I was dimly conscious of their voices until nearly dawn.
In the morning Bakhit pressed us to come to his tent, saying, ‘I will give you fat and meat’, the conventional way of saying that he would kill a camel for us. We were tempted, for we were very hungry, but Hamad said that it would be wiser not to go there, for the sands in which Bakhit was camped were full of Arabs. We told Bakhit that we wished to buy a camel, and he said he would fetch one and meet us next day at an abandoned well farther to the east. He met us there a little before sunset. He had with him an old camel, a hazmia, black-coated and in good condition, which had been bred in the sands. There were long strips of skin hanging from the soles of her feet. AI Auf said she would not be able to travel far on the gravel plains in the Dura country, but Mabkhaut answered that we could take her along with us until her feet wore through and then kill her. We bought her after a little haggling.
The next morning we saw some tents, and Hamad said, ‘I don’t know who they are’, so we bore off to the right in order to pass wide of them; but a man came out from among them and ran across the sand towards us, shouting, ‘Stop! Stop!’ As he came near, Hamad said, ‘It is all right. He is Salim, old Muhammad’s son.’ We greeted him and he said, ‘Why do you pass by my tent? Come, I will give you fat and meat.’ I protested instinctively, but he silenced me by saying, ‘If you do not come to my tent I shall divorce my wife.’ This was the divorce oath, which he was bound to obey if we refused. He took my camel’s rein and led her towards the tents. An old man came forward and greeted us. He had a long white beard, kindly eyes, and a gentle voice. He walked very upright, as do all the Bedu. Hamad said, This is old Muhammad.’ The two tents were very small, less than three yards long and four feet high, and were half-filled with saddles and other gear. An old woman, a younger woman, and three children, one of them a small naked child with a running nose and his thumb in his mouth, watched us as we unloaded. The women were dressed in dark-blue robes, and were unveiled. The younger one was very pretty. Salim called to al Auf and together they went off across the dunes. They came back later with a young camel, which they slaughtered behind the tents.
Meanwhile the old man had made coffee and set out dates for us to eat. Hamad said, ‘He is the Christian.’ The old man asked, ‘Is he the Christian who travelled last year with bin al Kamam and the Rashid to the Hadhramaut?’ and after Hamad had assented he turned to me and said, ‘A thousand welcomes.’ It had not taken long for this news to arrive, although here we were near the Persian Gulf, far from the Hadhramaut; but I was not surprised. I knew how interested Bedu always are in ‘the news’, how concerned to get the latest information about their kinsmen, about raids and tribal movements and grazing. I knew from experience how far they would go out of their way to ask for news. I had realized that it was the chance of getting this as much as the craving for milk that had tantalized my companions during the past days when we had seen and avoided distant tents. They hated travelling through inhabited country without knowing exactly what was happening around them.
‘What is “the news”?’ It is the question which follows every encounter in the desert even between strangers. Given a chance the Bedu will gossip for hours, as they had done last night, and nothing is too trivial for them to recount. There is no reticence in the desert. If a man distinguishes himself he knows that his fame will be widespread; if he disgraces himself he knows that the story of his shame will inevitably be heard in every encampment. It is this fear of public opinion which enforces at all times the rigid conventions of the desert. The consciousness that they are always before an audience makes many of their actions theatrical. Glubb once told me of a Bedu sheikh who was known as ‘The Host of the Wolves’, because whenever he heard a wolf howl round his tent he ordered his son to take a goat out in the desert, saying he would have no one call on him for dinner in vain.
It was late in the afternoon when Salim spread a rug in front of us, and placed on it a large tray covered with rice. He lifted joints of meat from the cauldron and put them on this, ladled soup over the rice, and finally tipped a dishful of butter over it. He then poured water over our outstretched hands. Old Muhammad invited us to eat, but refused our invitation to join us. He stood and watched us, saying, ‘Eat ! Eat ! You are hungry. You are tired. You have come a long way. Eat ! ’ He shouted to Salim to bring more butter, although we protested that there was enough already, and taking the dish from Salim’s hand poured it over the rice. Gorged at last, we licked our fingers and rose together muttering ‘God requite you.’ We washed, using water. There was no need here to clean our fingers with sand, for the well was near by. Salim then handed us coffee and the bitter drops were welcome and clean-tasting after the greasy rice and cold lumps of fat which we had eaten. He and his father urged us to remain with them at least for another day to rest ourselves and our camels, and we willingly agreed. They brought us milk at sunset and we drank till we could drink no more. As each of us handed back the bowl from which he had drunk, he said, ‘God bless her!’, a blessing on the camel who had given the milk. Bakhit and Umbarak turned up next morning, saying that they had expected to find us here. Bakhit was anxious to accompany us to Ibri, where he wished to buy rice and coffee with the money we had given him for the camel. He was afraid to go alone because of the enmity between the Rashid and the Duru.
All the tribes between the Hadhramaut and Oman belong to one or other of two rival factions, known today as Ghafari and Hanawi. The names themselves date back only as far as a civil war in Oman at the beginning of the eighteenth century, but the division between the tribes which these names denote is very ancient and probably originated in the difference between tribes of Adnan and Qahtan origin. The Duru were Ghafaris, while the Rashid, who were descended from Qahtan, were Hanawis. To travel safely among the Duru we needed a rabia or companion, who could frank us through their territory. He could be either from the Duru or from some other tribe entitled by tribal custom to give his travelling companions protection among the Duru while they were in his company. A rabia took an oath: ‘You are my companions and your safety, both of your blood and of your possessions, is in my face.’ Members of the same party were responsible for each other’s safety, and were expected to fight if necessary in each other’s defence, even against their own tribes or families. If one of the party was killed, all the party were involved in the ensuing blood-feud. No tribe would be likely to attack a party which was accompanied by a tribesman from a powerful tribe to which they were allied, but a rabia could belong to a small and insignificant tribe and still give protection. The question of how and where each tribe could give protection was complicated. It often amused my companions to argue hypothetical cases as we rode along, and their arguments sometimes became so involved that I was reminded of lawyers disputing. Our present difficulty was that we should have to penetrate into the Duru territory without a rabia and hope to find one when we arrived there. At present the Rashid and the Duru were not at war, but there was no love lost between them.
Three days later we camped on the eastern edge of the Sands among some scattered thorn-bushes, and the following day we rode for seven hours across a flat plain, whose gravel surface was overspread with fragments of limestone. Ahead of us a yellow haze hung like a dirty curtain across the horizon. We camped in the evening in a sandy watercourse, among some ghaf trees. There was a large package of dates in the fork of one of these, left there by its owner in perfect confidence that no one would touch it. At sunset we saw some goats in the distance; but no one came near us. During the night a wolf howled round our camp; it was one of the eeriest sounds I have ever heard.
At dawn I saw a great mountain to the east and Hamad told me that it was Jabal Kaur near Ibri. Later the haze thickened again and hid it from our sight. As we approached the Wadi al Ain, Hamad suggested that he and al Auf had better ride on ahead, in case there was anyone on the well, so that they could give them warning of our approach; otherwise they would certainly shoot at us. They trotted
off towards the belt of trees which stretched across our front. A little later, when we arrived near the well, we saw a group of Arabs arguing with Hamad; al Auf came to us and told us to stop where we were as there was trouble. Hurriedly he explained that when they had reached the well they spoke to two Duru who were watering camels, and that these men had been friendly, but that some other Duru, with camels loaded with dates from Ibri, had arrived shortly afterwards and they had declared that no Rashid might use their well. AI Auf then went back to the group round the well, while we waited anxiously to see what was going to happen. Half an hour later he and Hamad came over to us with a young man who greeted us and then told us to unload our camels and make ourselves comfortable; he said that when he had finished watering he would take us to his encampment. The caravan from Ibri watered their animals. One of them unexpectedly gave Hamad a small package of dates; they were very large and very sweet, but I was sick of dates and never wanted to see another. They moved off up the wadi and we then went over to the well, which had clean water at a depth of twenty feet.
In the afternoon the young herdsman, whose name was Ali, led us to his encampment two miles away. Here the Wadi al Ain, the largest of the three great wadis which run down from the Oman mountains into the desert to the west, consisted not of a single dry river-bed, but of several smaller watercourses separated by banks of gravel and drifts of sand. The trees and shrubs that grew here were parched with drought but, even so, they made a pleasant change after the bare gravel plain which we had just crossed.
There were no tents or huts at Ali’s encampment. He and his family were living under two large acacias on which they hung their household utensils. They had evidently been here for a long time, since the two brushwood pens in which they put their goats at night were thickly carpeted with droppings. There were two women, both of them veiled, a half-witted boy of fourteen, and three small children. We unsaddled a short distance away from this encampment, in a grove of ghaf trees which had been lopped and mutilated to provide grazing for the goats and camels. Ali slaughtered a goat for us, and in the evening brought over a good meal of meat, bread, and dates. He was accompanied by a slave who was spending the night here. Ali agreed to take some of my party to Ibri, although the slave disconcerted us by saying that there had been trouble there a few days earlier between the townsfolk and a party of Rashid. Ali asked me if I was going to Ibri, but I said that I had been suffering from fever and would remain here to rest. AI Auf had told him already that I was from Syria, that I had recently been at Riyadh, and that I was now on my way to Salala. We agreed that bin Kabina and Musallim should remain with me while the others went to Ibri. Ali promised that when he returned from Ibri he would come with us to the Wadi al Amairi, where he could find us another rabia to take us through the rest of the Dura country.
The party going to Ibri left in the morning; Ali said that they would be back in five days’ time. In the afternoon his father, who was called Staiyun, arrived with a nephew called Muhammad. Staiyun was a kindly, simple old man with a wrinkled face and humorous eyes. He was not likely to ask disconcerting questions, but I was not so sure about Muhammad, who was well dressed, in a clean white shirt, with an expensive woollen head-cloth, and a silver-hilted dagger. He had recently been in Muscat and was obviously a great deal more sophisticated than his uncle. However, he seemed friendly. Staiyun said that it would be better if Muhammad went with us to the Wadi al Amairi instead of his son, but I would rather have had the credulous Ali. It was not going to be easy to live at close quarters with Muhammad for several days and maintain my disguise, since he would soon notice that I did not pray. I was relieved when he said he was going to his own encampment. He promised to come back as soon as Staiyun sent for him. Staiyun confirmed that some Rashid had had trouble at Ibri, but said that they had paid compensation and that all was now well.
They were pleasant, lazy days. Staiyun fed us on bread, dates, and milk and spent most of his time with us. The more I saw of the old man the more I liked him. I asked him about Umm al Samim, and he told me that the three wadis, al Ain, al Aswad, and al Amairi, ended in these quicksands. As far as I could make out they were about fifty miles to the west of us. He confirmed the stories I had already heard that raiding parties had been swallowed up in them, and said that he himself had seen a flock of goats disappear when the ground had suddenly broken up around them; after struggling for a while they had sunk beneath the surface. I determined that I would come back and visit Umm al Samim and that I would try to penetrate into the mountains which were ruled by the Imam. It was interesting to collect from old Staiyun the information I should require to enable me to do this journey: about the tribes and their alliances, the different sheikhs and their rivalries, the Imam’s government and where and how it worked, and about wells and the distances that lay between them. But for the present I should be satisfied if I arrived at Bai without mishap and without delay; already I was worried, for five days and then six had passed and still there was no news of my companions.
Staiyun was anxious about his son as a result of the recent trouble in Ibri, and he urged me to go there. He said that if they were in difficulties I could intervene with Muhammad al Riqaishi, the Governor, or even go and see the Imam in Nazwa on their behalf. On the seventh day I decided that I must go in the morning with Staiyun to Ibri. There I should stand revealed as a Christian, and from what I had heard of the Riqaishi and the Imam this would not be pleasant; nor would my intervention help my companions if they were in trouble, but there was nothing else for me to do. It was a great relief when they arrived at sunset. All was well. They pretended that the way was farther than they had expected, but I knew that they had dallied in Ibri enjoying themselves, and I did not blame them.
Next day Hamad and Bakhit returned to their homes, and after Staiyun had fetched Muhammad the rest of us camped on the far side of the wadi. It took us eight hours to reach the Wadi al Aswad and two more long days to reach the Amairi. It was difficult to get the observations which I required for my mapping, and impossible to take photographs while Muhammad was with us. He inquired from the others why I did not pray, and they said that Syrians were evidently lax about their religion.
The Amairi was another large wadi with many trees and bushes. Muhammad took us to the encampment of a man called Rai, who belonged to the small tribe of the Afar, and arranged with him that he should take us to the Wahiba country. The Wahiba are Hanawis and are enemies of the Dura, and none of the Duru could escort us into their country. But the Afar are accepted as rabia by both the Duru and the Wahiba. Muhammad went back next day, but we remained for four days, since we had a long way still ahead of us and Rai said that there would be little grazing for the camels once we left the Amairi. Here there had been recent rain and the trees were in leaf. There were many Dura in the wadi, with herds of camels, flocks of sheep and goats, and numerous donkeys. That night I told Rai who I was, since Musallim said that there was no necessity to keep my identity a secret from him. He looked at me and said, ‘You would not have got here if the Dura had known who you were’, and he warned me to tell no one else. From our camp I could see the long range of Jabal al Akhadar, the Green Mountain, which lies behind Muscat. It rises to ten thousand feet and was still unexplored. I could see other and nearer mountains, none of which were marked on my map. What was shown was guesswork. The Wadi al Ain, for instance, was marked as flowing into the sea near Abu Dhabi. I was more than ever determined to come back and explore this country properly.
I suggested that we should slaughter the hazmia, as her soles were wearing thin and she was beginning to go lame, but the others said that there was too many people here and we should have to give all her meat away.
We set off once more. Each interminable, empty day ended at sunset and started again at dawn. The others ate dates before we started, but I could no longer face their sticky sweetness, and I fasted till the evening meal. Hour after hour my camel shuffled forward, moving, it seemed, always up a slight incline to
wards an indeterminable horizon, and nowhere in all that glaring emptiness of gravel plain and colourless sky was there anything upon which my eyes could focus. I would notice some dots, think that perhaps they were far-off camels, only to realize a few strides farther on that they were stones immediately beneath our feet. I marvelled how Rai kept his direction, especially when the sun was overhead. I knew that camels will never walk straight; my own animal edged off the whole time to the right towards her homeland and I had to tap her back with my stick, a constant source of irritation. Rai and the others talked continuously and seemingly paid no attention to where they were going, and yet when at intervals I checked our course with my compass it never varied more than a few degrees. We reached the well at Haushi near the southern coast six days after leaving the Amairi. For the past two days it had been grievous to watch the limping agony of the hazmia. There was nothing here for the camels to eat but the shoots of leafless thorn bushes growing in occasional watercourses. The hazmia could not even feed. She was accustomed to the grazing of the Sands, and her tender gums could not chew this woody fare. She was becoming thin. Al Auf eyed her and said, ‘When we do kill her she won’t be worth eating.’ We murdered her the evening we got to Haushi. We cut the meat into strips and hung it on bushes to dry, and put the marrow bones into the sac of her stomach, which we tied up with a strip of her skin and buried in the sands, lighting a fire on top of it. Next day when we uncovered it there was a blood-streaked mess floating among the empty bones, which Mabkhaut poured into an empty goatskin. Bedu yearn hungrily for fats, but I dreamt of fruit, of bunches of grapes, and white heart cherries. We had hidden ourselves away among sand-dunes but two Wahiba found us there. They were, however, delightful old men, courteous and welcoming, who had not come looking for meat but seeking news and entertainment. They fetched us milk and then spent the night with us. We fed at sunset, eating till we could eat no more. The meat smelt rank and was very tough, the soup was greasy and of a curious flavour, but it was a wonderful meal after all these hungry weeks. Replete at last, I lay on the sand while the old men mumbled reminiscences through toothless gums and the nearby camels belched and chewed the cud.
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