Arabian Sands

by Wilfred Thesiger

  We were walking behind the camels in the cool stillness of the early morning. Bin Kabina and I were a little apart from the others. He strode along, his body turned a little sideways as he talked, his red loin-cloth tight about his narrow hips. His rifle, held on his shoulder by its muzzle, was rusty and very ancient, and I suspected that the firing-pin was broken. He was always taking it to pieces. He told me that a month earlier he had gone down to the coast to fetch a load of sardines, and on the way back his old camel had collapsed and died. He confessed: ‘I wept as I sat there in the dark beside the body of my old grey camel. She was old, long past bearing, and she was very thin for there had been no rain in the desert for a long time; but she was my camel. The only one we had. That night, Umbarak, death seemed very close to me and my family. You see, in the summer the Arabs collect round the wells; all the grazing gets eaten up for the distance of a day’s journey and more; if we camped where there was grazing for the goats, how, without a camel, could we fetch water? How could we travel from one well to another?’ Then he grinned at me and said, ‘God brought you. Now I shall have everything.’ Already I was fond of him. Attentive and cheerful, he eased the inevitable strain under which I lived, anticipating my wants. His comradeship provided a personal note in the still rather impersonal atmosphere of my desert life.

  Two days later an old man came into our camp. He was limping, and even by Bedu standards he looked poor. He wore a torn loin-cloth, thin and grey with age, and carried an ancient rifle, similar to bin Kabina’s. In his belt were two full and six empty cartridge-cases, and a dagger in a broken sheath. The Rashid pressed forward to greet him: ‘Welcome, Bakhit. Long life to you, uncle. Welcome – welcome a hundred times.’ I wondered at the warmth of their greetings. The old man lowered himself upon the rug they had spread for him, and ate the dates they set before him, while they hurried to blow up the fire and to make coffee. He had rheumy eyes, a long nose, and a thatch of grey hair. The skin sagged in folds over the cavity of his stomach. I thought, ‘He looks a proper old beggar. I bet he asks for something.’ Later in the evening he did and I gave him five riyals, but by then I had changed my opinion. Bin Kabina said to me: ‘He is of the Bait Imani and famous.’ I asked, ‘What for?’ and he answered, ‘His generosity.’ I said, ‘I should not have thought he owned anything to be generous with’, and bin Kabina said, ‘He hasn’t now. He hasn’t got a single camel. He hasn’t even got a wife. His son, a fine boy, was killed two years ago by the Dahm. Once he was one of the richest men in the tribe, now he has nothing except a few goats.’ I asked: ‘What happened to his camels? Did raiders take them, or did they die of disease?’ and bin Kabina answered, ‘No. His generosity ruined him. No one ever came to his tents but he killed a camel to feed them. By God, he is generous!’ I could hear the envy in his voice.

  We rode slowly westwards and watered at the deep wells of Sanau, Mughair, and Thamud. There should have been Arabs here, for rain had fallen, and there was good grazing in the broad shallow watercourses which run down towards the Sands across the gravel plains. But the desert was empty and full of fear. Occasionally we saw herdsmen in the distance, hurriedly driving their animals away across the plain. Some of the Rashid would get off their camels and throw up sand into the air, an easily visible signal and the accepted sign of peaceful intentions. They would then ride over to ask the news. Always it was of the Dahm raiders who had passed westwards a few days before. They were in several parties, returning to then-homelands in the Yemen with the stock they had captured. Sometimes we were told that they were three-hundred strong, and sometimes that they were a hundred; all we knew was that they were many and well-armed. Some Manahil women with a herd of goats told us that forty of them had slaughtered eight of their goats for food three days before. They described how the raiders had lain on the sands and milked the goats into their mouths. These women knew some of the Rashid who were with me and urged us to be careful, but we boasted that we were Rashid, and ‘Ba Rashud!’ (the Rashid war-cry) we were not afraid of the Dahm, who were dogs and sons of dogs. The women answered, ‘God give you victory.’

  It was late one evening. We had watered that day at Hulaiya, and now we were camped on a plain near some acacia bushes, among which our scattered camels were grazing guarded by three men. Half a mile away to the west were limestone ridges, dark against the setting sun. The Rashid were lined up praying, their shadows long upon the desert floor. I was watching them and thinking how this ritual must have remained unchanged in every detail since it was first prescribed by Muhammad, when suddenly one of them said, There are men behind that ridge.’ They abandoned their prayers. ‘The camels! The camels! Get the camels!’ Four or five men ran off to help the herdsmen, who had already taken alarm and were hurriedly collecting the grazing camels. Bin Kabina started towards them, but I called to him to remain with me. We had seized our rifles and were lying behind the scattered loads. A score of mounted men swung out from behind the ridge and raced towards our animals. We opened fire. Bin al Kamam, who lay near me, said, ‘Shoot in front of them. I don4 know who they are.’ I got off five rapid shots, firing twenty yards in front of the racing camels, which were crossing in front of us. The dust flew up where the bullets struck the hard sand. Everyone was firing. Bin Kabina’s three rounds were all duds. I could see the exasperation on his face. He lay a little in front of me to the right. The raiders sought cover behind a low hill. Our camels were brought in and couched. ‘Who were they?’ There was general uncertainty. It was agreed that they were not Dahm or Saar. Their saddles were different. Some said they were Awamir, perhaps Manahil. No, they were not Mahra; their clothes were wrong. A Manahil who was with us said he would go forward and find out. He got up and walked slowly towards the low hill, silhouetted against the glowing sky. We saw a man stand up and come towards him. They shouted to each other and then went forward and embraced. They were Manahil and a little later they came over and joined us. They told us that they were a pursuit party following the Dahm, had seen our camels and had mistaken us for yet another party of Dahm raiders. They had realized their mistake when they heard us shouting to the camel guards, for our voices were not the voices of the Dahm. We had bought a goat that morning, which we had meant to eat for dinner; instead we feasted the Manahil, who were now our guests.

  The Rashid had collected round the fire, anxious to hear the latest news of this raid. Eventually I went to lie down, but it was difficult to sleep, for these excited Arabs were shouting at each other within a few yards of where I lay. They were planning a raid on the Dahm to recover their lost stock. The Rashid and Manahil were allies, and both tribes had suffered much in the last few years from Dahm raiders. Bin al Kamam had explained to me the difficulty of opposing them. In this desert, lack of grazing forced the Bedu to live and move about in widely scattered family groups. Two or three men herding a dozen camels were powerless to resist raiders. All they could do was to escape on the fastest of their animals. They could abandon their women and children, for they knew that the raiders would not harm them. The raiders would pick up a dozen camels here and half a dozen there. They had no chance of making a large haul in one day. They knew that as soon as they had been seen the alarm would spread throughout the desert, and that their enemies, after driving their herds southwards into the more broken country which lay towards the coast, would collect in pursuit. The longer the raiders delayed and the farther they went eastward looking for unsuspecting families, the more certain it was that they would have to fight before they could get home. But bin al Kamam said that it was difficult for the Rashid and Manahil to muster sufficient men to oppose raiders who were two hundred strong. Some of these raids covered a thousand miles and lasted for two months.

  A week later we were in the valley of the Hadhramaut and rode slowly up it to Tarim. I was interested to see this famous valley and these unspoilt Arab cities with their curious architecture. We were lavishly entertained, sitting in cushioned ease in spacious guest-rooms; we ate well-cooked food and drank
water which did not taste of goatskins. My companions, however, were anxious to be gone – they fretted about their camels, which would not eat the lucerne that they were offered. I persuaded them to remain for a few days more, for I was desolate at the thought of parting with them. The privacy for which I had craved while I was with them was there behind a door, but now it was aching loneliness.

  4. Secret Preparations at Salala

  The next year 1 return to Salala

  and make plans to cross the Empty

  Quarter with the help of the Rashid.

  I assemble a party of Bait Kathir

  to take me as far as Mughshin.

  I had no inclination to return to England. I decided instead to go to Jidda, to visit the anti-locust unit, whose headquarters were outside the town, and then to travel in the Hajaz mountains; I had longed for years to visit this little-known corner of Arabia.

  For three months I travelled there, riding a thousand miles, partly on a camel and partly on a donkey, accompanied by a Sharifi boy from the Wadi al Ahsaba. Together we wandered through the Tihama, the hot coastal plain that lies between die Red Sea and the mountains, passing through villages of daub-and-wattle huts reminiscent of Africa. The people here were of uncommon beauty, and pleasantly easy and informal in their manners. We watched them, dressed in loin-cloths and with circlets of scented herbs upon their flowing hair, dancing in the moonlight to the quickening rhythm of the drums at the annual festivals when the young men were circumcised. We stayed with the Bani Hilal, destitute descendants of the most famous of all Arab tribes, in their mat shelters in the lava fields near Birk, and with the nearly naked Qahtan, who bear the name of that ancestor who sired the Arab race, and who live today in the gorges of the Wadi Baish. We visited weekly markets which sprang up at dawn in remote valleys in the mountains, or just for a day packed the streets of some small town. We saw towns of many sorts, Taif, Abha, Sabyia, and Jizan; we climbed steep passes, where baboons barked at us from the cliffs, and lammergeyer sailed out over the misty depths below, and we rested beside cold streams in forests of juniper and wild olive. Sometimes we spent the night in a castle with an Amir, sometimes in a mud cabin with a slave, and everywhere we were well received. We fed well and slept in comfort, but I thought ceaselessly of the desert which I had left, remembering bin al Kamam, bin Kabina, Sultan, and Musallim.

  At last I returned to London, wondering anxiously whether I should be able to persuade the Locust Research Centre to send me back to the Empty Quarter. I knew that my last journey had cost a great deal of money. Would Dr Uvarov think another journey worth while? If not, how should I get back?

  As soon as I arrived in London I went to see him at the Natural History Museum, and, on one of the maps which covered the walls of his office, showed him where I had been. In answer to his questioning I assured him that floods from the coastal mountains very seldom reached the edge of the southern sands. He pointed to the Oman mountains and asked, ‘Do you think that floods from there reach the sands?’ Here was my chance, and I answered, ‘I have no idea but I will go and find out.’ Dr Uvarov said regretfully, ‘I wish you could, but the trouble is we have already asked the Sultan for permission, and he would not hear of it. He was very definite in his refusal. I am sure it will be useless to ask again.’ I said, ‘Ask the Consul in Muscat to get me permission to go to Mughshin, and leave the rest to me, but for God’s sake don’t mention Oman, or indeed anywhere but Mughshin.’ At last Dr Uvarov agreed, and I came out of his office thinking triumphantly, ‘Now I shall be able to cross the Empty Quarter.’ But I was determined to say nothing about my plans. I did not want a journalist to get hold of the story and write an article that might turn up in Muscat and prevent my journey.

  I knew that the Sultan claimed that Mughshin and the Ghanim sands immediately to the north of it belonged to him; but north of Ghanim was the Empty Quarter, to which he laid no claim. Nominally he was Sultan of Muscat and Oman, but in fact the interior of Oman was not under his control. It was ruled by a religious leader known as the Imam, who was hostile to him and fanatically opposed to all Europeans. I realized, because of this, that it would be in Oman that he would be most reluctant to let me travel.

  I arrived back in salala on 16 October 1946. I planned to cross the Empty Quarter from Mughshin to the Trucial Coast, and to return to salala across the gravel steppes at the back of Oman, but I realized that if a hint of my plans reached the Wali he would forbid the Bedu to take me farther than Mughshin. All that I could do was to make arrangements as though that were as far as I intended to go, and hope that when I got there I should be able to persuade some of the Bedu to cross the Sands with me. I therefore agreed with the Wali that the same number of Bait Kathir should accompany me as the year before.

  The Bait Kathir live in the mountains and on the gravel plains to the south of the Empty Only. Quarter one section of the tribe, the Bait Musan, ever enter the Sands, and even they only know the area round Ghanim. Bertram Thomas had made his first attempt to cross the Empty Quarter with Bait Kathir and had been forced to turn back after going a short way. He had succeeded in his second attempt with the Rashid. I knew that if I were to cross the Sands I must get hold of the Rashid.

  One day while buying clothes in the market I met a young Rashid, called Amair, who had been with me the year before. Until I met him I had seen no Rashid in the town and was wondering how to get in touch with them. I knew that Bait Kathir from jealousy would not be willing to help me. After I had greeted Amair I took him aside and asked him to fetch bin al Kamam, bin Kabina, and two other Rashid whom I named. I promised that I would take him with me if he found me the people I wanted. He said that bin Kabina was at Habarut, four days’ journey away. He believed that bin al Kamam had gone to the Yemen to seek a truce for the Rashid with the Dahm. We arranged that he should fetch bin Kabina and meet me at Shisur in ten days’ time. I was now certain that more Rashid than I required would meet me there, as indeed they did.

  While I was talking to Amair, one of the Wali’s slaves came up and told me rudely that I was forbidden to speak to strangers. I answered that Amair was not a stranger and instructed him to mind his own business. He went off muttering. Slaves belonging to men of importance are often overbearing and ill-mannered, trading on their master’s position. Arabs have little if any sense of colour-bar; socially they treat a slave, however black, as one of themselves. In the Hajaz I was sitting in the audience chamber of an Amir who was a relation of Ibn Saud’s, when an expensively dressed old Negro belonging to the king came into the room. After rising to greet him, the Amir seated this slave beside him, and during dinner served him with his own hands. Arab rulers raise slaves to positions of great power, often trusting them more than they do their own relations.

  I left salala on the afternoon of 25 October, with the twenty-four Bait Kathir who were to accompany me. Nearly all of them had been with me the year before. Old Tamtaim was there, and he told me with pride that his wife had just produced a son. I remembered how after a long march he had shuffled round in a war-dance when he got off his camel, to prove that he at any rate was still as fresh as ever. I also remembered that he had once gone to sleep on his camel and fallen off, and how relieved I had been when he had got to his feet shamefaced but unhurt. I was glad that he was with me now; he would give good advice, and would keep the main party together while I was away, for I intended to cross the Sands with only a few Arabs. Sultan was also there. I knew that ultimately the decision about crossing the Sands would rest with him, and I felt confident that he would support me. He had been invaluable to me the year before. Already I was sure that he guessed my purpose, for when I commented on the poor condition of the camels he said, They will get us to Mughshin and we can change some of them there before we go farther.’ Musallim Taft was with them; while he was with us I knew that we should feed on fresh meat if there was any to be had. Mabkhaut bin Arbain was also there, and Salim bin Turkia, his kinsman, with his fifteen-year-old son, whom he wished t
o take with him, a handsome youth with brooding eyes and a curious cock’s -comb of hair, a sign that he was still uncircumcised.

  We camped at Al Ain, a spring at the foot of the Qarra mountains and spent the next day there sorting and arranging loads. I had provided two thousand pounds of flour, five hundred pounds of rice, and also clarified butter, coffee, tea, sugar, and some packages of poor-quality dates. There were very few dates to be had in the market at this time of year, for the dhows did not arrive with new supplies from Basra until December. I planned to be away for three months, and I intended to enlist six Rashid so that our party would number thirty-one, but it was possible that there would be more. We had enough flour for each of us to have a daily ration of three-quarters of a pound. I knew, however, that the Bedu would leave half this supply to feed their families while we were away; and I also knew from bitter experience that while we were in inhabited country every Bedu for miles around would come to feed at our expense. It would be impossible to refuse them food: in the desert one may never turn a guest away, however unwanted he may be. Even here many people had turned up, mostly from salala, all hoping to get a meal. I refused, however, to agree to this, saying that we were going into the desert and that their own homes were only a few miles away across the plain. We got rid of most of them before evening.