representative with us, how should he get his camels back, or rather their value? For it would be the natural thing to sell them, at the end of the trip. The afternoon was spent in packing and the evening and making observations.

The weather was now more gracious. This was only the third night since reaching the spot that I had been able to see Polaris. I determined that I would not leave Kufra until I had made at least twice as many observations on different nights. Sunday, April 15th. The morning was spent in loading.

Buhelega was still in a quandary about sending a man with us, but since I had the camels it did not make any particular difference to me what he decided. The slave whom I had been treating was astonishingly improved in health. He came to thank me. No one was more surprised than I at what I had been able to do for him. At two, the caravan set out for Azila, the last well of Kufra Valley on the south. There we were going to do tag hees properly, taking several days for perfecting our final preparation. I had bought two sheep for Boussavar, as none of us had made this journey before. All my man had been newly clothed and made a cheerful sight in spotless white with red shoes.

Their carefully cleaned rifles glittered as they hung on their backs. Most of the new camels looked fresh and strong. Monday, April 16th, Abdullahi took the horse to Taj for shoeing as I found that the stony ground was too hard for him. I sent a brass tray to the commandant as a wedding present, and the last three bottles of Bovril to Idris's sixth slave. Our departure was postponed because the guide was still occupied before the caddy with a legal matter over a camel. Tuesday, April 17th, I had breakfast at Salaman Bu Mataris in Jaff with Zirwali, Abdulah, the Commandant, Sala, and Mohamedu Tamania. The rest poked fun at the Commodot, because, being a new bridegroom, he would not partake of a dish

cooked with onions. They do not forgive when they are young, said Bu Tamania, winking at the Commandant. I bought a hedging or trotting camel from my own use, paying nine pounds for it. We were, at last, ready for the start the next day. As I made my last observation of Polaris, I had a strong hope that I should have succeeded in putting Kufra into its proper place on the map. I had been keen to check Rolf's determination of the position of Kufra, which he made from the observations of his companion Stecker at Boehmah. Taj had not been built in Rolf's day. When I made my first observation at Taj, I discovered that they were not in agreement with a result of Sticker's observations at Boeuma, which is two

kilometers from Taj in a direction 54 degrees east of true south. I thereupon, determined that I would not leave Kufra until I had secured a sufficient number of observations to preclude the possibility of any appreciable error. Polaris was observed with the theodolite by me on six different nights, under conditions which Dr. Ball, in his scholarly paper on my work published at the end of this volume, declares to leave no room for an error greater than a single minute of latitude or longitude. The net result of my observations, when they were finally reduced after my return to Egypt, was that Kufra is some 40 kilometers south-southeast of the position assigned to it by Rolfs from Stecker's observations. I found the altitude of Kufra

to be almost precisely the same as that ascertained by Rolfs, 400 meters for Boeuma on the floor of the valley, and 475 meters for Taj on the valley's ridge. End of Section 14. Section 15 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 The Lost Oasis Arcanou Wednesday, April 18th Bu Helega had at last found two men,

Bukara and Hamid, who would go with his camels. They were poor men, and the money they would make loomed larger in their eyes than the danger. Sayadella Bede sent three representatives to see us off. They brought a letter of farewell from him that touched my heart. Buhilega came to say goodbye. At the final moment there were tears in his eyes, and I do not think they were caused by fears for his camels

or for the men whom he was sending with us. In spite of our controversy over the root, we remain true friends with affection and respect for each other. My men were greeted by their friends as though this was to be their last meeting. It was the most touching farewell of the whole journey. May God make safety your companion. What is decreed is decreed, and that will happen. May God guide you to the true road and protect you from evil.

There was little about this parting of that sense of assurance which attends both those who go and those who stay behind when it is a case of starting for a holiday with some certitude of safe arrival. There were a few quivers in the last phrases of farewell, and knowing what had passed in the preceding days and the intimidation to which the men had been subjected, I could guess what was in their minds. Whereas I was excited by the thoughts of the Lost Oasis

and taking the unexplored road and going into the unknown, they were thinking that this might be the last time they would shake hands with their friends. There was even a pitying look on the faces of some of those who came to bid us, Godspeed, as to doom men, yet being Bedouins they also felt, it is decreed that they should go thus. We recited the Fat Ha, the first chapter of the Koran. Praise be to God, the master of the universe, the merciful, the compassionate, the Lord of the Day of Resurrection. It is you whom we worship, and it is you whom we ask for help. guide us to the straight path, the path of those whom you have rewarded,

not those upon whom displeasure has fallen, nor those who have gone astray. Amen. There followed the call to prayers. God is great, and I testified that there is no God but God, and that Muhammad is the prophet of God. Haste to prayers, haste to that which is beneficent. Prayers are ready. God is great. There is no God but God. It was upon the edge of the valley of Kufra, where the oasis inns and the desert stretches out ahead. They had walked with us until then, and as we passed from the valley into the flat desert, we looked back upon the date palms. The sun was setting, dusk falling, and Kufra itself in the waning light was glimpsed as though through the aperture of a camera. Those who had come to say farewell,

straightaway returned, and looked back no more. I was eager to get away from Kufra and let my men turned their minds to the task ahead. At last, the real start had been made. Before me, all was unknown, full of mystery and the fascination that lie in those parts of the earth's surface, yet untraversed by men from the outside world. We started at 4.30 p.m. and halted at 8.15, making 15 kilometers. It was fine and clear with no wind. Hard sand covered with very fine gravel, slightly undulating. After leaving the date trees of Azila and Kufra, we crossed a zone of Hattab, similar to that at Ziegan, and entered the Cerriba at 545. At 6.30 we passed hillocks, which formed the south side of the valley of Kufra. At 8.15, we arrived at Hadayat El-Houish,

marked by Dry Hatab, which must once have been green. We left two men behind to bring us two loads that were to be carried on Tebu camels. Our caravan comprised 27 camels and 19 persons. Myself, Sir Wally, Abdullah, Ahmed, Hamad, Ismail, Sunusi Bu Hassan, Sunusi Bu Javier, Hamad Zawai, Saad de Ajuli, Farage the slave, Bukara and his young brother Hamid, the camelman Hassan, Mohamed Argiad, and three Tibu's. An entry from my diary again. Thursday, April 19th, start at 1.45 p.m., halt at 7.15 p.m. Make 24 kilometers.

Highest temperature 32 degrees, lowest 11. Fair and clear with a few white clouds. Southeast breeze, which drops at midday. After leaving Hattiat El-Hush, we enter the serrera again, a flat expanse of hard sand covered with fine gravel. East of the Hattia is a chain of sand hillocks covered with dark brown stones. To the west is another similar chain about four kilometers away. At 2.15 we pass the end of the Hattiat el-Hush.

The Hattia is about two kilometers broad. At 3.45 there is a gara on our left about two kilometers away, and at five another gara four kilometers distant on our right. At 6.30, the sand is softer, with patches of red and black stones. The surface is undulating. We were delayed and starting through waiting for the two camels which had been left behind, and used the time in collecting hatab. It was very warm, and the camels grew tired quickly because of the heat. The country was similar to that between Budapal and Ziegann. With my new Hagen, I found it east, easy to fall behind to take observations without exciting suspicion. We had to camp early because of the

condition of the camels. Friday, April 20th. Start at 2 a.m., halt at 9.30 a.m. Start again at 3.30 p.m. and final halt at 8 p.m. Make 48 kilometers. Highest temperature at 32 degrees, lowest 10 degrees, lowest 10 degrees at 1230 a.m. Fine and clear with cold southeast wind in the early morning. It drops at midday and gets up again at four. In the evening it shifts to the northeast. At 4 a.m., passing through undulating country, strewned with stone.

At six, interserrera again, flatter. Sunrise is at 5.30. Immediately thereafter, on her right and left are low sandhills from 8 to 10 kilometers distance. See a swallow in the morning and a hawk in the afternoon. At 420 crossed low sand dunes inside a black gara, a long low mound 10 degrees south of southeast. This was the worst part of the journey for traveling,

so far as temperature conditions were concerned. In the middle of the day it was too hot to march, and at night it was too cold. So we broke the trek into two parts, starting soon after midnight and resting in the heat of the day. We had trouble with the baggage because of the difficulty of good packing and loading in the dark. The camels, however, went better on this day. This was the fourth day of the lunar month.

The Bedouins observed the weather conditions on that day, believing that the weather for the rest of the month will be the same. It was to prove true in this case. Saturday, April 21st. We started at 2.30 a.m. At 6 in the morning we came across stony and hilly country, which lasted for 12 kilometers. We passed on our left the garra called Garrett Kudy. At nine we entered again into Sarira, with distant sand dunes on the right and left. One camel fell ill shortly after our start and refused to go even when its load was taken off.

Two Bedouins were left behind to bleed it, but all efforts at Cure, were in vain, and it had to be slaughtered. I forbade the Bedouins to eat its flesh. Later, after the midday halt, two Tibus dumped the loads from their camels, and went back to dry the flesh and leave it until I returned from Uanat. They were to catch us later.

This all delayed us about an hour. The men had little sleep the previous night, and we were very tired after sunrise, but it was chiefly the intense heat from noon to four o'clock that exhausted both men and camels. It was a very tired caravan that started again at 4.30 p.m. and moved slowly along. I saw two hawks and fresh sleeping camps of birds on the sands.

Sunday, April 22nd. We traveled over flat hard sand with occasional sand hillocks, three to ten meters high, covered with black stones. At 5.30 a.m., we sighted a chain of hills on our left, running from north to southwest across our path. At 8 a.m., we entered into broken hilly country, which continued all day. It was called Wadi El Marahig. We came across broken ostrich eggs.

We had better loading today, but the men were tired. Many of them fell out to snatch a half-hour sleep, catching up with the caravan when they woke. Bukara brought me two little eagles, which he had taken from their nest on top of Agara. I ordered him to put them back and saw that it was done. The hedging was ill and had to go all the afternoon without load or even saddle. At the midday halt, the men fell asleep immediately and snored heavily.

This kind of travel is grueling, tedious work, but we were getting on. Monday, April 23rd. We started at 2.30 a.m., halted at 9.15 a.m., second start at 3.45 p.m., p.m., halt at 9 p.m., making 46 kilometers. This was the most exhausting trek that I had yet known. For eight days we had had only four hours of sleep a day. We had hardly started before the men with one accord fell back to snatch a half-hour sleep, leaving the camels to follow the will of the wisp of the guide's lantern. I could not avail myself of this privilege because of my anxiety for my instruments. The loading, done in the dark, was insecure, and a slipped fastening may mean a broken

instrument or camera. At intervals one or another camel would halt and kneel and refuse to get up. Then a tibu would come and press his thumb on a certain big vein in the camel's forehead and manipulate it. It seemed to give the beast relief. We were having a hard time of it crossing the high, steep sand dunes, when suddenly the mountains rose before us like medieval castles half hidden in the mist. A few minutes later the sun was on them, turning the cold gray into warm rose and pink. I let the caravan go on, and for a half an hour I sat on the sand dune and let the sight of these legendary mountains do its will with my mind and heart. I had found what I came to seek. These were the mountains of our canoe. It was the outstanding moment. It was the outstanding moment.

to the whole journey. Any hardships I might have endured, any hardships that might still await me, whereas nothing compared with the joy that filled me at the mere sight of these hills. It was not like going to seek a hidden treasure that had to be dug out of the ground. There they were, standing right up high before me, so that I might feast my eyes upon them. Up and down, up and down we had plotted across the sand dunes in the chilly grayness of the hours before dawn, until suddenly, at the last dune, it was as though somebody had rung up a curtain upon these magical hills, of which I have not seen the like in the whole Libyan desert. From the time I left solemn until I reached this spot, there had been nothing like the

mountains of our canoe. The sight of them so gripped me that for a while I dreamed that I was not in the desert anymore. Tuesday, April 24th, was the 111th day for a day of from Sollum, and the 140th from Cairo. We covered broken country, sand covered with stones undulating. At 5 a.m., heavy sand dunes. After the dunes, the country became stony again, and later there was hard sand covered with gravel. North of Arcanoo Mountain, and only a hundred meters from it,

was a big sandstone hill about two kilometers long, and a hundred meters are so high. There was a glorious sunrise with shades of red and gold splashed on the few gray clouds in the east. The cool wind soon dropped and it became close and warm. Arcanoo Mountain is a mass of granite, its gray surface weathered to a ruddy brown, rising uniformly along its length some 500 meters from the desert surface. It is made up of a series of conical masses which run together at their feet without intervals between them. We approached it at its most western point.

As we came toward it, we could not tell how far it extended to the east. At the farthest point which we could see in that direction, it rose into a peak. We marched round the northwestern corner of the mountain mass and came to the entrance of a valley which runs to the eastward. There is one solitary tree of the species called by the Goran, Arcanu, standing in the desert here. From it, the oasis takes its state. name. We made our camp near it. This was a bad spot for camel ticks who lived in the shade of the

tree and came literally running by the score when our camels approached. We were obliged to camp some distance from the tree, as the insects did not seem to care to forsake its shade, even to attack the camels. I once picked up a tick that was like a piece of petrified stone. I hit it with a stick, and it just clicked like a piece of stone. I took. I took it. turned away and pretended to be busy with something else, it took about three or four minutes before it gave any sign of life. The tick knows instinctively that safety lies in pretending to be petrified. Then without warning, it scooted like lightning. When there are no camels, these ticks live on nothing. They absorb the camel's blood, get inflated, and then they can live,

the Bedouins say years, but certainly a few months. Immediately on our arrival, the camel were sent into the valley to be watered, and to bring back the supply of water of which we were much in need. Two hours after we pitched camp, the two Tibus left behind arrived with a supply of meat from the slaughtered camel, which was eaten with enthusiasm for dinner. A hot, gusty wind blew all the afternoon. While I was resting in my tent, I was suddenly aroused by something tickling my ear and tried to brush it away without discovering what it was. In that moment the gust of wind blew in one of the side walls of the tent, which had been raised for ventilation,

and I felt something darting across my body. I grasped at it instinctively, and fortunately for my peace of mind, missed it. It was a snake, some four feet long, which was subsequently caught by my men and despatched. The men held a shooting competition in the afternoon. It started as a perfunctory affair, but the interest quickened when I put up a Mejadi, a Turkish dollar, as a prize. Sunusi Bujabert, though short-sighted, won the contest.

Hamid expressed the feelings of the other contestants when he said, It was the Mejidi that worked on my emotions and made me nervous. I had hit the mark before. I made observations and took photographs, and incidentally treated the guide's teeth. Gorin, the black tribes of the neighborhood, suddenly appeared from the valley and were kept to dine with my men. No one had dreamed of their presence until they appeared. The mountain looked desolate and deserted,

and one would not suspect that inside it lies a fertile valley which is inhabited. As a matter of fact, our canoe is not inhabited all the year round. In the valley is good vegetation to which in the past, Bedouins, Tibu's, and Gorin brought their camels during the grazing season. They closed the entrances to the valley with rocks and left the camels there unattended for three months. When they came to take them back, said Muhammad the guide, they had as much fat on them as this. He put his closed fists one on top of the other. Wednesday, April 25th, the Gorin family in the valley brought a sheep, milk, and salmon, which was butter in a curious liquid state because of the heat,

as a daifa or hospitality. They also drove their sheep to the camp to be milked for the men of the caravan. After luncheon I rode into Arcanoo Valley with Zirwali and Bukara. It is a carcour or narrow winding valley extending some 15 kilometers back into the mountains. There are grass, shrubs, and an occasional tree. We visited the Goran hut where I took photographs of a girl

and two boys of the family. The boys wore white robes, the sign of the sons of a sheik. When I got back to camp, I sent presents of cloth, handkerchiefs, and rice for the three children. It was a beautiful moonlit night. I decided to spend three days more at Arcanu because the grazing was good, and the camel still seemed tired from their hard trek. My hedging was doing well. I picked up stones for geological specimens and aroused the suspicions of some of my men.

They thought there was gold in what stones I had picked up, or else I would not take the trouble to carry them back home. Thursday, April 26th, at our canoe. Highest temperature, 36 degrees, lowest 9 degrees, fine and clear with very strong and hot southeast wind. Twice the wind blew the tents down. We sent the camels to be watered and to graze. It was a sweltering day, over 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the tent, and only a little less in the shade outside.

Making observations was difficult on account of the wind. I did not like to shelter myself behind the tent while making them for fear of arousing the inevitable curiosity and suspicion. The wind dropped in the evening, and we were repaid for a hot and scorching day by a beautifully cool evening with a fine moon. There was dancing and singing by Bukara and the other men until midnight. Friday, April 27. Arcanoo was the first of the two lost oases,

which it is my good fortune to place definitely on the map. There had long been a tradition that two oases existed close to the southwestern corner of Egypt, but the position that they had been conjecturally given on one or two maps was from 30 to 180 kilometers out of place. No one had described them from an actual visit. My observations showed that our canoe is situated in north latitude 20 degrees, 12 minutes, 32 seconds, and east longitude 24 degrees, 44 minutes, 15 seconds, and has an altitude of 598 meters at the foot of the mountain.

It is thus well within the boundaries of Egypt. The principal interest of this oasis, as at Oenat, lies in the possibility it offers for exploring the southwest corner of Egypt, which has until now been enriched either by military patrols or by travelers. No one is known with any certainty of water supplies in that part of the desert which could be relied upon. The water at Arcanu is apparently unfailing and is drinkable, though not as wholesome for human beings, as one could wish. Arcanu may conceivably prove to have strategic value at some future time, standing as it does almost precisely at the meeting point of the western and southern boundaries of Egypt.

Both Arcanoo and Uanat differ from all the other oases of the western desert of Egypt, in that they are not depressions in the desert with underground water supplies, but mountain areas where rainwater collects in natural basins in the rocks. The mountain chain of Arcanu, as I saw it, is about 15 kilometers in extent from north to south and some 20 kilometers from east to west, but there was no opportunity to explore it to the eastward so that I cannot say whether it may not extend farther in that direction than I have stated. I could only observe it as far as I could see from the desert at the western foot of the mountains.

It may well be that off to the east, Arcanoo Mountain runs into a chain of hills of which the Uanat Mountains are also spurs to the south. There is an opportunity for more explorations of the eastern portions of both these rock masses than I was able to make in the time and with the resources at my command. The nearest known point to Arcanu and Uanat to the east or rather the northeast is Dachla Oasis, some 600 kilometers distant. There is a tradition that there is an old track to Egypt between these two points, but a journey from Dockla to Arcanu and Uanat with caravan, which would take at least 14 days,

would be a formidable undertaking. End of Section 15. Section 16 of the Lost Oatian. by Ahmed Mohammed-Hassanian. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17, The Lost Oasis, Oasis, Oenat. Saturday, April 28th. We started at 9.30 p.m. for the first all-night track, halting at 7 a.m. on the 29th. We made 40 kilometers. It was fair and clear with a very strong hot wind from the southeast all day.

The wind blew from the same quarter but was warm rather than hot all night. The ground was Sarira, with large stones making bad going for the camels. At 6 a.m. we reached the western corner of Weenot Mountain and camped an hour later. The day was spent quietly, chiefly in rest for the coming night trek. In the early evening we sent men to bring the camels from their grazing. Bukara hired a camel from a tebow to relieve his own, which he wanted to be able to sell at the end of the journey for a high price. I hired three T-Bos and their camels to go with us, but not for the same reason.

Our transport was inadequate, for the trek from Kufra had shown me that our loads were too heavy. The camels became quickly exhausted. The camels were brought in at eight in the evening, and we started an hour and a half later. They were lightly loaded this time because we were taking no water from our canoe. The water there, while its taste is not particularly unpleasant, is hard on one's digestive apparatus. We had three bad cases of dysentery among the men. The invalids rode camels from the start, and the rest of the men took turns during the night. The caravan started out in the best of humor. At intervals some cheerful spirit stopped and began to chant. In a moment, half a dozen of them

were lined up beside him, all chanting, stamping, and clamping their hands rhythmically as the camels filed past. The words of the song were always the same. In Khan Aziz, Zalaya Lanzar, Hata-Lau-Baid-Bidar. The accents are strongly pronounced and differ in the two lines, as I have marked them. I would translate the verse thus, without making any attempt to fit it to the jazz rhythm that would be needed to complete the effect for the western ear. Oh, beloved, our eyes gaze after you, even though your camp is far away. Again and again the chant was repeated until the performance ended in a sudden shout. I had been the whole audience for the little show, beating the rhythm with my whip,

and when the shout went up, I called out Faragahoo Baroud, empty gunpowder, was the signal for a Theta-Jua from the rifles. after which we all took our places in the caravan and went on exhilarated. A night march has its advantages. The time, unless one is dead tired, passes more quickly than during the day, and the stars are cheering company for any lover of nature. On the horizon ahead of us loomed the dark masses of Uanat Mountains. It is so much easier to march with one's destination distinct before one

than to be walking on the flat disk of the desert where every point of the compass looks like every other, and the horizon keeps always at the same maddening distance. We steadily approached the mountains until the sun was rising over them, tinting and gilding their peaks and throwing out on the desert a heavy shadow whose edge marked steadily toward the mountain foot as we approached it from another direction. Shortly after sunrise, we were opposite the northwest corner of the mountains, and an hour later we made camp close under their rocky walls.

At this point there was an indentation in the mountainside with a well in a cave at its inner end. We pitched our tents at the mouth of this little arm of the desert sea, and ten minutes later we were all sunk into sleep. This was our first full night of travel, and we had some arrears of sleep to make up. However, we did not sleep as long as we had expected to, but roused ourselves before noon and turned our attention to food. the French saying Kidradin may be true under some conditions, but we of the desert find it more satisfactory when we are able to do both.

We all found pleasant distraction in roasting parts of the lamb, which was provided by Muhammad as Diofah for Weenat. I spent the rest of the day in visiting the well, which is situated in the cave in the mountainside, in taking observations, and in looking over our surroundings. At this point, the mountain rises in a sheer cliff with a mass of boulders great and small heaped against it at its foot. The stones that make up this d'hra, as the geologists call it,

have been carved by ages of wind and driven sand into smooth, rounded shapes that giants of the heroic days might have used in their slings to kill monsters or for some enormous game of bulls. The ain, or well, lies a few meters away from the camp, in a cavity walled and roofed with great rocks. It is a pool of refreshing water kept cool by their protection from the sun. The desert knows two kinds of wells, the Aen, which, properly speaking, is a spring, and the beer or Matan, which is a place where water may be obtained by digging in the sand.

We call these wells of Uanat Ains, for lack of a better word, although they are not springs, but reservoirs in the rock where rainwater collects. There are said to be seven of these aines in the O'Anat Mountains, of which I was to see four before I moved south again. I also heard rumors of one or two beers in the oasis, but I did not see them. In the evening the camp was full of life and gaiety. The men danced and sang as though there were no tedious days of hot sand and scorching wind behind or ahead of them. Monday, April 30th. Up early and went with Zirwali, Abdullah, Abdullah, Muhammad, and Mali. Kinni, the Tebu, to the big Ayn up the mountain. It was a stiff climb of an hour and a half.

The Ayn has a plentiful supply of splendid water and is picturesquely surrounded with tall, slim reeds. I took some of the reeds back with me to make pipe stems. They give up pleasantly cool smoke. In the early evening, I set out on the hay gen with Malkinny, Sunusi Bu Hassan, and Sudd, to explore the oasis. It was a fine moonlit, night with a warm southeast breeze. For four hours we marched over Sarira, skirting the northwest corner of the mountain, and at midnight we entered a valley with a chain of low hills on our left, and the sinister mountain with its fantastic rock formations on our right. The valley is floored with soft sand strewn with big stones, which made hardgoing for the camels. At the hour when men's

spirits and courage are proverbially at the lowest ebb, we halted a few minutes for a a draft of strong tea from my thermos flask and then pushed on. But our spirits were by no means low. There was something magical about the night and the moonlight and the mountains to make this experience stirring to the imagination and uplifting to the soul. I speak for myself, but the men seemed to be getting something out of it too. At five, the valley opened out onto a wide plain of flat Sarira, with hills 10 or 15 kilometers away to the northeast. We turned sharply to the south, around a spur of the mountain. At dawn, we stopped from morning prayers. The camels were barracked, and we took our stand on the sands facing toward Mecca. When Muslims take part in their ceremonial

prayers, they stand before God, not, as some misinformed person say, before Muhammad, who was not God but a man, a prophet, and not the deity. And the first essential is cleansing of body, heart, and soul. In the desert, the cleansing of the body can be only symbolical, since water cannot be spared. We take sand in our hands, rub it over each hand and forearm, and then gently over our faces. With hands uplifted, palms upward, we say the prayers appointed,

then, kneeling, touch our foreheads to the cool sands of the morning. In the desert, prayers are no mere blind obedience to religious dogma, but an instinctive expression of one's inmost self. The prayers at night bring serenity and peace. At dawn, when new life has suddenly taken possession of the body, one eagerly turns to the Creator to offer humble homage for all the beauty of the world and of life and to seek guidance for the coming day. One praise, then, not because one ought, but because one must.

Seven o'clock found us entering a wide valley, running a little east of south, with mountains rising high on both sides. The floor of the valley is as flat as a table, patterned with tufts of grass, and marked here and there with mimosa trees and small shrubs, whose leaves, when crushed, give off a fragrance similar to that of mint. At intervals, the ground is carpeted with creeping plants of the colosinth, expanses of green leaves dotted with brilliant yellow globes like grapefruit. It is from this fruit that the Tibus and Goren make Abra. They boil the pips thoroughly to get rid of their bitter taste and then crush them with dates or locusts in a wooden mortar. Abra is their staple dish. For three hours we proceeded up the valley, and at ten we camped,

hot and tired but not ill-content. We ate a good meal of rice, drank our three glasses of tea, and went to sleep in the shade of a ridge. It was uncomfortable slumber, what was swarming flies and the moving shadow of the ridge, which made each of a shift position from time to time. As I opened my eyes, a figure stood near me that seemed to be part of a pleasant dream. She was a beautiful girl of the Goran, the slim, graceful lines of whose body were not spoiled by the primitive garment she wore. She carried a bowl of milk, which she offered with shy dignity. I could only accept it, and drink gratefully. Then she asked me for medicine for her sister who had borne no children. When she refused to believe that I had no medicine that

would be helpful to her sister, I fell back on my malted milk tablets, a harmless remedy for ailments which were beyond me. I also gave her a meddity and a silk hand. for herself. A Tebow appeared with a parcel of meat of the Wadham or wild sheep. I gave him macaroni and rice, and he went away happy. After we had eaten, I went to see some relics of the presence of men in earlier times. At Arcanu, I had got to talking with one of the Gorans, and having satisfied myself about the present inhabitants of Uanat, I asked him whether he knew anything about any former inhabitants of the oasis. He gave me a startling answer. Many different people have lived round these wells,

as far back as anyone could remember. Even Jin have dwelt in that place in olden days. Gin, I exclaimed, how do you know that? Have they not left their drawings on the rocks? He answered. With suppressed excitement, I asked him where. He replied that in the valley of Uanat, there were many drawings upon the rocks,

but I could not induce him to describe them further than saying that there were writings and drawings of all the animals living, and nobody knows what sort of pens they used, for they wrote very deeply on the stones, and time has not been able to efface the writings. Doing my best not to show anything like excitement, I inquired whether he could tell me just where the drawings were. At the end of the valley, where the tail of the valley wags, he answered.

The whole time I remembered this, and after a little time spent in making sure about the water, which is the most important thing, and having a look around from the top of the hills at the surrounding country, there came the exciting task of going round the oasis. But the most exciting part of it was to find these rock inscriptions, especially as the history that I had been able to collect about the oasis was very scanty. I gathered that Uanat was the ped-terre of Tebos and Goran,

who were going eastward to attack and to spoil the Kababishi. Arcanu and Uwanaat indeed were very well placed for that purpose, since they provided water for the attacking party, and at the same time were too far away for the Kababishi to dare to attempt reprisals or try to recover their own belongings. With these drawings in mind in, I took Malcanny, who had joined the caravan at Arcanu, and toward sunset he led me straight to them.

They were in a valley, at the part where it drew in, curving slightly with a suggestion of a wagging tail. We found them on the rock at the ground level. I was told there were other similar inscriptions at a half a day's journey, but as it was growing late and I did not want to excite suspicion, I did not go to them. There was nothing beyond the drawings of animals, no inscriptions. It seemed to me as though they were drawn by somebody who was trying to compose a scene. Although primitive in character, they betrayed an artistic hand.

The man who drew these outlined figures of animals had a decorative sense. On their wall of rock, these pictures were rudely but not unskillfully carved. There were lions, giraffes, and ostriches, all kinds of gazelles, and perhaps cows, though many of these figures were effaced by time. The carving is from a quarter to a half an inch in depth, and the edges of the lines are weathered until, and some parts they can be scraped off easily with a finger. I asked who made the pictures,

and the only answer I got came from Mel Kinney, the Tebow, who declared his belief that they were the work of the gin. What man, he demanded, can do these things now? I did not find any traditions about the origin of these interesting rock markings, but I was struck by two things. There are no giraffes in this part of the country now, nor do they live in any similar desert country anywhere. Also, there are no camels among the carvings on the rocks,

and one cannot penetrate to this oasis now except with camels. Did the men who made these pictures know the giraffe and not the camel? I reflected that the camel came to Africa from Asia some 500 years BC. At 5.30, we started for the home camp. We wound our way up a steep mountain path, hardly wide enough in places for a single man, and exceedingly dangerous going for the camels. We reached the highest point of the path,

and then picked our way down to the desert level south of the mountains. At the highest point we reached, there were a few peaks around, some two or three hundred meters higher than we were. The camels went up and down the steep path wonderfully well, in spite of the darkness, and at 10.30 we were at the foot of the mountains. It seemed best to give the campers,

camel's arrest, and we halted at 11 for two hours. We had tea, and a Teaboo family whose camp was near came to visit us. We snatched a brief sleep and awoke refreshed. There was a cool wind blowing, and the ride home over the level desert was a pleasant relief after the hot work of climbing about among the rocks. We reached camp at 10 a.m. of the second, and were met with firing of rifles and an agreeable welcome. Wednesday, May 2nd. On reaching camp, we found Sheikeri, the Gorin Chief who is called King of Uanat and its 150 inhabitants. He came the day before to visit me and waited for my return. He was a very nice old man with a calm, dignified face. He brought two sheep, milk, and Abra for Diofa. He was keeping Ramadan, and I insisted on his staying the night with us. Otherwise, it could not

offer him hospitality since he might not eat or drink until sunset. I had a long talk with him and with Muhammad. The old chief was still fond of his own country north of Wadai and sighed when it was spoken of. He belonged to the Hezhi family, which is a ruling family of Goren in northern Wadai. He came to Kufra as a voluntary exile when the French entered Wadai, and later he settled in Wadat. I found myself tired after our 28 hours of trekking with only nine hours of rest, but a bath, a meal, and a short sleep made life worth living again in the evening. Bukhara had organized a chorus among the men, and the evening was spent with

Bedouin, Tebow, and Sudanese songs. Thursday, May 3rd, Harry came to my tent with a bowl of milk when I got up. When I thanked him, he shook his head sadly. This is all I have to offer, he said. It is not worthy of you. But you will. will forgive us for not being able to give you the hospitality that you should have. I assured him that it is the spirit that counts in these matters and not the intrinsic value of the offerings. The day was spent in preparation for the start south, which I hope would be made on the morrow. Friday, May 4th. I made an arrangement with Harry to go with us to Erdi as an additional guide. Mohamed had not been through this country for a number of years, and I felt that Harry should know it

better. In the afternoon I went for a long walk and took photographs of the mountains. By this time, all the Tebu and Gorin settlements, which are scattered about the oasis wherever there is grazing for their beasts, had heard of our presence, and the people came to visit us. There were many guests for dinner, and it was a very gay camp. It was one of the pleasantest evenings of the trip. Before we leave Uanat, I must say something about Bukara, who is one of the most interesting people in the caravan and a romantic figure. He is tall, slim, and wiry, a typical badwin, always cheerful and with a song at his lips at those critical moments in the day, early in the morning or late at night when the men are tired with a night march and need encouragement.

I did not know that he smoked until one day, as I was saddling my horse, I caught him collecting the cigarette inns from the spot where my tent had stood. After this, I shared my cigarettes with him. It was great fun to hand him a packet to the precious articles and see him break into a song and dance for joy. Bukara is one of the most traveled bedouins that I have come across. He is only 33, and yet he has traveled to Wadai, Borku, Bornu, and Darfur. He has seen days of good fortune in the past, but today he owns but one camel. He has thrown in his lot with my caravan, arranging with Boo Halega that he is to have a share of the money received for the latter's camels when they are sold at the end of the journey.

He speaks most of the dialects of the black tribes and knows a great deal about him. He is also a wonderful mimic. One evening he put on the green cloth that formed a partition in my tent as a bournus, and with sad and Hamid bleeding-like sheep behind him, came to camp pretending to be a Bedouin sheikh, bringing the two sheep as Diafah. We were kept in roars of laughter, and suddenly Bukhara flung away the green cloth and snatching a spear from one of the Tibu's broke into a Tibu war dance. A Tibu assisted him by beating a rhythm on one of the small empty fantasus. This droll exhibition was followed by a concert of Bedouin songs from Seraenaika, Fessin, and Tripoli. I have seen Bukar refuse to mount a camel to ride when all the Bedouins have yielded the temptation. "'Why don't you ride, Bukara?' I asked.

"'There are several unloaded camels.' "'What would my Wachoon, wife, say if she heard that her Bukara had ridden between Arcanoo and Uanat?' he replied, was scorn in his voice for the thought. "'He told me that on one occasion he had been entrusted with some fifty camels to take to Uanat for grazing. He was alone and ran short of food. "'For twelve days I ate no meal except the pits of coloenot. synth, which upset my digestion, he replied simply. Then I reached Kufra. The men at Kufra, who had sent me

for the camels, had forgotten to send me food. They had expected me at Kufra earlier. But why didn't you slaughter a camel, I inquired. Should I permit the men of Kufra to say that Bukara could not endure hunger and kill the camel? He retorted proudly. Bukara is very fond of his wife. When we reached Arcanu, he said to me, I am feeling better now, but I cried like a child when I said goodbye to my washoon at Kufra. It is always like that when I begin my journeys. If the company is good, I forget more quickly. End of Section 16.

Section 17 of The Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohamed Hassanian. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18, Night Marches to Erdi. Sunday, May 6th, we got away at 6.45 p.m. and made a good 12-hours trek of 54 kilometers. It was a thoroughly tiring performance, however, as the first night's march was likely to be. The man had had no chance to sleep during the day, but on the contrary had been busier than usual. In spite of our weariness, the loads had to be carefully watched and readjusted every now and then. At dawn, most of the men dropped back for short naps.

One of the camels broke away and ran back toward Uanat. Malcanny had to leave the caravan at midnight and go after it. There was moonlight, the latter half of the night, and a refreshing cool breeze at three in the morning. The camels grazed as they went on the grass which grew here because of the water coming down from the hills. When we came to make camp, one of our best Giribahs was found torn and half-empty. It was a misfortune, for we could not spare water on the trek that was before us.

We had to go ten days before reaching a well. Malcanny and the runaway camel did not appear during the day. My diary runs. Monday, May 7th, cloudy all day, strong northeast wind, which drops in the afternoon. is temperature 38 degrees, when traveling at night cannot take minimum temperature, which occurs about two or three, as we are on the move at that time. Start at 6.30 p.m., halt at 11.30 p.m., make 20 kilometers, very soft sand undulating with dry sabat for grazing. In the afternoon, a Tibu arrived with a camel loaded with a luggage that had been on the runaway.

He told us that Malcennie's camel had thrown off its load and run back to the grazing ground at Uanat, with Malcanny after him. At 11.30, we halted on very soft sand with patches of rockabout and grazing ground near Barit Chesu to wait for the runaways. They appeared shortly after our arrival, but I decided not to go farther that night.

The rest would do us all good. Tuesday, May 8th, we started at 4.45 p.m. in an oppressive atmosphere under heavy clouds. Two hours later it rained a little, and the Bedouins, whose life depends on rain, instinctively shouted with joy and sang fervently to the camels. The ground was undulating, hard and covered with stones and large gravel. We crossed some small girds soon after starting, and then the country flattened. out again with softer sand. At 3.30 a.m. we entered a belt of high sand dunes and crossed it in an hour and a half. After the dunes, the ground became the old familiar serreira again.

Here I found bits of ostrich shells. Early in the day, Arami, Malcini's brother, had taken a sack and gone to collect Hatab. His name tells his story, for among the Tibus and Goran, a man who has killed another is known frankly as Arami. He had said that he would meet us later on. We had no anxiety about him, especially as we were told that he knew the way well. But when we had been two hours on the road and it was growing dark, we became anxious and halted to wait for him.

We fired many shots to attract his attention and direct him to where we were. The men shouted his name as loud as they could, but all in vain. I turned to Mal Kenny and asked him what he intended to do. My brother is mad, he said. No one asked him to collect Hatab. He left the camp without even having his breakfast. It may be that he has been called by God to his death. When the moon rises, I shall leave my camel's load and return to look for him.

If he is alive, I shall bring him back with me. If he is dead, I shall bury him and join you later. It was said quite simply, and as though it were all a matter of course. The load was shifted from Mal Kenny's camel to another, and he set out on the backtrack. Arami had already had many narrow escapes from death, and everyone hoped that it might be so this time. But Ma'amud was doubtful. God is merciful, he said, but I think Arami has walked to his fate. I was afraid he might be right.

there was something strange about Arami from the first. I learned that on a trek once from Erdi to Uanat, his water supply had run out, and he had had a bad thirst, as the desert people call it. He had reached Uanat half dead. Such an experience leaves its mark on a man, and it is likely to be long before he is himself again. I had noticed the queer, strained, vague look in his eyes

and wondered about it. it. If he did not come back, the desert in one of its moods of cruelty would have claimed its own. In the desert, upon the long, waterless tracks, the men from exhaustion, thirst, fatigue, sleeplessness often lose their heads, and, as the Bedouins say, walk to their fate. Which means that unless their comrades are on the lookout and keep them with a caravan, they walk away into the desert, disregarding even the animal instinct of the camel to keep with the herd. In such a case, if the wanderer suddenly returns to his senses, he has to sit down where he finds himself and not move. It is understood that his comrades, when they are aware of his absence,

will retrace his tracks of the caravan and then his own tracks upon the sand, and so rescue him. I met a Bedouin at Kufra, who had been lost for 18 hours, cut off from the caravan. When he was rescued, he was unconscious, suffering badly from thirst. God was merciful, he told me, for I was just able to do my prayers and face God before what I thought was my inevitable death. But we live and die only by the decree of God, he added, with a smile. Wednesday, May 9th. Start at 4.15 p.m., halt at 10.15 p.m. make 24 kilometers. Highest temperature, 37.7.

degrees. White clouds and very strong warm winds from the northeast, which continues all day and at night develops into sandstorm. A few drops of rainfall at 7 p.m. The sandstorm lasts from 8 to 10. The ground is ordinary serreira with soft sand in places. There are no landmarks and no dry grass. We cite distant sand dunes on her right in the early morning. We marched 14 and a half hours last night. but we were not very tired. Breakfast and four-hour sleep found us all refreshed again. Muhammad wanted us to make an early start, as there was a difficult gird ahead, which could not be crossed in the dark. So 415 found us underway with a serera under our feet and a cool northeast wind behind us. Shortly after eight, I felt the wind in my face. I was startled, for the wind does not

usually shift so suddenly. Besides, the quality of the wind had not changed. The wind in our faces should be coming from the south, and yet it is not warm. There is something strange about it. I look above for the stars, but the sky is completely covered with dark clouds. I take out my compass and am startled to find that we are heading full northeast instead of southwest. Then it is clear to me that Muhammad has lost his head, as the Bedouin say, and is leading us in the diametrically opposite direction from the right one. It was a serious moment and one that required tact and careful handling. It is dangerous to undermine a desert guide's confidence,

and I got off my camel and, mounting my horse, galloped to where Muhammad is leading the caravan. I realized as I went that the men of the caravan, most of whom were accustomed to this sort of country in this kind of weather, had also a feeling that we were going wrong. But it is the etiquette of the desert that no one may interfere with a guide in any way. The guide of a caravan is exactly like the captain of a ship. He is absolute master of the caravan so far as direction is concerned

and must also be consulted as to the starting and halting times. I had, fortunately, asked Muhammad before leaving Uwana as to the direction we were to take, and had set my compass to it. As I approach the guide, I find him agitated and lacking his habitual cheerful smile and air of self-reliance. I show him the compass and suggest that we are going in the wrong direction. He says nothing but scans the sky anxiously for his favorite Jadi, but in vain for Polaris is behind the clouds. At this moment, the sandstorm which had been rising blew out its lantern. The caravan had caught up with us, and everyone realized that we had lost our way.

Men and camels were huddled together with the gale and hurtling sand beating upon them. The wind made it impossible to hear one's own voice to say nothing of any other man's. Muhammad's confidence had completely deserted him, and I could see its effect on the men's faces. They were all traveled men of the desert, and they know what it meant to lose one's way in a serira where there are no landmarks. We must camp until the sky clears, is the chorus. But I know how fatal such a policy would be. They would spend four or five hours brooding over their fate and growing more and more despondent and hopeless. There is no need for a halt, as my compass is a reliable one, and I have checked it many times with the direction

pointed out by Muhammad. This wind comes from the north, I asserted quietly, but with assurance during a lull in the storm, as it has for the past few days. If it came from the south, it would be hot.

There is the Jedi, and this is our route. I pointed to where Polaris must be, unless the compass was all wrong, and then swung around and indicated the way that we should go. Allah bless you, replied Muhammad,

pulling himself together. What you say is true. Sunusi Bu Hassan, who was our guide to Kufra, came close to me and in a loud voice, confirmed the statement. Wallahi, you speak the truth, he said firmly. I had thought of it, but could not speak, because I had no proof, since the Jadi hides himself behind the clouds. That was enough for us. We lighted the lantern with difficulty, and with Muhammad and Bu Hassan beside me, I led the way. How were we going to march?

Demands a voice from the darkness. Let the wind fan the back of your black neck and you won't go much wrong, answers Bukara with a laugh. A few hours later, Mohammed grips my hand and pointing to the sand dunes ahead, ejaculates with deep feeling, the gurds, praise me to God, God is generous. He is perfectly cheerful again. The storm soon says, subsided completely and we were among the sand dunes. The sky was perfectly clear now,

and even the most pessimistic of the men could have no more anxiety. But our little experience in this sandstorm demonstrated what a touch-and-go-business desert trekking could be at times. It was only my compass that saved us from a very serious situation. Muhammad was doubtful of the wisdom of trying to cross the gurds in the darkness, so we made our camp where we were. Thursday, May 10th. Start at 4.15 a.m., halt at 8.45 a.m. Start again at 4.30 p.m., halt at 7 a.m. of the 11th.

Make 75 kilometers, fine and clear. Strong cold wind in the early morning, moderating later. Highest temperature, 38 degrees. Sand dunes 2 kilometers in width of very soft sand, dangerous in places. Then ordinary serreira. At 5.30 p.m., country is interspersed with patches of black and white stone like that before reaching Kufra. At 8 a.m. on the 11th, interzone of dry grass on flat soft sands. At 4.30 a.m., pass belt of sand dunes. In the early morning, we got underway to cross the gurds and speedily realized how serious a mistake it would have been to tackle them in the darkness.

They were very steep, and the sand was treacherously soft. The camel sank to their knees and had to be helped by the men. It took us three quarters of an hour to cross them. We halted at 9 a.m. very hungry, for we had not eaten since lunch the day before. We needed food more than sleep, since the few hours of rest during the night were quite refreshing. It was still hot when we started again at 4.30 p.m., but a pleasant northeast breeze, tempered the oppressiveness. Harry asked me for a few yards of white cloth to make a turban because the heat of the sun was affecting his head. I was glad to give it to him. Among the Tibus and

Goran, only sheiks wear white. I felt like walking that night and rode my camel less than usual. Since leaving Onat, I had been walking six or seven hours a night, but that night I did nine. We made good progress until 3 a.m. when I suddenly felt or heard something rustle against my ankle boot. I reached down and found grass. The desert had changed its aspect. The camels were hungry, for we set out from Uanat with only two days food for them, trusting to the opportunities for grazing that we expected to find. So we let them eat as they went along instead of driving them at their best pace. That night's march was tiring for everybody. We had arrears of sleep to make up,

and keeping the camels going and grazing country was hard work. Mohamed and Harry both rode most of the way, with Hassan carrying the lantern. Just before dawn, however, Mohammed got down and relieved him. When we rounded up the camels for our morning prayers, the men looked more weary than I had ever seen them. Friday, May 11th. Start at 4.45 p.m., halt at 3.15 a.m. of the 12th. Make 42 kilometers,

clear and fine, no wind, warm all day and night. Highest temperature, 39 degrees, soft sand covered with dry tufts of grass like a field of ripe corn. At 12.45 a.m., pass an ordinary gird. At 1. Enter the flat Sarira without grass. At 3.15, halt at sandstone hills, having missed our way. The day was spent in sleeping and eating, and at 4.45 p.m. we started with the intention of marching all night. But by 10, everybody was tired and sleepy. Even Mohammed was riding as camel. In the next few hours, he fell asleep at intervals, and because of his fatigue did not look back to correct his direction by Polaris. When a guide neglects the Jadi, he is far gone indeed. Sunusi Bu Ashan, and I felt certain that he was not taking the right course, but did not want to

interfere with him again after the previous night. At 3.15 a.m. we came to a ridge of hills, and Mohammed stopped dead. Until now, I had been walking behind the caravan and checking from time to time the bearing on which we were going. We have been walking since 10 o'clock, more to the southward than before. When the caravan halted, I rode forward to Muhammad and asked why we were stopping. This opening in the hills, he says, pointing in front of him, I do not recognize it, and I do not know what kind of ground follows it. Whatever is false, he is perfectly frank. I did not want to arouse any feeling of anxiety in the men, and so I said casually, let us camp until daybreak. We are all tired tonight. I have hardly spoken the words when the camels are barriced and their

loads are on the ground. I have never seen men fall so quickly to sleep. Each one wraps himself swiftly in his jured and takes shelter from the cold northeast wind behind a piece of luggage. Muhammad goes up to the ridge to look about him, and I follow. I think you have been following the Jaddy too much, I suggest, meaning that he has been going too directly to the south. I do not intimate that he has been asleep on his camel. I do not want to shake his self-confidence and have him become demoralized. Allah bless you, he murmurs, scanning the horizon anxiously.

I must have done so, for we should not have reached hills so early. I counted on getting to them at dawn. But in the morning God will bring solace. I am somewhat troubled as I leave him and lie awake a few minutes, hoping that we have not gone far from our proper path, but I am too tired to worry long and quickly go to sleep. Saturday, May 12th. At 4.30 a.m., Muhammad's voice is heard,

To prayers, O ye Muslims? We quickly get up and are underway in an hour. Muhammad puts himself at the head of the caravan, and I join him. He is still troubled, But as we round a corner of the hills, he sighs with the relief. Allah be praised, there lies our way. He points to the northwest corner of the chain of hills, and we make for it. We reach it at 9.45 a.m. and pitch camp.

The camels are sent a kilometer or two into the hills to graze. Men and camels are in bad shape, and the water is getting scarce. In the afternoon, Muhammad and Harry go ahead into the hills to make a track in the sand with a tent pole for us to follow. At 5 p.m. we follow them into the sand dunes and thence into the hills. The gurds are fortunately not many, though they are steep enough, but it is the hilly country beyond them that takes it out of us. Our feet keep bumping into stones in the dark,

and Bedouin shoes are little protection against such painful encounters. The collisions are particularly numerous and correspondingly trying in the early morning hours when we are terribly sleepy and walk with eyes half shut. On previous nights I have tried the experiment of suddenly firing two or three shots from my rifle to rouse them into life and with good results. Each time they have responded with a loud cheer and mended their pace forthwith. But tonight the scheme fails. About three in the morning, the most deadly hour of all, I empty gunpowder, but not a voice responds. There is one small compensation, however, in the midst of this dead expanse of fatigue and depression.

The crescent moon rises in the early morning, a curved silver thread with a brilliant star above it, an exquisite piece of celestial jewelry. I fix my eyes on their beauty and forget for a moment the bruises that my poor feet are getting. When, a little later, we reach a patch of dry grass, we are all ready to let the camels graze for a while, and to give our tired bodies a brief respite. At dawn we halt again for morning prayers. We have barely risen from our knees when most of the men wrap themselves in their jords and fall on the beautiful red sand like white stones. The caravan goes limping on and the sleepers join us presently. I hope a little refreshed. My limbs ache this morning and cannot be made comfortable. I try to my limbs ache this morning and cannot be made

comfortable. I try every possible position on my camel and every possible pace and stride and walking, but none of them are of any avail. My eyelids too seem weighted with lead. At six, we have the good fortune to come across a few patches of green grass and make camp, having marched for 13 tormented hours. Eyes are bloodshot and bodies are protesting in every muscle and sinew. In a half hour, it is a a dead camp. Sunday, May 13th. We were up at 10 a.m. for breakfast. The men went to sleep again, but I could not. We started again at 5.15 p.m. and this evening things were worse than ever. The country had become more undulating and broken, and both camels and men found the going disastrously painful. Camels were continually being left behind as we wound about among the dunes

and little hills of rock. They felt, found bits of grass and fell to grazing. It was very difficult to see them against the red sands spotted with patches of dark stone. The singing stopped early that night, the surest sign that the men were dead tired. Zirwali told me that Muhammad had come to him to say that we had better camp early and not try to march too long tonight. Though going was so difficult, and we changed directions so often to go around the elevated points and stone outcroppings that there was a danger of losing our way. But Sir Wally, knowing how adverse I am of any delay,

had told the guide that I wanted to make a night's march of it. At last the walking was so hard, and camels were so continually left behind, that I felt that there was no use in going farther. If I had needed any more proof that the men were spent, it would have been supplied by the fact that Hassan, the wajangi, ordinarily a sturdy one, Walker had taken to a camel early in the evening and had not come off it.

We camped at 11.30 p.m. I wrapped myself in my jerd and told the men not to bother about making a shelter for me. I am sure I did not move from the first position I dropped into until five. I got up with a stiff back and aching legs. The morning air was serene and refreshing, and the sight of the men busy and eager to go ahead made me forget my physical discomforts. In spite of the new spirit of churfulness which the morning brought, however, things were not too encouraging for us. The country was nearly as bad for trekking as it could be. The men seemed to be losing confidence in Muhammad and Harry. The camels were in bad condition, and our water was very low. Monday, May 14th.

6 a.m., halt at 9 a.m. Start again at 5.30 p.m. halt at 10 p.m. make 30 kilometers. Fair and clear. Cool northeast breeze at 7 a.m., which drops at midday. Calm evening and night. Highest temperature 32 degrees. Soft sand covered with grass, both green and dry. Shortly after start and afternoon, country changes into undulating ground with valleys full of green grass and drying. Nisha. This is one of the signs that we are approaching Erdi. At 6.30 p.m., hilly again for about four kilometers, and then we pass a big valley with grazing and trees. As we started again in the morning, I intended to go forward for four or five hours, but it speedily got too hot and we camped at nine. The four hours rest had its good effect, and no one went to sleep until we had had breakfast.

In the afternoon, Muhammad and Harry went ahead again to mark the way as there was even more difficult going before us. The caravan got underway at 5.30 p.m. Our water had become scarce and bad, and the camels looked weak and exhausted. We were anxious to reach Erdi as soon as possible. Shortly after the start, Bukara and Arami, not the one who went away into the desert and disappeared, but another who had also killed this man, found the track of big Warren or lizard, and we followed it to its hole. A little sport was a pleasant relief. We dug into the hole, but the lizard was not at home. We traced its track to a pile of rocks, and after 20 minutes of excavation, caught the creature. The Bedouins and blacks used the fat of the Warren as a medicine for rheumatism,

and say that if one carries its head about with him, he is safe for his own. against black magic. Its skin, hung in a house, is reputed to keep snakes at a distance. The warren does not bite, but it has a tail like a whip with which it can do damage. Arami skinned the creature for me. We followed the track made by our guides, but lost it many times in the dark, and wasted time finding it again. At last it began to wobble about, and I realized that Muhammad was by no means certain of his direction. I ordered the men to camp and fired shots into the air. Shortly we were joined by Muhammad and Harry,

who were relieved that I had decided to halt. The guide told me that he could not be sure of his road in this country in the darkness, but that he knew we were not far from the well. For the first time since leaving Uanat, we had five solid hours of undisturbed sleep. Before going to bed, I talked to Arami about Erdi and its wells. Muhammad is a good guide by daylight, he said, but he is old, and at night he does not see much. Besides, he has not been to this country for several years.

We should have camped at the first well this evening, but we have missed it. But God knows best. I told him to say nothing of this to the men lest they should grow more panicky and blame Muhammad. I prepared my sleeping bag and sat down to think. This was the most discouraging moment of the journey. The men had lost confidence and had suffered much from the heat. The camels were dead beat, largely from the same cause. The guide was not sure of the way, and the water was scarce and bad. Any one of these circumstances would have been enough to make one anxious, but altogether made a devastating assault upon one's nerve.

As I reviewed the difficulties and dangers of the trip thus far, their flash drew my mind the thought that neither the mad Narami norahmy nor his brother Malcanny who went to find him had been seen again. I found myself wondering whether fate intended to rob me of what I had been able to achieve. If fate is malicious, this was an opportune moment to strike. If I had missed Arcanu and Uanat, it would not have been so hard, but now that I had made my modest achievement, I felt I should like to get back home with it.

But God knows best. I wondered if it would be a sleepless night. But the magic of the desert came again into play, and I was surprised to find my eyelids growing heavier. The sleep that came was sweet. Tuesday, May 15th. We were up at four. Still uncertain where we were,

Harry, Muhammad, and I went forward to make a reconnaissance when suddenly the red hills of Erdi leaped into view. I satisfied myself by a good look through my binocular that we were not mistaken, and an hour later we started toward them. Before we started, there was a discussion as to whether we should camp on the hills above the valley in which the well lies or go down into it. The descent would be hard on the camels, but nevertheless we decided to make it and camp

on the floor of the wadi. In case of an attack by marauders, we should at least have possession of the water supply. We had been steadily climbing through rough defiles between cliffs of red rock, and suddenly we came out on top of a high cliff with a pleasant wadi of Erdie lying stretched out below us. It is a narrow valley, about ten kilometers long by not more than one hundred meters wide, surrounded by sheer cliffs of red rock. Trees and green grass, after, to the monotonous serira and the bare unfriendly rocks that we have been traversing since Uwanaat suggest all the traditional connotations of the phrase an oasis in the desert. As we approach the well, Muhammad and Harry went forward again to reconnoitre the ground.

The blacks are always cautious when they come to a well. They do not approach it directly, but send a man or two ahead to make sure that if anyone is already there, he is not a stranger or at least not an enemy. So the two guides will not only mark out the path we are to follow, but we'll discover if we need to be on our guard when approaching a well. We picked our way laboriously down the rough path into the valley and pitched camp at its northern end. The well lies at the extreme south,

and there is no way of getting to it safely from above without great risk to the camels except where we came down. A huge meal of rice and freshly baked bread, combined with our pleasant surroundings, made us all cheerful as a wedding party. My anxious thoughts of the previous night seemed now like an absurd nightmare, and yet there was plenty of truth in them. There was often, in the desert, only a hair's breadth between safety and comfort and disaster. After three glasses of stimulating tea, over which we all lingered luxuriously,

The men went off to the well to water the camels and to bring back water for the camp. When they returned, a shave, a bath, and clean clothes restored all my self-respect and confidence, and life seemed very good again. At five in the afternoon I climbed the wall of the valley with the theodolite and took observations. Sir Wally went with Sunusi-Bu Hassan and Arami on a hunt for Waddon, the mountain sheep, but they came back unsuccessful. I asked around me if it were the fault of the sportsmen. Wallahee, by God, no, they shoot straight,

but God was merciful to the Wadden. Night fell on a camp of rested camels and cheerful singing men. I felt I should have none but pleasant dreams tonight. End of Section 17. Section 18 of the Lost Oasis. by Ahmed Muhammad Hassanan. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19, Entering the Sudan.

I got up early in order to open the film box and refill the cameras while it was still cool. At seven, with Muhammad and Hamad, I set out to visit the well. The valley of Erdi is what is known as a carcour, a long, narrow depression in the hills which winds like a snake. It runs to the southward for seven or eight kilometers, ending in a cul-de-sac where the well lies in the shadowy hollow under the rocks. The pool is semicircular in shape, half a dozen meters long and half is broad. The well is like those at Oonaut, although I suspect that in addition to the rainwater, it may possibly be fed by a spring. The approach to it is a rocky and somewhat dangerous climb.

night before, one of the camels bringing water slipped and hurt itself rather badly. We climbed up to the Ayn, had a rest in tea, and rode home under a hot sun. The valley is beautiful, with its sheer walls of red rock and the green grass and trees scattered about below them. Mohamed told me that it is the most difficult valley in this region to enter, and therefore the easiest to defend. In the late afternoon I climbed the valley wall. to watch the fine sunset and the play of the light upon the red sand and the rose-colored

rocks. The men shaved their heads, trimmed their beards, and washed and mended their clothes, which were becoming very tattered. The grazing here just saved our camels, and it was wise to take this day for rest and recuperation. Muhammad and Harry told me that from now on it would not be practicable to travel at night. The country was too hilly to be safe to traverse in the darkness. All the Bedouins gave Muhammad credit for the way he led the camels over the steep rocks into the valley yesterday. In the evening the dog had a fit of barking, and we suspected that someone was near. We quickly put out the fires, gathered the camels together, made ready the rifles, and put sentries out around the camp. But it was a false alarm.

These precautions, like those we take when approaching a well, seem absurd when it is all over and nothing is happened. But in unknown country like this, the caravan did not take them would be very foolish. An attack by hostile tribesmen or outlaws is far from an improbability. Thursday, May 17th.

We were up at four and underway at 5.30. The climb out of the valley was as difficult as the descent, and one camel fell, but fortunately without serious results. As we reached the edge of the wadi, and looked back, I realized the difference between the valleys and these hills and those at Arcanu

and Uwanaat. There, the floor of a valley is on the same level as the plain outside, and one goes into it by a pass, as though through a gateway. In the region we were now in, the valleys are depressed below the general level of the country, and one drops down into them by winding rocky paths. In an hour we were out of the wadi and turned to the southeast. We were in a mountainous country of black and red rocks, and it was clear that we could not travel over such terrain in the dark. At 9.30 we descended into a large valley by a steep path on which two camels stumbled and threw off their loads. One, carrying water, very nearly broke its neck, but the presence of mind of Abdulihi, who drew a knife and cut the girths, saved the situation. The wooden stopper of one of the fantastis came out, and the walled,

water was three-quarters spilled. Fortunately, the next well was only three days ahead, and we had an ample supply for even a longer trek. Such an occurrence as this would have been a disaster if we had been in Adafa, as a long waterless trek between wells is called. On this morning, a serious situation arose suddenly which might have had fatal results, had it not been for two pieces of luck. Ahmed, the cook, who came with me from Egypt, was riding a camel without a bridle. He had asked Hamid, the camelman of Buhalega, to provide a bridle, but the other being wise in the ways of

camels knew better than to do so. It is important that the camels be able to graze at will. They are more in need of food than of guidance. Amid's camel, spying a fine tuft of grass, went directly to it. On the way he passed under a tree. set thickly with thorns. The rider could not escape the sharp projections, and his face was badly torn. An annoyed by the pain, Amad proceeded to curse the camel and the owner of the camels. Hamid instantly retaliated by cursing him and telling him not to curse the noble owner of the animals. I happened to me near, and in my heart I praised the camelman for his loyalty to Bu Helega, his master. came quickly off the camel, his face streaked with blood, and went hotly at Hamid.

Sunusi Bu Hassan, the other Hamid and Saad, the Adjuli, rushed to take the side of their brother Bedoulih. Abdulihi ranged himself beside Ahmed, two Egyptians shoulder to shoulder. I had had experience of such quarrels before, and I quickly looked to see where the rifles were. It was with deep relief that I saw them safely. fastened on the camel's backs. The men had only sticks to fight with, but even so prompt action was necessary before the trouble became more acute. I galloped my horse among the men and pushed him between the two groups of combatants, brusquely ordering Ahmed and Abdullahi to stand back. It was a most difficult moment, with one side of my own men and the other the men of my caravan.

Sunusi Bu Asan and Hamid looked back, and for a flicker of a second I saw a moment. I saw a side of my own men. I saw their eyes rest on the slung rifles. One word of encouragement from me to the other party would have meant disaster, for the Bedouins outnumbered us. On the other hand, it was not the time, even if my own men were in the wrong, to humiliate them before the Bedouins. What do you mean by behaving like children? I demanded impartially of the men on both sides. Men like you ought to be ashamed. Hamid started to speak. He insulted me. Ahmed interrupted him. Amid interrupted him. He attacked me as I came off my camel. I don't care who insulted whom or who attacked whom, I declared sharply.

You are all my men, and it is a shame to have you behave like a batch of children. Just then Zerwali came up. I turned to Abdulihi and then to Sunusi Bu Hassan. And you older men, instead of bringing peace, actually take part in this disgraceful quarrel, I said severely. Perhaps I made a mistake. I should have chosen men for my caravan and not boys. By this time both parties had begun to cool down

and to lose their tense look of men about to spring to the attack. Zirwali, who probably expected me to take the side of my compatriots, Abdullah and Ahmed, was disarmed and did the unexpected thing. Put Hamid on the ground, he ordered the slave Farage. I will beat him with my whip. In a flash the stalwart Farage laid him. Hamid unceremoniously on the ground and pinned him there with his knee. Before I could interfere, Zerwali's whip descended twice. But by that time I had dismounted and caught Sir Wally's arm.

This is no matter for punishment, I asserted. We don't know who is to blame. I shall inquire into the matter and punish with my own hands the man who has proved guilty. Turning to the man I commanded, follow the camels. To Muhammad and Harry, who had kept tactfully out of the affair, I gave the order, lead the way, pointing with my stick. All moved off, and I walked alone, trying to preserve for their benefit my expression of stern disapproval. Sir Wallet gradually edged nearer to me and spoke deprecatingly. The bay is not angry over what has happened, he questioned. God knows when I got up this morning there was something weighing heavy on my heart.

I felt sure that something unpleasant was going to happen. My feeling was reflected in your salutation to me. I realized that I also had an uncanny feeling. There was no reason for it, for everything was going smoothly and well, but still something had oppressed me. In a short while, both parties felt like children who had been naughty. I observed furtive glances stealing toward me from both sides to see if my anger was abated, but I kept my stern countenance until luncheon.

Those who have traveled in the desert and know the Bedouins will realize what a serious possibility this incident contained. A single harsh word interpreted as an insult means shooting if guns are close at hand. If both men had had their rifles, and if I had been some hundred yards away, as was generally the case, there would almost certainly have been bloodshed. The Bedouins would probably have killed Ahmed and Abdullahi out of hand. Then what could I have done as an Egyptian, but avenged the killing of my countrymen at whatever cost to myself. How lucky it was that the rifles were lashed to the camels and that I was close at hand.

We are getting near the end of our journey, said Zirwali. The men are always quarrelsome then. By the time this dangerous incident was over, the sun was very hot, and we camped in the valley in the shade of some fine trees. The camels had good grazing while we ate to, and rested. Before we started in the afternoon, Muhammad, Sunusi-Bu-Hasan, Bukara, and Hamid, the camelman,

came to ask me to forgive Hamid for having let his anger get the better of him with Ahmed. I pardoned him readily, and he went to Ahmed and kissed his head. Ahmed returned the compliment, and then the quarrel was ended in the best Bedouin tradition. We made our way down the Big Valley for three hours in camp near its mouth at 7.15, Shortly before halting, we saw ahead of us the distant hills of Aga, where the next well lay. The ground before us was flat Sarira, and it was a relief to see it. On this morning, when we were going down into the valley, it looked as if all our baggage would be in bits if there were more of these precipices. In places, the descent was so rough that for the safety,

we had to unload the camels. The men had to carry the baggage down the steep rock, often a drop of three feet from boulder to boulder. The new moon had risen as we camped. The next day was Byram, a feast marking the end of Ramadan, and Zirwali came to say that the men would like to feast according to our Muslim custom. I willingly agreed, since the Agha hills were in sight before us, and the water supply was ample. Besides, the excellent grazing in this valley would do the camel's good. We all rose early the next day, Friday, May 18th, and put on clean clothes for the feast day.

We exchanged good wishes and followed them with the prayers appointed for Byram. There was a look on every face as a man who are thinking of those left behind at home. I produced a few Medjides and Egyptian notes and distributed them. The coins went to Muhammad, Harry, Hassan, and Arami, who were to leave us before we reached the territory where Egyptian notes are current. The rest got the notes, which they would be able to use at Elfashir. To Zawali, I gave 20 rounds of revolver ammunition and a bottle of scent. Another bottle of scent was divided among the men. Bukar received one of my pipes and tobacco to go with it, and he declared that he did not know what to do to return all the kindness I had shown him.

I have only my camel in the clothes on my back, he said. He is given me. He is given me. me the value of my camel in tobacco. It was a cheerful camp at breakfast. The men were pleased with their gifts, and I enjoyed their satisfaction. After breakfast, we all lay down for a siesta, but got up again promptly our bodies itching furiously from the assaults of white ants. At 5.45 p.m., we made our start, and a half hour later emerged from the valley upon the serira. In front of us lay a chain of hills running east and west, in the middle of which was Jebel Eastlinga, and to the right of it, Jebel Aga, to which we were going. Harry said that there was a well also in Jebel Eastlinga, but that it was difficult to get at. The valley where we had camped was marked by trees on the east side of the

entrance to it. It was a hot day, and we moved slowly for six hours when we reached a belt of sand dunes which stopped our progress for the night. Saturday, May 19th. We started at 5.15 a.m. and made our final halt at 8 p.m. There was a hot northeast wind from the hills which dropped in the evening. We traveled over soft sand, very undulating, covered with dry grass. As we approached the hills, the country became flatter with patches of small black stone. The sun got hot quickly in the morning and a hot wind was blowing, and so we camped at half-past nine in the shade of a tum-tum tree. Its protection was welcome, and its bunches of red berries made an attractive pattern over our heads. We started again at 3.30, in spite of the heat, with a hope of reaching the hills of Aga before dark. The camels had to be beaten in order to get them away from the shade of the tree and into the hot sun. By 7.30, we were at the foot of the hills, with a slim moon just coming up. Muhammad suddenly raised the alarm.

he had found the fresh tracks of two men leading toward Murdi. A stranger in the desert is an occasion for vigilance until he proves to be not unfriendly. Rifles were quickly unsung. The oil rags were stripped from their breeches and cartridges shoved in. The men collected the camels, which were scattered out grazing, and Muhammad, Harry, and Sunusi Bouhasaan went forward to the valley to reconnoiter. After a careful search, they came back to report that there were no tracks leading into the valley,

but that there were fresh tracks leading out of it. We made camp at the entrance, keeping clear of trees and vegetation in case anyone approached in the night. We ate dinner rapidly and extinguished our campfire. The camels and gerbas were put in the center of the camp, and the luggage arranged around its edge. Four sentries were posted for the night,

and we went to bed. But sleep was difficult because of the oppressive heat, and the suspense. Early on the Sunday morning, we got up and approached the valley cautiously. We came across fresh tracks of sheep and men and were convinced that someone had a camp in the valley. Muhammad and Harry went ahead as the inhabitants of this district were Goran and no one else spoke their language. They soon returned with three Gorans. I met them and we solemnly went through the ceremony of giving and receiving the Amman. We advance toward each other and lay whatever weapons we might be carrying,

sword or rifle, on the ground. I addressed them in the time-honored phrases. I swear by God that we are peaceful, men, that we wish you no harm, and that we have no intention of robbing you. One of them did the same in his turn, and we indulged in brief questions and answers on each side. Who are you? do you come, whither are you going, on what business? Then we shook hands formerly,

each took up as weapon, and both sides retired. We tried to buy sheep from them, but they refused to sell. In a short time they went away and returned with three sheep, which they offered as Diofa, refusing to accept any money for them. I gave them at Kia's of blue cloth as a return courtesy, with which they were delighted. The camels were sent off to the well to drink and bring back water for the camp, while the men busied themselves with the preparations for a great feast of meat. In the afternoon I took photographs and in the evening made observations. The electric torch which I used in reading the theodolite first frightened the Goran boys

and then delighted them. The valley of Agha is very picturesque, a long, narrow defile between high cliffs with more vegetation and trees than we had seen thus far. Halfway down its length it divides, one branch leading southwestward to the well and the other southward toward the open desert. The well is similar to that at Erdye, but its water is badly fowl by sheep and camels.

The valley is full of birds whose pleasant songs make one think one is at the aviary in the zoo. We were up while it was dark and the stars were still shining in the clear sky. The Gorin came to say goodbye. Arami and Hassan had declined to go further south and left us to return to Oenot with the Rami's camel. We found our way down the eastern fork of the valley, its steep sides protecting us from the sun. On the way we sighted three gazelles, and some of the men gave chase, but the nimble animals climbed the hills and escaped. Hamid, the Zawaiya fired at one and missed, to the scornful delight of the others.

Hamid, however, refused to admit complete failure. By God, he stoutly maintained, I hit it. I saw the blood spurt. It did not matter so much, however, as we still had meat left from the diaphah of the gornon. It quickly got too hot for comfort, and the camels, fresh from drinking, refused to go on. We camped in the shade of a tree, but soon discovered that better protection from the sun was to be had in crevices in the rock. The camels were allowed to graze, and the men settled down to prepare the midday meal. Two sheep were slaughtered, and their flesh, impaled on sticks, was slowly revolved before the fire to roast in the Bedouin fashion. It was delicious. While the meat was being prepared,

sod cut his hand, I saw the blood and asked where it came from. From Hamid's gazelle, said Bukhara, and once more the shouts of laughter went up over the unsuccessful hunter. After lunch, I wound my watches, recorded the readings of the aneroid in the maximum and minimum thermometers, and wrote up my diaries, when Hamid the camelman came running to say that a herd of ostriches was nearby. We all grasped our rifles and stood ready. Soon the ostriches appeared, 30 or 40 in number. The Bedouins were impatient and opened fire while the distance was too great. The ostriches dashed off into another valley with the men in hot pursuit.

Many shots were fired, but Sir Wally soon came back to say that nothing had been killed. In a little while, Hamid appeared carrying a small ostrich and followed by Sunusi-Bu Hassan. Both men claimed to have shot the creature, and since there were two bullet wounds in it, either of which might have been fatal, they appealed to me for judgment. I asked the opinion of the men who saw the shooting and all agreed that Hamid's shot fell to bird. I decided in his favor. Later, Hamid, the camelman,

small and sharp of features and afraid of no animals, not even snakes, came upon an ostrich in a closed part of the valley, and after attacking it unsuccessfully with stones, rushed at it and caught it around the neck. He wrestled with it manfully, but it landed a kick on his side from one of its powerful legs and ran away. I was watching the contest through my binoculars and nearly split my sides with laughter.

The ostrich mounted a ridge, looked back scornfully at Hamid, who stood cursing it, arranged its feathers and trotted off with the gate of a gay dowager, leaving him with his hand pressed to his maltreated side. As the ostrich hurt you, I asked solicitously, when he returned. Oh no, he replied, quickly taking his hand from his side. Why didn't you bring it back then? I asked again. I had to let it go, he explained with great plausibility. She was only a female. One of my great regrets on this trek was that I was unable to follow game as I would have liked to. The night marches between Uanat and Erdi left

me too exhausted in the morning to do anything but record the readings of my scientific instruments and try to snatch two or three hours sleep before it was too hot. Then our food supply began to get less and less. I could not stay at Aga where there were plenty of gazelles, ostriches, and wild sheep. Besides, the scarcity of water made me lose no time there, where the well had been so fowled by animals. An old Egyptian army martini and an Italian cavalry carbine which I was given at Kufra, handy as they would have been for self-defense,

were of little use for long-range work on game, especially gazelle. Hunting, therefore, was a diversion, which I had to deny myself. It was very hot, and we could not start until 5 p.m. We followed the lovely valley for an hour, and then began to climb the hills. As we got to the top,

we had a fine view of its beauties, all the various shades of green of the trees and shrubs, making picturesque patterns with a rosy sand and the redder rocks of the hills guarding the valley. The soft notes of innumerable doves floated up on the cool evening breeze. A gorgeous red and gold sunset completed an ensemble not easy to forget. I stopped my horse and spent a pleasant half-hour lying on a patch of soft sand, drinking in the delights of this little bit of paradise. It soon grew dark.

The Crescent Moon showed herself, and far away I heard the Bedouins of my caravan singing. Reluctantly I rose and took the track again. We were soon in different country, broken and very undulating, with distant jagged hills surrounding us. The camels were suffering from the foul water of Aga, and so were the men. We camped early, both on this account, and because it is dangerous country to travel by the weak moonlight. We dropped into a soft sand valley about 200 meters from our route and camped. We got up with the stars still in the sky on Tuesday, May 23rd, and made our start with a gorgeous sunrise on our left hand.

We moved slowly because of the thick shrubs and scattered stones, and also because Muhammad and Harry had not been in this country for ten years, and were picking their way cautiously. Muhammad is writing, I suppose, I said to Hamad, the camelman, as I walked in my favorite place behind the caravan, or we would not be moving so slowly. The gray-haired man is walking, Obe, said the shrewd fellow quickly. His track is on the ground. Once more I was impressed with a keen observation of the Bedouins, especially the camelman. Hamid had already learned the characteristic footprints that each man of the caravan leaves.

Of course he knew the track of each camel also. On Wednesday, we were up much earlier than usual in our anxiety to reach the well of Inaba. The water of Agha was the worst we had yet tasted, and it was having its effect on both men and camels. A three-hour trek brought us to the edge of the valley in which the well lay. We dropped down into it, and discovered from tracks of sheep, donkeys, and men that the place was inhabited. Muhammad went forward to meet the men who lived there and gave and received the Amman. And soon we were camped by the well. The water was excellent.

Animals and men both enjoyed the change. There was quite a large Bidiat camp here with hundreds of sheep and a few horses for the sheiks. Presently the whole population led by the sheiks came to greet us. I shook hands with them and distributed scent, putting a little on the hand of each one. In the afternoon they brought sheep as Diafa, and the women, who have a keen business sense, produced Sam, butter, and leather to sell to us. We gave them medidese and cloth in exchange. In the evening I took observations. The Bidiats were frightened at the theodolite and the electric torch, and their suspicions were aroused. One of the sheiks entered my tent and caught me

opening the instrument case. I shut the case quickly. and instantly realized my mistake. I could see in his dark, cruel face, with yellow eyes like those of a fox set close together, that he believed I had gold in the box. As he left my tent, I ostentatiously ordered Sunusi-Bu Hassan

and Hamid to stand as sentries in the camp. I pointed to them and told the sheik not to allow the women and children to approach the camp at night, lest my men might mistake and shoot at them. It was just a hint that we were wide awake and that there was no hope of catching us off our guard. I could see that the hint went home. End of Section 18.

Section 19 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanan. This Libra-Box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 To Furawiya on short rations The valley of Ennabah was covered with soft sand, dotted with shrubs both green and dry, and with trees. I had a good night's rest and was awakened by the hubbub of the Bidiat woman bargaining with the men of my caravan for empty tins. They offered a kind of dry shrub that they called tobacco and milk in return. Five more sheep were brought as Diofa, and more presents were distributed.

Encouraged by a cool southeast wind, we started at 3.15 p.m., but the wind soon dropped, and we made slow progress in the heat. The evening was cooler, however, and we made up a little for lost time. The night was cold. On Friday, May 25th, we were up at 4 and started an hour and a quarter later. The country was very undulating and broken, and Harry was not sure the way. We moved slowly because of the difficulty of the going and the uncertainty of the guide. Shortly after nine, we dropped into a valley and camped an hour later. Sunusi-Bu Hassan, who was walking beside me, gave expression to his opinion of the guide and his Bedouin pride.

Those Goran wobble about like camels, he said, they do not walk like Bedouins who fly straight to their goal like birds. When we took the road again in the end, afternoon, the sun was still very hot. The camels moved slowly, and the bend's singing sounded like broken bagpipes. It was perhaps as well that we were compelled to move slowly, for Harry was more uncertain to the way than ever. Some of the time we followed the track left by a flock of sheep going presumably toward bow, but at intervals it was lost in the tracks of broken stones. A little after five, we dropped into a big valley who's

name we discovered later to be Konamina, running east and west, and filled with fine trees. Just before reaching it, we met a Goran with a few sheep. He came up to me, dropped his sword and spears on the ground, and took off his sandals. We shook hands with many ejaculations of Keefhalak, Tayabin, how are you? Very well. It was all the Arabic he knew. Muhammad and Harry then talked with him and learned that there was a Goren camp in the valley before us. A cattle merchant had also just arrived from Fada and Wadai with sheep and cows on his way to El Fashar. Mohamed and Harry left us and approached the few straw-thatch tuts that constituted the Goren camp. We went across the valley and camped on its farther rim. Soon a man came running to ask us to return to the camp and start again

the next day. I appreciated the hospitable suggestion, but felt that we could not afford to retrace our steps even for two or three kilometers. I thanked him for the invitation and told him that we were in a great hurry. We should camp nearby to wait for our two guides. An hour later, Muhammad appeared, full of news from Fada and Alfasher, obtained from the merchant. We were busy that evening overhauling our baggage and repairing damages. All the ropes were getting worn in the Bedouin woolen bags, too. We had been losing much time on the way with reloading and shifting things about, but it was a consolation to know that in a fortnight we should be an Elfasher. We had the most beautiful sunrise on May 26th that I have seen. The brilliant white light on the

red and black stones nearby and the distant hills made everything wonderfully clear, and distinct. Soon it changed to a warm red glow, and then the golden rays of the sun broke through the thin clouds and flooded everything. The long shadows cast by the rocks and shrubs on the ground look like black stenciling on the yellow sand. The shadows of the slowly moving caravan made a fantastic pattern. It soon proved to be an oppressively close morning. Harry joined us later in the afternoon with the slaughtered sheep slung on a each side of his camel, the Diofa from the Goren camp. We followed sheep and camel tracks and marched from one valley into another until we camped in one of the largest of them, which had many shady trees.

It is always a problem whether to stop under the shade of a tree and suffer the attacks of white ants and all sorts of sinister-looking insects, or pitch-tent in the broiling sun. In the future, I shall be inclined to take my chance in the open, as the insects. As the insects, insects are always with you, while the sun's heat is over by five or six in the afternoon. The valley in which we camped is called Kapturku. We started again at four with a southeast breeze that made walking not so tedious. There were also a few clouds which tempered the heat of the sun. The camels walked better.

In the late afternoon we passed a Goren family, a man, wife, a naked child, and later we found a well. It was seven meters deep and had good water, though the roots of a nearby tree had rotted in it, giving it an unpleasant odor. We camped at eight, fortunately in a clear space, free from shrubs and stones. At one in the morning, a hyena visited the camp, and had it not been for the vigilance of Hamid, the camelman,

it might have got Baraka, who was tied at night, and therefore unable to defend himself. Hamid fired at it impulsively, and with my glasses I saw a dark object running far away in the brilliant moonlight. Sunday, May 27th. Start at 5.15 a.m., halt at 9.15 a.m. Start again at 3.45 p.m. Halt at 7.45 p.m. Make 30 kilometers. Highest temperature, 38 degrees, lowest, 7 degrees. Fine, clear, and calm in the morning. At midday, strong hot southeast wind, which drops in the afternoon. Few white clouds, warm and calm in the evening. Very cloudy with a few drops of rain at 10 p.m.

Valleys of soft sand as before with low sandstone hills 20 to 80 meters high. Patches of the same stone crop out through the sand. Harry proved himself a bad guide. He predicted that we would reach bow this morning. but when night came we were not yet there. He knew the places when he saw them, but his sense of direction was faulty. Our water had given out, except for one last Gerba,

and it was very hot. We marched until 7.45 when we reached rocky ground, dangerous for the camels, even in the clear moonlight. We were on the edge of a large valley, which Harry declared to be that about, but we could not believe him. Experience had taught me not to permit the last of the water supply to be used until we had not only seen the well, but approached it to make sure that there was drinkable water there.

I insisted that the last Gerba should not be touched that night. We went to bed without dinner since we could not cook without water. There was, however, the consolation of a beautiful night. I lay in bed watching the play of the moonlight on the clouds. A few drops of rain announced the approach of the rainy season. We were as stir early. Empty stomachs do not encourage long sleep. We drove the camels as we had not driven them before.

How tired they looked and how weak. When camels and men are hungry and thirsty, all the other defects in the caravan come out. There was no singing that morning, merely silent, relentless, urging forward of the camels and ourselves. The descent into the valley was steep and dangerous. Three camels threw off their loads, which had to be carried by the men down to the level ground and loaded again. At last we saw a few sheep and a straw hut or two. We stopped and I let the men drink the water from the last Gerba,

for which they had asked many times that morning. Harry and Muhammad went ahead and made their way to the huts. The caravan, meanwhile, moved directly down the valley toward the well. Soon some blacks of the Goran and Bidiat tribes came to meet us. We fired our rifles as usual, as if in salutation, but in reality to impress the natives with our preparedness.

I noticed that by a curious coincidence those who met us, men and women, were all old. There was not a single young person among them, especially no young woman. However, it did not strike me as extraordinary, but a little later I was surprised to see batches of slim and beautiful girls, brown or black, half naked in their tattered clothes, holding themselves gracefully erect.

As they came along in groups of three or four, I turned to Bukhara and asked, From where are these girls? Bukhara looked at them with great admiration and replied, Alla be great, these are the girls of the village. They thought we were going to rob the village. and take away the young girls as slaves, so they sent them out to hide as soon as they cited our caravan. Now that the men know that we are a peaceful caravan,

they have sent word to the girls to come back. As the girls passed my horse, they shyly dropped on their knees in a salutation, as is the custom there when addressing a person of higher rank. In this part of the world, when one is addressed by some more exalted person, the etiquette is not to stand up, but to sit down in token of reverence. When after another, these girls dropped to their knees,

and in return I gave them the usual Arab blessing. May God's peace be upon you, and his mercy and blessings. As they rose again, the girls bashfully turned to look at my company of admiring Bedouins. We camped at the end of the valley near the well. An hour later, the sheikh of the camp came to greet us. We discussed the roads to El Fasher and the direction to be followed. Here Harry looked thoughtful and sad. This was close to his own country,

for we were across the frontier of French Wadai now. He had thrown away his rights and run away from the French, leaving all his property and relatives, and gone to the solitary oasis of Uwanaat to live in self-inflicted exile. We were getting into a different kind of country. There were many more varieties of birds, including crows, owls, parrots, doves, and others whose names I do not know. In the night, a lioness had killed two donkeys, and some of the natives captured one of its

young and sent its skin to fata to be sold. There are several score of blacks of the Goran and Bidiat tribes at Bowl. The women are graceful creatures, clothed with the utmost simplicity. Their dress is either a length of cloth wound skillfully around the body, with a narrow strip of cloth for a belt and which has carried a small knife or a sheepskin wrapped around the lower part of the body. Their hair is arranged in small plates. They wear ornaments of silver and ivory, heavy rings in their hair, and bead in amber necklaces. Young girls wear only an apron of cloth or leather. The men have splendid physique, go naked except for a loin cloth, and carry two or three spears, a sword, and a throwing knife. Only sheiks wear white robes and, and, and, and, you guys wear white robes,

large turbines. We gave the women and children macaroni, but they refused to eat it. Instead, they threaded the pieces on strings and made necklaces, which they wore proudly. The business instinct of the Bedouins at once displayed itself. They made necklaces from our little store of macaroni, and exchanged them for butter and leather. Harry and Muhammad were to leave us here. They did not care to venture further south. I had some difficulty in finding the a guide to take us to Furrowia, but at last succeeded. A sheep was brought to us as Diafa, and we dined early on Tuesday, intending to make a prompt start in the morning. The guy did not present himself, and I began to feel that the Midiat were suspicious of my caravan. At 11 p.m., he appeared, however,

and I immediately woke the man and set them to loading the camels before he had any chance of changing his mind. Wednesday, May 30th. at 1 a.m., halt at 8.30 a.m. Start again at 4.15 p.m. Halt at 7.15 p.m. Make 40 kilometers. Highest temperature, 36 degrees. Fine and clear, strong and dusty southeast wind. The wind changes to northeast in the afternoon and drops in the evening. Country same as before except flatter and with no large valleys and no big trees. At 8.15 a.m., across a small wadi running east and west. When we started at one o'clock, there was a beautiful moon, which made it as clear as in daylight.

Harry and Muhammad started with us as they wished to give the impression to the men of bow that they were going with us to El Fasher. Otherwise, they feared that they might be waylaid. In an hour we had climbed out of the valley. We halted to say goodbye to the two guides who were going to travel only by night on their way back to Uanat to avoid detection. As I stood a little apart from the caravan in the moment of farewell to them, I realized that the difficulties through which we had come had drawn us close together. Muhammad was tall, erect with a piercing eye and an interesting illustration of the self-assurance that life in the desert gives

and the fatalistic resignation with which one accepts whatever comes. Harry was a gentle manner, unassuming old man, with a benign smile and charming manners. There was unquestioned dignity in his movements in spite of an injured left foot, which he had to drag when he walked. He was a prince by nature. This was not merely a parting of companions of the trek, but a symbol of the old, having run the race, pointing the onward road to the young.

We all forgot that I was head of the caravan and they my guides. Harry put his hands on my shoulders and spoke with feeling in his voice. May God bless you, give you strength, he said. There is your road. He pointed to an opening in the distant hills. I murmured a few words in a voice I could scarcely trust not to tremble and turned away to my caravan.

The two dignified but somehow pathetic figures, both exiles from their own land, faded away in the moonlight. We halted at dawn for our morning prayers, and at 8.30 to camp for the day. There were tracks of lions about. We started again early in the afternoon, but the men were tired, having had little sleep the previous night, and we marched only three hours. The sheep, which had been given us, escaped, and in the moonlight, Hamid and Saad went after it, bleeding like sheep themselves to attract it, but with no success.

Thursday, May 31st. Start at 3.45 a.m., halt at 8.45 a.m. Start again at 3.30 p.m. Halt at 7.30 p.m. Make 36 kilometers. Highest temperature, 37 degrees, lowest 5 degrees. Fine, clear and calm. Southeast wind in the afternoon, which changed to northeast and dropped toward evening. Calm evening and night, with full moon and a few white clouds. An uneventful day. Shortly after an early start on Friday, June 1st, the guide got sleepy and lost his head. We were soon traveling due west instead of southeast. I did not interfere until we stopped for morning prayers at five, but then I asked him quietly if he had intended to march to the westward. He was surprised, but admitted frankly his error. Fortunately, we had not been going wrong for long.

At 6.30, we passed a hill called Tamira, on which stood a dry tree marking the boundary between Wadai and the Sudan. From the boundary post, we dropped into Wadi Hawar, a large valley full of big trees, which is said to extend westward to Wadai and eastward toward the Sudan. In Wadai, it is called Wadi Hawash. The soil in the wadi is very fertile, and the men from Wadai and Darfur come to it in the autumn for grazing. We camped here for the midday halt and found tracks of giraffe. In the afternoon, we walk through high dry grass as though through a great field of ripe corn. The men of the caravan were getting worn out, all the more as clothing was tattered, shoes at the last gasp, and to add to our inflictions we had much trouble with Hashcanit,

a small, very hard, hook thorn which grows on a low bush and attaches itself to whosoever brushes against it, when it is extremely difficult to extract. I heard Bukara describing to Hamid a giraffe and an elephant. The giraffe, he said, has the head of a camel, the hoofs of a cow, and the hind quarters of a horse. His word picture of the elephant was grotesque and much exaggerated to impress the man from the north. We made a very early start on Saturday, June 2nd, to make sure of reaching for a wea that day. At 5 a.m., we passed, on our right, the landmark of Hagar Kamara Ra, 10 kilometers away, and an hour later passed another

Hagar Urdu, a hill about 80 meters high and 200 meters long. Hagar is the Sudanese word for gara, or small hill. Then we started dropping into the valley of Forawiya. It was the largest valley and the most inhabited that we had come across. Its people are Zagawa and a few Bidiat. We camped at nine near Bidiat camp and soon heard the distressing news that no food was to be obtained at Furoia. This was contrary to my expectation. I made haste to find a messenger to take a letter to the governor of Darfur at El Fasher, asking him to send me provisions and cloth to clothe my men,

who were in rags. After much hesitation, caused apparently by fear of my men, the Zagawa-shek of a camp nearby came, driven by curiosity, to visit us. He was under the Sudanese government, and I pounced on him and offered him three pounds to take a letter from me to Savil Pasha, governor of Darfur. It was liberal pay, and in addition I threatened him with much unpleasantness should he hesitate or refuse. I told him he must start at dawn the next day. After murmuring something about having no animal to carry him, he went away and soon returned to say that he would take by letter to El Fasher. He intended to go on horseback.

This was good news, for we had had no sugar for three weeks and had been obliged to sweeten our tea as best we could with pounded up dates. Flower and rice had also given out, and a scanty diet of macaroni prepared with bad water is very monotonous. I moved the camp near to one of the wells in the valley and tried to buy a sheep to cheer up my men,

but it was getting dark, and none of the inhabitants came near our camp. We watered the camels and settled down for the night, not very well satisfied with life. I was suddenly surprised to hear my men singing, and apparently as cheerful as though they had had a good meal. I called Zerwali and Bukhara over and asked them what was the singing about

when there was no sugar and little food and things were generally disagreeable. We can breathe now, answered Zerwali. We have entered the Sudan and feet, ourselves at last in safety. Were you so fearful then of this journey we have made, I asked? At Kufra, all our relations said we were walking to our fate when we took this road, explained Bukhara. Your fates are written, they said to us, but may God protect you. We wondered if

perhaps they might not be right. You heard at Kufra, said Zerwali, how some people offered you encouragement to take this route, while many advised against it. Those who favored it were malicious man who simply hoped that they would never see you again. It was then also that Zerwali, who, now that we were nearing the end of the trip, felt himself more free to talk, told me that the houses of Sadaida and Jehelot of the Zouyehra had strongly resented my second visit and held a meeting to discuss the best means of either destroying the caravan or preventing me from coming back. Then I realized what pluck it had taken for these men to come with me by the strange and unknown way without a murmur of protest. I was proud of them. At 2 a.m., Hamid, who was acting as a sentry, woke me to say that the messenger had arrived and was ready to take my letter to El Fasher. Two letters were all written and ready under my pillow, one to Seville Pasha and the other to the officer in command at Kutum, the outpost on the way to El Fasher.

asking him to make sure that my letter to Elfasher reached its destination. I was glad the messenger had come so early. The sooner we got new supplies, the happier we should all be. I promised him a few extra dollars if he would deliver the letter to Elfasher in four days. I bade him a very warm Godspeed and watched him right off in the moonlight on quite a strong, if ragged-looking horse. End of Section 19. Section 20 of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Mohammed Hassanian.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 21, Journey's End Sleep came slowly to me that first night in Furrowia. I was excited, as I had not been since saying goodbye to Lieutenant Bather at Sollum and beginning the journey. Now I was in touch again with the outside world. and the journey was really over, even though it would still be a month or more before I could exchange my caravan for other methods of travel. The lost oases of Arcanu and Oonaut were no longer lost, and if my observations proved to be as accurate as I hope they were, a good map could now be made of

this strip of the Libyan desert from Jalo to Furorua. Wea spent three full days at Furroweia getting used to the damp climate we had come into and trying to get enough to eat to keep us from feeling miserable. Dark clouds hovered over our heads much of the time and every day it rained. My men gorged themselves with mutton, but the lack of sugar for the tea

and other provisions rather took the edge off their enjoyment of these feasts. On June 6th, we started south in the afternoon and climbed slowly out of the valley. We passed many flocks of sheep and cattle going home, followed by slim girls and boys clad in nothing but a loincloth or strings of beads. It was quite different from the desert we had come through. We were following a beaten track and passing frequently small villages of straw huts, women carrying ha'tab, and other signs of habitation.

Near one of the villages, I told the caravan to go ahead and pointed out to them where we would camp. I followed with my horse. There were a few points of interest geographically, and I had to take some observations. As I was nearing the camp, I heard the voices curiously upraised, a mixture between men wailing and singing.

My first thought was that some of the men of the caravan had got into trouble with the natives. I spurred on my horse, and as I was approaching the camp, my mind was relieved, for I heard the tom-tom-of-the-drum and women's voices singing, It was just after sunset, and in the dusk I could not distinguish clearly the crowd that was moving toward me, but soon one of my men came rushing up to tell me that they had had the most cordial

reception from the men and women of the village who insisted on coming out to receive the sheikh of the caravan. He had hardly broken this news to me when a bevy of young girls, some singing, others dancing, surrounded my horse, who responded as befitted a bed of bed. horse and started prancing. The women raised Lulias, and I was urged by my Bedouins to empty gunpowder. The crowd made way for my horse, and I walked him off a short distance, turned around, came rushing back and pulled him up dead. By that time I had got out my rifle, and as my horse stopped dead, I fired my shot in Bedouin fashion at the feet of the first row of beautiful damsels. They were half frightened and half delighted.

Then six of them surrounded the horse, circling round me and gave me the shabal. That is to say, with a sudden twist of the head, they whirled their tresses toward me, as a woman of Southern Europe might throw a rose. In response, I put my finger on each girl's forehead, and holding my rifle high in the air, twirled it around her head, crying, Abshir Bill Keir, rejoicing. and the bounty of God. We then formed ourselves into a procession and proceeded to the camp. The moment they saw me coming, surrounded by all those girls, the Bedouins fired in the air in honor of

the occasion. The Bedouin is very chivalrous, and such is his idea of honoring the ladies. Afterward, I distributed scent to all the girls who went away very happy, and it was a most cheerful evening in the camp. The next day we reached Umburo, 38 kilometers from Furoia. We camp near the well, and the next morning I was awakened early by sounds of cattle and sheep coming to water. An hour later, a busy market was being held alongside our camp. We had unwittingly pitched our tents close by the big tree that marked the center of the marketplace. Only women took part in the market, bringing butter, leather, mats, maize, cotton, and salt, which they bartered with each other without the use of money. Meanwhile, the men lay about at their ease and did nothing.

As I watched such a scene as this, and others not unlike, in the villages of the Sudan, I found myself wondering whether the black women were not, after all, better office slaves in a Bedouin household. Here they do all the work that has done, carrying for cattle and sheep, doing the housework, and preparing meals and making the favorite beverage Marissa for their men, carrying on the business of the market, everything. As slaves, they would have only certain circumscribed duties and some opportunity for leisure. As I turned this over in my mind, however, I seemed to catch something in the sound of their talk and their laughter that slaves do not have.

Perhaps there is something in the feeling of liberty, after all, even when it is accompanied by drudgery. We stopped at Umburu for two days. Abd al-Raman Jedu, Wakil of Mohamedin, the head of the Sagawa tribe, visited me and brought sheep and chicken as Dayafa. On the second day, we were given an official welcome, the wakil coming with a retinue of retainers on horseback, beating drums.

Mohammedine's family, in the absence of the master of the household, send a lunch of aceta, vegetables, Marissa, and pastry. The next stage of our journey was a five-day trek to Cutham, 129 kilometers to the southward. The weather was generally good, though hot, with an occasional shower. We traveled, as usual, in the early morning and late afternoon. There was a beaten track with fairly good going, through hilly country covered with dry grass and small trees. At intervals there were patches which had been

burnt in preparation for being cultivated. On the third day, my messenger to El Fasher arrived with two companions, but it was a disappointing meeting. It had taken him five days instead of four to reach his destination, and he had not brought the answer to my letter back with him. It was waiting for me, he said, in the possession of a soldier at Mbutarig well, 12-hour's journey from where we were. The soldier also had provisions for us, but they did us little immediate good at that distance. There was little for dinner when we camped that night.

After dinner, I sent our guide off post-haste, with orders to ride all night until he reached Muttarig. There he was to tell the soldier to come to us as fast as he could. We started before four the next morning, morning, and in an hour the men came rushing to me with the news that there was a soldier ahead on a camel. In a few minutes I had a letter from Charles Dupuy, acting governor of Darfur, in the absence of Saville Pasha, who had resigned from the service, and a small supply of rice, flour, teas, and sugar. I was especially pleased to be handed a supply of cigarettes. I had not

smoked since soon after leaving Erdye. At who or not, I had suddenly realized that there were only a few cigarettes left. I then laid down a strict rule for myself, one cigarette a day after dinner. It was hard work, waiting all day for that brief smoke, but it was worth it when the moment came. I would get into a sheltered corner, light the precious cigarette, and shield it carefully from any breath of wind that might make it burn ever so slightly faster. When the few cigarettes were gone, there was nothing left but memories and expectation.

Now, at last, the expectation was gratified with a vengeance, for I smoked until my throat was sore. Bukara, with a handful of the newly arrived cigarettes, put on his long-tasseled red tarbush, got on the guide's horse, and did a little fantasia of joy. But it was when we camped at the government resthouse at Maharig that General Rejoicing broke loose with singing and dancing. The corporal, looking on while the men set the sugar loaf on the ground and executed a wild dance about it, thought us all a little mad. Why all this rejoicing, he demanded?

Because for a month we have had no sugar, and now our tea is sweetened again, said Abdullahi. Until one has tried going without any sugar whatever, one does not realize how keenly it will be missed. The corporal shook his head and smiled, "'I must return at once to cut him and bring you more provisions,' he said. "'We never realized that you were so short of food.' Before he left, he was kind enough to go to a camp nearby and bring us a sheep and butter,

which were to be paid for by the Moowen of Cutum, since a seller refused to accept Egyptian paper money. The corporal then left with letters from me for Mr. Dupuy and the Moowin, the deputy governor of Kudong, The provisions which he had brought us were good as far as they went, but we should very soon be in need of more. I decided to push on at once. We made our midday halt at the government resthouse at Maharigwell

and our stop for the night only a few kilometers farther on. The camels were in very bad condition. The backs and sides of some of them were sore and bleeding, and two camels refused to move until their loads were taken off. It rained for an hour that evening, but it could not dampen our spirits. The men sang and danced around a big fire. The humidity and the smell of the wet grass reminded me of my walks in English country. We made an early start the next morning in order to reach Mouturig well for the midday halt.

We lunched at the resthouse near the well and received a visit from the sheikh of Mouturig, who brought a few chickens as Diofa. He wanted us to stop the night, so he wanted us to stop the night, he could entertain us properly the next day, but I felt the necessity of going on as fast as possible. The camels were getting steadily worse. We had to leave one of them with the sheikh of the village on the understanding that if it recovered, he was to get a quarter of the price it brought when sold. Well, if it died, he was not to be held responsible. An hour and a half after starting the next day, another soldier on horseback appeared. He brought a

letter from the moan of Kutum and a small quantity of rice and sugar. They are gratefully received, for once more we were on short rations and without sugar for our tea. I gave him a letter to take back to Kutum. A little later we camped in the small valley of Boa. In the afternoon, soon after we had started again, it came on to rain with a strong southeast wind, and I thought it might be wise to camp until the storm was over. But through my glasses, I made out ahead of us a row of straw huts of the Marcos,

the government house of Kutum, and spurred on by the sight, we drove the camels faster. Soon a group of horsemen were seen approaching us, and my Bedouins impulsively raised a cheer. When I recognized the uniform of Sudanese troops,

it was the most cheering sight that I had seen for many weeks. Riyad Abu Akla Effendi and Nasser Eldin Shad Afendi, the two Moawins of Qutam, approached with a detachment of ten soldiers, the caddy, the head clerk, and other officials and notables of Qutum. I shook hands warmly with them all, and under their escort, the caravan moved on through the village. As we approached, the Marcoswomen clothed in white and beating drums, greeted us with singing and Lulias. settle ourselves in and about the resthouse, and the women came again to offer greetings.

In a long line, they sang and danced, much to the delight of my Bedouins, who asked permission to empty gunpowder in acknowledgement of the courtesy. I could not refuse my consent, and one by one, beginning with Bukhara, the men performed the ceremony of singeing the girl's slippers. The Sudanese women were not so accustomed to the Bedouin manner of paying homage as the girls of the northern desert, and flinched a little as the powder flashed at their feet. But they accepted it all in good part, the whole line swaying and dancing to the rhythm of the drums, while one of my men singled him out for the slipper-singing honor. It was a wonderful reception, and the pleasure of it dispersed like magic, the fatigue and

lassitude of the journey. More hospitality was to come. Four sheep, butter, and fresh vegetables, to save nothing of sugar were brought to us as Diofa from the Moawans and officials, and we spent a pleasant evening feasting. Our arrival at Kudum at this particular moment had seemed to the inhabitants there an especially auspicious one, for we came with the first reign of the season. We stopped there for two days, entertained generously by the Moawans in the absence of the inspector, Mr. Arkell, who was at Elfashir. One afternoon we attended a soccer match between two teams of soldiers.

It was played with energy, if not finesse. At times, a player, striving to give the ball an especially vigorous kick, would miss it and send his Sudanese slipper shooting high into the air. The camaraderie between officers and men, playing this not exactly gentle game together, was interesting to see. Dinner that night with Riyadh Fendi and Nassar el-Din Offendi, the Mollawens, was the first meal I had eaten in a house since leaving Kufra. My host gave me Egyptian newspapers to read,

the first I had seen in nearly six months. We left Kudum at 6 o'clock in the morning of June 17th, cheered by the generous hospitality we had enjoyed, and the friendly send-off our friends gave us. The two-day's journey to Elmerell, Fasher was a joyride. We all felt the thrill and exhilaration of getting in touch with the world again. But as I went to bed on the 18th, I realized with a stab of regret that this was my last day in the real desert. I thought how I should miss my men and my camels, the desolateness and the beauty,

the solitude, and the companionship. In two words, the desert and its life. I thank God for his guidance across this vast expanse of pathless sand, and found myself adding a prayer half wistfully that I might come back to it again. I had given orders for an early start the next morning. In their eagerness, my men somewhat exaggerated my idea of early, but I was excited myself and did not mind getting underway at half-past two. Three hours march from Melfasher, we camped to make preparations for intercourse, for entering the place. We all shaved and put on our best clothes. Mr. De Pui had sent a supply of

white cloth to cut them for us, and my men were able to appear once more in decent raiment. They crowded around my remnant of a mirror to see how they looked. Rifles were cleaned, and the luggage, which was in a very shabby state, was tidied as much as possible. I wish that I might be able to do something for the camels as well, which were thin and dejected looking. but rest and attention to their sore backs were what they needed, and we had no time were facilities for giving them that. Nevertheless, they too seemed to be infected with a spirit of eagerness felt by all of us and walked forward briskly.

Abdullah and Zerwali got into their silks, and the caravan moved gaily toward its destination. As we reached the outskirts of Elfashire, cheers of rejoicing arose throughout the caravan. A cavalcade of man in khaki was coming toward us. I put spurs to Baraka, and he responded willingly. He saw the horses before us, pricked his ears forward, and dashed toward them. Mr. Dupuy came forward on his horse to meet me, and we shook hands warmly.

The greetings were repeated by the English and Egyptian officers of his staff, and we went on to his house, a part of which he generously made over to me in the men of my caravan. The weary camels were promptly taken in hand by Bimbashi Andas, who gave them food, water, and the medical treatment for their wounds they so much needed. The officer in charge of the wireless station kindly got me the exact Greenwich Time from Paris by radio. I was pleased to discover that my chronometer had lost only 23 minutes and 23 seconds in eight months. For ten days I was a guest of Mr. Dupuis. and was lavishly entertained by the officers and officials of the garrison,

both English and my own compatriots, and the notables of the town. Hospitality was showered upon me, and every kind of assistance that could possibly be needed was eagerly rendered. This was civilization again. I enjoyed once more the luxuries of life, especially vegetables and fruits. It is only when one has gone through the austere regime in the desert that one looks upon these things as luxuries and not necessities. There was, in particular, a brand of prunes,

the pride of Major Smith and of peculiar lusciousness. He called them, if winter comes, and I have never tasted their like anywhere. At last the day came when I must take leave of my companions of the trek from Kufra. When Bukhara and his brother and Hamid and Sunusi Bujibah came, to my room to say goodbye, it was a moment full of real emotion and crowded with memories. These rugged men of the desert burst into tears, and I found my own eyes wet. We had been through thick and thin together and came out fast friends. I could never wish for better companions on a journey into desolate regions, more able, more manly, or more loyal. We read the fatt ha,

the sound of the familiar sacred phrases punctuated by Bukara's sobbing. I exchanged the final hand-clasp with each of them, and we parted to meet one day, I hope, in that desert that I love as much as they. One more camel trek before me eastward to El Obeyed. There I took train for Khartoum, and thence home to Cairo, where I arrived on August 1, 1923. I had been away from home seven months and 23 days, having trekked 2,200 miles across the desert by caravan. I had determined, finally, the position of the Zegan wells and of Kufra on the map of Africa,

in the placings of which there had been hitherto errors of 145 kilometers, respectively. I had also had the great good fortune to put the lost oasis of Arcanu and Uanat, definitely on the map of the Libyan Desert. To AMH. I crave no statue in a public street, nor a page of history to give my name. A desert flower on my winding sheet is all I ask to mark the way I came.

There were no jewels buried in the sand. The treasure that I sought was little worth. I went, but oh, how few will understand, to tread an unworn carpet of the earth. wide spaces called me and the way was free feet falter not upon a road unknown how languish one who looking back can see a thousand miles no footsteps but his own Not a half-a-hundred voyagings for gold could make me rich as many times I've been, when weary-eyed I've watched the dawn unfold and spread soft radiance or a desert scene. Thoughts were my treasure. Where may thoughts be sold? My world was empty, but my world was clean.

G. F. Folly. El Fasher, June 30, 1923. End of Section 20 End of the Lost Oasis by Ahmed Muhammad Hosonian