Chapter 5. The Secret of the Sahara Kuffara by Rosita Forbes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Passages in French were read for us by Sonya. Chapter 5. Triumphant Arrival at Jallow We crossed the wadi at twelve thirty, our faces stinging and burning in the cool wind. The air was full of sand and the heat was excessive. The body of the long winding oasis is composed merely of palm gardens, each with its separate well or wells known as Sawani, but the village of Aujala lies in the farthest western curl. In Sawani there are only a few broken down buildings with crumbling walls where perhaps a tattered blue tobe shows for an instant besides huge feathery foliage trees with coarse-grained bark, something between a spruce and a mimosa, but, of course, nameless. For three hours we plotted southwest along the line of Sawani's palms. An ancient square tower appeared on a sand hill to our left, the Moravet of Sidi Salah, but we left it behind us before the top of another long swelling rise brought the long four Aujala into view. The sun was blurred behind the flying sand, but we gazed eagerly at the mass of palms broken only by the low white dunes which stretched south for nearly a mile. At the farther end lay the clustered mud houses all heaped together under the shadow of the palms, with here and there a square of small clay cupolas on the roof of a mosque. It was very different from the isolated houses of Jeddabiya, widely scattered over a white sandstone plain, how Aujala gives a first impression of a ruined town because of its small, ruthless mud courts, its irregular doorways, and unfinished walls, but it is exceedingly picturesque, seen against a red setting sun. We camped just before four in the hollow beyond the last fence made of plated palm leaves. We were so hungry that we could hardly wait to put up our tent. Visions of milk and eggs and fresh, crisp hubs dance before our eyes. We sent the fat use of to inquire. Meanwhile, Omar had departed to his home in the town to return a little later with a basket of fine dates. It was a resplendent being who found us flat on our camp beds, too tired to care anymore about food. We had discovered a small stick of chocolate in a knapsack. Hassanine wanted me to eat the whole of it, but the desert teaches only two laws. The European Code of Morals disappear altogether. One becomes a simple, savage being who may commit most crimes with impunity. In opposition, however, one gradually realizes that two or three actions considered natural and justifiable in London are unforgivable sins in the Sahara. The laws all true wanderers obey are these. Thou shalt not eat or drink more than thy share, and thou shalt not lie about the places thou hast visited or the distances thou hast traversed. Omar had changed his dirty, torn white chemise with his ragged jerd for a blue braided jubba and a new striped jerd. We thanked him earnestly for the dates and listened indifferently to the stern fact that absolutely nothing could be bought in our jala. Doubtless as we were the Seyed's guests, he said, important people of the town would send us gifts of food on the morrow. But for the moment, short of begging, nothing could be done. It was beneath our dignity as important Egyptians traveling on the Seyed's business to explain the state of our commissariat, so we made up our minds to a supper of milk tablets and dates. At the last moment, however, one of our guardian angels, Musashiib, appeared smiling with his scarlet mandal full of fresh eggs. Our joy was unspeakable. I don't know how many we ate. I remember kneeling in the sand for ages under a calm, starlit sky, half-blinded by the smoke of a brushwood fire, poaching those blessed eggs one by one. I like your particular sauce, said Hassanine. I shall miss the taste of sand in Cairo.  We politely called it heat, but I think it was dirt. Just as we had finished our eggs, Mohammed came with excitement to tell us that the sheik of the Zawiyah, Abdul Qasim, who the equan and the important people of the blood, were coming to visit us, as they had heard we had letters from Seyed Rita. We had no clothes to wear. We could not even offer them the usual sweet tea. She had came to the rescue, as usual, and it was agreed that the meeting should take place in his tent. Hassanine was hurriedly rigged up in my beautiful silk jerk, with an hereditary brocaded white kufya which he had brought from Egypt on his head. The gorgeous one the generous Seyed had given me wound gracefully round his neck. The meeting was most impressive. The dignified sheik sat round the narrow tent on dyed camel's hair rugs, their rifles stacked against the center pole. With the utmost solemnity the letters of Seyed Idris and Seyed Rita were read. With one voice the equan murmured, the orders of the Seyed are upon our heads. Then details were discussed. The matter of distance was again very difficult. As far as a man may go on one gearba is a favorite expression. A gearba is a dried goatskin used for carrying water. It holds from four to seven gallons. The Bedouins say a man may travel on a small one for five or six days in winter and for three in summer. After much argument we were told that it was actually thirteen days from Jalo to Kfarah by the direct caravan route which goes on to Wadi. There are two wells, one at Butterfall, a day's march from Jalo, and another at Zegan, seven days farther on. This well, which stands alone in the desert, is wrongly marked as an oasis, seerhin, on the map. There is another so-called route from Jalo to Kfarah that chosen by Rolfs. It runs in a more westerly direction to the oasis of Taizurbo, erroneously supposed to be one of the Kfarah group. This oasis contains several villages, the biggest being Kasiba, Maubus, El-Kaser, and El-Wadi, inhabited by Zuyas and Tibus, the latter being the original dwellers in Kfarah from which they have been gradually driven by the conquering Sinusi. Beyond Taizurbo there are various savage tribal bands who delight in sacking caravans and murdering their escorts. They are sworn foes to the merchant in Zeganis, occasionally a dangerous halting place, because a Tibus sweep east from their Ribiana stronghold or the Lala Zuyas from Busima, fall upon the caravan and have vanished into the desert before the news has reached Kfarah. From Taizurbo a six or seven days route runs via Busima to Kfarah, but besides the fear of attack it is dangerous owing to sand dunes. It is also possible to go direct from Jalo to Busima, a route unmarked on our map. One passes through the Hatia between Zegan and Taizurbo in the bed of which there is water and sees the dark, strange mountain two days before one reaches the oasis in its shadow. Busima always appealed to me fatally because of its lovely black mountains and its lake, a lake in a Libyan desert. Surely that is sufficient to make up for any number of robbers. I tried hard to persuade Abdullah to ignore Taizurbo, apparently much akin to any other flat desert oasis, and go straight to the country of dark mountains. But about this he was adamant. He would not risk this dangerous route, and so we each privately made up our minds to out with the other. He would take me to Taizurbo with a secret intention of then going to Zegan and by the main caravan route to Kufara. I agreed to the Taizurbo route but with the equally firm determination of continuing to our goal by way of Busima. Two other possible ways to the sacred city were mentioned. One due south from Jagabub and one west from Farafa in Egypt, but both necessitated 12 or 13 days without water. Nobody seemed to know much about the latter, but the casualties on the former had been appalling. The last Arab who attempted it had died on the way because his water went bad. Sayed Ahmed, traversing it with an army, had been forced to leave his luggage, stores, and horses behind. Another party had lost their way, and after half their number had died the remainder arrived at Siwa by mistake. The guides lost their heads, said Abdul Qasim. One mistake is sufficient, and you must die. We were very anxious to return by this route, but they all dissuaded us. Returned to Jalo, they said. It is only seven days from there to Jagabub, but it is all without water. The wells were closed in the war. We asked more definitely about the position at Kufara. Five days from Zegan and seven from Tizerbo, the oasis generally called Qibabo is really Kufara. It is not one of a group. It lies entirely alone, and it contains five villages. All this was told by gray-bearded sheiks by the light of two guttering candles in Shib's humble tent. The atmosphere was very friendly. They sympathized and wanted to help. Only good can come out of your journey, they said. You have the Seyed's blessing. Therefore your coming is an honor to us. Stay with us a day and let us see you again. The air was full of warm enthusiasm, and we felt we were among friends. In the morning, of course, it had all changed. It is difficult in Europe to understand the mentality of these children of nature. They are simple and emotional. Such a little way below their impulsive kindness and generosity lies the almost maniacal fanaticism of their tradition. We were playing a difficult part, and the threads were apt to get complicated. We had to pretend to be poor for fear of attack by robber bands, yet we had to be able to bribe when necessary. I had to be a Muslim woman, yet I had to talk to equan and sheiks. We had to be important Egyptians to be worth protecting, yet we had no clothes or stores. We were traveling on a secret mission for the Seyed, yet we wanted to go to places where there could be no chance of work. It was no wonder that suspicion constantly followed us. Tales of a Christian woman and her secretary came from Jeddabia. It was possible that they would cling to us all the way. Apparently Amorose Bedouin had come to Sheyib's tent the previous night and protested violently against the arrival of these strangers from Egypt. They are not of us, he said. We must put them through the usual searching questions. Then we shall know who they are and what is their business. They have letters from the Seyed. Is that not enough for you? said our friend. They must learn that it is difficult to travel in this country, insisted Bedouin. No strangers may come here. Apparently one of the important people of the town was of like opinion. For next day the equan were divided into two camps. One party was for literally obeying the gracious letter of Seyed Rita and giving a feast in her honor. The other, led by an unruly Arab, head of a section of the Zouia tribe who always made a habit of opposing the Seyed's wishes, wanted to ignore us. The result was a compromise. They showed us no hospitality, but they met in the Zouia in the afternoon and received us with friendliness. They signed their names to a curious document stating that, in accordance with the Seyed's order, they had hospitably received Hassanine Bay and the Sittin Karajah, and I think they were ashamed as they did so. For one almond effendi who came from Jallow to collect the government taxes, said boldly, I will sign that when I meet you in my town in a few days. We learned afterwards that he had made a loyal speech in the morning, saying that they must all do honor to the Seyed's guests, and the formal reception in the Zouia was probably due to him. There are between 30 and 40 equan in Au Jaila. The sheik of the Zouia is Abdul Qasim. The Zouia stands on a low rise in the center of the town. It is a square-mud building with heavily barred windows, looking more like a fortress than a college. Below are gardens of bisett and onions with a few pumpkins. Barley is grown under the bilad's broken walls and in broad shallow depressions one sees rows of sandbricks making in the sun. In the morning we wandered through the town, followed by a crowd of amazed children who had probably never seen a stranger before. Women peeped at us from low doorways. They were muffled in folds of long indigo tobs which were delightful in the brilliant sunshine. Occasionally one made of vivid splash of color in orange or scarlet. They were gold earrings and all had tattoo marks on forehead and chin. Most of the people of Au Jaila speak a dialect similar to that of the Touregs and some of the Siwa people, but it is not understood in Jalo. We went through the narrow, winding paths bordered by high-mud walls, with here and there a palm drooping over a feathery gray bush, till we came to the biggest mosque with its square roof covered with clay cupolas. Here we met some of the equan who greeted us kindly and took us to the Zouia to see the Abdullah Sahabi, the supposed clerk of Muhammad who was buried there. By a narrow passage one passes into a square sandy court with a narrow roof running along three sides under which the equan sits on mats. The door leads into a further smaller court and from there one passes through a carpeted antechamber into the mosque. The tomb stands in the center covered with gutty cotton stuff and the walls are hung with cheap mirrors and ostrich eggs, the latter the gift of pilgrims from Wadi. We walked round the tomb, chanting the Qur'an, after which we kissed it and solemnly repeated the Fatha. The equan spent whole days reading and studying the Qur'an round this tomb. We asked them about Raul Skaravan, but they knew nothing except that Manus Man had been there before he started on his doomed journey west, having already signed his death warrant by writing that he did so at his own risk. They told us the Zouia had been founded by Muhammad El-Madi in 1872, nearby is the old Turkish Kaiser, residence of the Ottoman Qaymakan, now used as an office by the clerks of the Sunni government. We had just finished a mighty lunch suddenly provided by the generous Omar, masses of hot flat hubs, eggs, and a chicken cooked in a bowl of savory juice and red pepper, and we're trying to cool our smarting mouths and watering eyes after burning filthel when the great event of many days happened simply and unexpectedly. We had searched the far horizon for so many weary hours. We had magnified so many grazing hers into our longed-for caravan that when Yusuf, standing on the rise above us, said, There is a caravan coming. We took no notice. We had eaten our first good meal for eleven days. Our souls were full of gratitude to Omar and our only worry was how we could reward him for his generosity. In parenthesis it may be said that the only thing he coveted was some imaginary scent he had smelled on me. We traced it eventually to some Kodi face powder, which I was carefully treasuring against my arrival in Cairo, and he departed happily with a quarter of the box. When, however, Yusuf raced down the hill screaming, Our caravan, hum de lula, our caravan at last, lethargy departed and we all rushed up the rise with more speed than dignity. It was quite true. Twelve camels and a dozen men were within a hundred yards of us. First came a stately figure in white burnous, Abdullah, a famous guy who knew all the Libyan roots of whom the Bedouin said he has a great heart.  He was followed by a sergeant, Maraja, whose home was in Kufara and six men. Somewhere in the background lurked a cook, but we did not see him that evening, for he was immediately sent to prepare a banquet for our friends the Shi'ibs. After the first rush of joy in which everyone shook everyone else's hand a score of times, and mobsut and taib and hum de lula filled the air, we watched the barracking of the camels with blank amazement. Used to the indolence of the two forages, we could hardly believe our eyes when literally in five minutes under the shrewd eyes of Abdul Rahim the camels were freed, the luggage and rifles stacked and the men rapidly putting up the tents. We could only rub our eyes and gasp, while my eyes wandered over the baggage in search of the sacks which had been mysteriously taken from our Jettabia dwelling at dead of night. I recognized them one by one, and peace visited my soul. Even though when I looked down, I saw the striped legs of my pajama trousers appearing beneath my red toe, for the ill-used cotton pantaloons had given away altogether the previous evening. We asked for news of Jettabia. They say in the soup that you escaped in an aeroplane sent by Allah, said Abdullah gravely, but Abdul Rahim smiled his wise little smile. They asked me where I was going with my big caravan, he said, and I told them I was traveling to punish some Bedouins who had not paid their taxes to the Seyed. We learned through a letter from our ebony confident that it was the second messenger who had discovered us by the wadi firing. The first had searched in vain and returned without news. The equan and the party who had opposed our going were furious at our escape, which had been quite unsuspected. So, apparently, were certain robber bands upon the road for near Bir Asim, the caravan, marching day and night to overtake us, it had done the 220 kilometers in four and a half days, were accosted by some armed Bedouins who asked where they were going, while two or three others who gathered in the vicinity said, where is the rich Nasrani woman who is going to travel south, large stores of food? I know nothing about her, said Abdul Rahim. There is no woman with us, but if you want to fight us we shall be delighted. The disappointed Arabs retired hastily. We did not go to bed without further evidence of the Seyed's generosity. A huge sack of dates was brought to my tent. From Seyed Rita's gardens we received a message to give them to you. There was much fiddling in the various tents that night, exchanging congratulations and good wishes. The Shi'ibs and our Bedouins were feasting in one and soldiers in the second. Several little fires burned merrily. We went from one to another, making coffee from our newly arrived stores in true Arab fashion, tasting it and pouring it back into the pot if it were not sweet enough. Then we went on to the rise above the sleeping town and talked about all that we had done, which was so little in comparison with what remained to be done. Yet we had won the first trick in the game, and we felt now we had a fighting chance of success. But even while peace enveloped us and the calm of the desert might impregnate our souls, the first seed of a strife that was very nearly to wreck all our plans was being sown in the camp below. The blacks had got the idea firmly fixed in their heads that they were to guard us. They posted a sentinel. Musashi'ib, returning late, was challenged as he stood beside his bales. I am the owner of the tent, he replied, and go inside or go away altogether, came the order. Both ruffled plumages had to be smoothed down in the morning. The soldier was only doing his duty, but the Sheib's caravan had rescued us from defeat or starvation. We started at 9.30 a.m. on December 19 for the six hours' ride to Jalo over a flat country of fine gravel, brownish yellow without a speck of vegetation. But it was a divided party. The blacks, always lazy when there was no necessity for a spurt, rode the camels, perching precariously above sacks and bales. Yusuf was furious, chiefly because he wanted to ride himself. The camels will never reach Koufara if they are ridden, he said. We shall all die on the way.  He went away to join Muhammad, and the two kept away from the caravan the whole day. Abdullah, the most famous tracker in Libya, who had recovered four of Sheib's camels which had strayed the previous night following their footprints among many thousands in the soft sand, led the caravan. I kept the compass on him for an hour, and he did not vary his direction by one point. We made an absolutely straight line between the two oases. At 11.30 a.m., we saw a blot of palms on the horizon, Sharuf the northern end of the big oasis. Two hours later, we entered the wide semicircle, stretching south-southeast. The palms were thickly clustered at the Sharuf end. A thinner belt swept round to another cluster at Manasha. Sheib got off his camel and started walking briskly. Megrib smiled. The faisha, he said, it is the faisha. When a man goes on a journey, his wife sometimes places a hollow gourd or pot in a certain position on the housetop so that it catches the wind. As long as it thrums with the sound of the breeze, her husband's heart will throb for her, and he will return to her as quickly as possible. At 2.30 we entered the thin belt in the middle. Here the palms were dotted over thick white sand rolling up to low dunes. There was no sign of a bilad, though a thousand camel tracks went in the same direction. A chill wind had risen, so I tried to go to sleep behind my shrouding barricade. When I looked out an hour later, the scattered palms had grown rarer, and we had swung around a broad dune so that we faced another rise on which did a formidable row of walled buildings. The desert cities of Libya each have their own special character. There are two separate villages at Jalo, El Erg and Leba. The former looks like a fortress at first sight. Its long, solid mud houses with their strong walled courts line the brow of the rise. Behind are the quaint curly streets, the mysterious low arches, the huddle dwellings of sun-baked bricks. But as we drove our camels upwards, we saw only the bigger houses, with scattered groups of women and children wrapped in black and indigo robes. To the left of the building stretched what appeared to be a long, low white wall, solid and even, which continued indefinitely. Muhammad, seeing it, rushed forward excitedly. It is a royal reception in your honor, he shouted. Oh, they are good people here. I am happy. They love the sad. They wish to honor him and his guests. Bewildered, I looked again at the long white wall. It was a solid mass of white-clad Arabs. Line upon line, a Bedouin stretched in rigid order from the corner of the last house, along the whole length of the rise, at the end of which the splendid wall of humanity dwindled away into groups of women and children. Thrills of emotion warmed us all. It was so spontaneously generous and kindly, I could have cried from sheer gratitude, and Muhammad's dazzling smile was reflected on all our faces. The camels were driven with shouts in the more regular order. Abdul Raheem ordered his men into line. Maghreb, wild with excitement, seized my camel and almost dragged me off it. Are you happy? Are you happy? he kept asking. Yusuf was dancing with delight. We tried to collect our scattered wits and march up the rise in dignified fashion. The Sudanese achieved it, led by their sergeant. But now that my foot was less swollen, both my great yellow shoes fell off at every second step, while Hassanine's jerd described odd, wind-blown antics on its own. I shall never forget the mass of tall, grave figures and snowy jerd in Wunus, drawn up in military formation. The setting sun blazed red behind them, and from below came the wild Kalu'ain of the women. We came as strangers, as pilgrims, to the land of the Sunusi. We had no claim on their hospitality. We had no right to enter the most closely guarded country in the world. Beggar or prince, Bedouin or sheik, must prove good reason areas made free of the southbound tracks to the sacred city. Our only passport was our love of the Arab race, our sympathy with their customs and their faith. We dared offer no other plea. We asked but the right of the nomad to travel with his camels wherever the desert called him. See the address, where the mystic's vision responded to our desire. The Bedouin sensed those who love them and they answered to the bond, he said. You will go unharmed. We had received a blessing, and we might wander south by desert city and guarded well to the mysterious secret oasis. Little did we realize that we have been marked as the honored guests for whom no generosity was too great. The hospitality that you show them will be as if you had shown it to us, had written said Rita, and by his will we shared his lordship of the desert. As we approached, the white ranks bowed with dignity and a chorus of grave, As-salamu al-alaikam, mar-habba mar-habba, dis-salama welcomed us. But the lines never wavered. We shook hands with the Kaimakan, Hamad-e-Bay Zaitan, with the Sheik of the Zawiya, Sidi Muhammad Eshanusi, and with many Eqam, following their example by afterwards kissing our hands and touching our foreheads. We murmured gratitude, unbounded for the honor they did us. All that we have is yours, they said. We belong to the Sain. A house had already been prepared for us. The white mass parted to let us through. Surrounded by the dignitaries of the town, amidst a swelling murmur of welcome and blessing, we followed the hospitable Kaikaman into the narrow sand streets. It was a strange muddled fantasy seen through a gap in the folds of the barricade. Dark-robed women peeping from low doorways, shouts of flying children as the thonged whip of the commissar swept them from our path.  We stumbled through an arch door into a dark anteroom, on by odd little yards and passages, into a small court. This house is all yours, said the Kaimakan, and the government is at your service. Food will be brought to you and all that you ask for we will gladly give. The last scene remains in my mind. We stood in the doorway of the largest room, a mud-walled chamber twelve feet square, with a central pine trunk holding up the flat roof made of plaited leaves, the floor of the desert's own sand, thick and unmatted. The most reverent equine gathered in the court, and the said letters were formally read. Good, very good, came a contented murmur, and then the kisses and the formula. The sayad's orders are on our heads, as they touched Turban and Jerd and Ma'araka. By this time it was five p.m. and dark, so we thought it was time for the day's second meal. The first had been eaten at seven a.m. at Awjala. Mohammed would not hear of it. They will come back. They will bring everything. We must make ready. From somewhere he produced mats and a carpet, his own I believe, which he spread on the sand. It is difficult to arrange bulging sacks of tin food and cereals artistically, but he did his best while I made a royal illumination by sticking a lighted candle on the top of every sack. Just as we finished the equine troupe back, all bearing gifts, one brought dates, another bitter-nady butter, a third great bowls of camels or goat's milk, a white fluttering hand was pressed into my hands, and a huge horned sheep dragged to our feet. Bread enough for a regiment was piled in a plated basket, eggs and tea and sugar followed. We stumbled over our thanks in sheer amazement at their hospitality. At least not the sheep, I said frantically, probably in English, as no notice was taken.  I was offered the place of honor, but I felt that refreshment was needed, so Faraj and I made a tiny brushfire in a corner of the court and labored to make strong, sweet coffee. Our baggage was wildly mixed, but the black rose to the occasion. He produced a tin of coffee from somewhere and I broke one of the great square slabs of sugar with a stone. We puffed and blew at the wavering fire till our faces scorched and the water boiled. Mohammed jumped excitedly round upsetting things and offering impossible suggestions, but the coffee, bought at my pet London Grocers, was good, and though there was a deficit of glasses, the guests appreciated it warmly. As I brought in a second relay of cups on a tin plate, they formed a favorable impression of the sitkarajah and decided that perhaps her mixture of blood was a pity, but not a crime.  We talked of roots. The fat use of naturally wanted to go straight to Qifara by the Wadi caravan root and return the same way. The Qaimakan and the two sheiks, Ibrahim Bashari and Mohammed Maghruf, wished to uphold the honor of the Sinusi. Therefore, they assured us that all roots were safe. Abdullah was anxious not to go to Busima. He said, entirely incorrectly, that a band of twigs dwelt in Ribiana and their whole business and life consisted of robbing any chance travelers between Busima and Qifara. He said that caravans cannot cross the steep dunes. The camels slipped and cast their loads or break their legs. Our camels are not strong, he urged, and they are not used to deep sand. While we are laboring in the dunes, the Toregs will attack us and take the caravan. Is there no way of avoiding them, I asked, determined to see Busima? None. They will know where we are passing and they will lie and wait to surprise us. One man might escape them, but how can a caravan pass unseen? He told a gruesome story of a caravan passing that way from Wadi a few weeks ago and of a successful Toreg attack which seized the camels and put to flight those of the escort whom they did not kill. I could believe it because in the French Sahara I had known the masked Toregs and their swift trotting camels, date-fed, they never removed the cloths which hide their mouths, but they are the salt of the Bedouin race, tireless, fearless, and cruel. Ibrahim Bashari proffered the fact that there was a route between Tizherbo and Zegan, one day's journey or a day and a half at most, so if, after reaching Tizherbo, we did not wish to face the dunes or the Toregs, we could go to the lonely well on the caravan route and dense in five days to Kufaram. Only Yusuf protested. In Busima are enemies of the Arabs, he said. There is always danger there. But I sternly insisted. The honor of the Seyed is in your hands. You must prove to the Ferragi that his influence is strong enough to protect these people anywhere. This phrase spiked his guns for the moment. It was enthusiastically received by the others. After deciding that we would stay in Jalo for two or three days to procure Yurbis to carry sufficient water for our large party, food for the man, information about the route, and generally to reorganize the caravan and that we would then go to Tizherbo. The party broke up with many Asulamu al-Alaikums and Rama-Ala. At last we could devote our whole attention to food. First, however, I was taken by Moraja to see the sheep, which had already been slaughtered, skinned, and cut up into bits. Choose which piece you want and we will eat the rest, said the sergeant. I picked out a leg and departed hastily, but the blacks were amazed at my frugality. Two rushed after me with strange-looking fragments, which I had never seen on a dinner table and pressed them upon me. They were very good, they said. You will be happy. December 20 and 21 we passed in the little sand house with a maze of odd courts and antechambers. After forty-eight hours within its hospitable walls, I still lost my way coming from the main door to my room so intricate were the twists and turns. It does not sound a very lengthy affair to procure and issue food and Yurbis sufficient for seventeen people for a fortnight or three weeks, when the government stores her at one's disposal, and the Kaimakan is as capable and energetic as Hamaita Bay's Eitan. Yet we worked about eighteen hours out of each twenty-four. Flower rations for the caravan? Yes, the grain is in the village, but it must be ground, and for this purpose a little must be doled out to each house in jallow, for no family possesses more than one primitive handmill worked by two blue-rope women, who slowly turned the great stones one above the other. Sixteen Yurbis for water? Yes, but some of them leak, and there is no tar to repair them. So it is with everything. The soldiers would not travel without a large supply of zyte oil in which to cook their cereals. Muhammad wanted to have a change of rain-ment made, and it was only comforted by hearing that the prices were much cheaper in Kufara. The dark Abdullah would not move an inch without being satisfied that the caravan carried sufficient water. The full army allowance for washing, cooking, and drinking is a gallon per day per man. There were seventeen people in our party, so for seven days we should have had to carry a hundred and thirty-three gallons. The largest Yurbis holds seven gallons and a camel carries four of them. Therefore five loads would have had to be devoted to water only. This was impossible as we had also to carry dates for our animals at an allowance of one sack per head per day, and we had only eight camels. Every moment that was not devoted to the consideration of these practical details or dissettling the grievances of the men, use of had several new ones each day, and even Hassanine was agreed because the solemn tailor did not finish his new white chemise and trousers in time. We spent in the delightful practice of fiddling. It is not an easy thing to gain information among the Senusi. The simplest question generates suspicion. A remark about the price of cotton stuff for the position of a well arouses the darkest forebodings. The sight of a pencil and notebook seals their lips. One needs infinite patience and understanding before one can penetrate their reserve. They are a silent race with rare bursts of loquaciousness. At an Arab gathering it is not necessary to talk. After the ox repeated Kyfalak and Taib, the men sit gravely silent, staring into space and sipping their strong green tea. The desert breeds reserve. If a man travels alone for many days or weeks without sight of a human being, without exchanging a word, he learns to commune with himself and his God, and he shuts his heart away in a sealed chamber. The Senusi are particularly difficult of approach, as they are closely knitted religious fraternity imbued with a distrust of strangers that almost amounts to hatred. Not only does the Nasrani not cross their border, but practically no Arab outside their brotherhood travels by their roots. Hence the advent of any stranger, even protected by the Seids, gives birth to a storm of conjecture, criticism, and suspicion. When this is satisfied and laid, their loyal friendliness appears and they welcome one literally as one of themselves. All that we have as yours is not a form of speech in Libya. It is true so long as the friendly atmosphere exists. But one may have worked for hours or days to create the right impression, and a chance word may destroy it. I think utter simplicity and little speech are the best methods of approach. Flowery words impress them and they say, Thy conversation is like honey. Allow me to return that I may drink of it. But to themselves, they murmur. He is a juggler of words. Let us be careful lest he bemuse us. They always suspect an ulterior motive, and it is best, therefore, to satisfy their love of mystery and let them gradually decipher a suitable one. The basis of their life is their faith, and like every acidic set, their strict practice isolates them from the rest of humanity. Outside the distrust engendered by their lives, aloof and remote from any code but their own, they are as simple as the shepherd patriarchs of old. The mentality of Abraham exists today in Libya. Also, they are as easily impressed, offended, or hurt as children. The poorer people show the amused, expectant curiosity of children with the same eagerness to question and to learn. Once they have admitted one to their friendship, the sheiks ask intelligently about politics in the Middle East, and for hours one may discuss the Ottoman Empire, the Hijaz, and Egypt. Before, however, one can even attempt a joke. Much time must have been spent fondling. One by one the important merchants and sheiks came to visit us. Gradually the circle seated upon our one carpet under the palm leaf roof widened. Grave-bearded faces peered from the hoods of dark blue burnuses, braided, lined with red. Sun-burnt hands flicked away the myriad flies with whisks of palm fronds. There was a plump chimacon with pallid, intelligent face, and stubble of black beard round thick smiling lips, and garboa effendi with humorous expression on a face which might hail from Europe. Firm lips, square jaw, pale skin, wide quizzical smile. I think stray vandal blood must run in his veins. His mother lived in Benghazi and he was interested in the ways of Europe. There was the white-faced sheik-il-zawiyah Mohammed Sannousi with dreamy eyes and dropping jaw, and dear, fat, old sheik Mohammed Maghruf with round, blindless face as brown as a nut, a succession of circles from his little pursed mouth to his round brown eyes, and sheik Ibrahim Bashari, the traveler who had taken his laden caravan from Wadi to Egypt from Kufara to Lake Chad. We discovered, after much sweet tea had been drunk with loud, sucking noises, and our best coffee was perfuming the air, that Jallow is a community of merchants. The date palms are a minor thing. The village lives by its trade, for it is on the main caravan route between the Sudan and the Syriacan ports. Sidi Mohammed, the Madi, founded this great desert highway through Kufara. Before his day all caravans passed by way of Tripoli in the Fezzan. We learned that ivory was bought at Wadi for five or ten francs the pound, and that when the expenses of the long journey were deducted, the Bedouins counted on making a profit of 50% in Benghazi. Southbound caravans took needles, soap, sand, sandal, cotton stuffs, sugar, and tea. They returned with ivory, feathers, and smuggled slave-boys and girls of eight to ten years. Some of these latter were adorable, solemn little beings with chubby black faces peering out of the pointed hood of minute camel-server nooses. They were sent by their masters to bring us gifts of egg and milk, and they regarded us with a loose scorn till we propitiated them with handfuls of dates. The friendly circles discussed every Sahara route, marked or unmarked, upon the maps. We learned the position of every well and the taste of the water therein. We also learned that in winter a camel may actually go fifteen days without water if lightly loaded and carefully driven. Therefore, Siba, Jagabub, and Farafa are all possible outlets from Kufara, though a single mistake or mishap means destruction. As the hours lengthened and the coffee grew sweeter, we passed from business to politics. The eyes of all were turned to Egypt's struggle for freedom as an earnest of the future of Libya. To my surprise, Britain was regarded with respect and affection. The destruction of the Sanusi Zawias in Egypt was put down to the result of Seyyed Ahmed's mistaken policy. Apparently the whole country had realized Britain's disinterestedness with regard to Libya, and therefore had entered but half-heartedly into the projects of Manusman and Nouri. Seyyed Ahmed is regarded with respect and reverence as a devout Muslim, but his politics are regretted. Seyyed Idris is looked upon as the savior of his country. He came forward at a moment when the Sanusi saw a prospect of the whole land slipping into European hands. By his tactful policy, he preserved the power of his people who respect him for his friendship with Britain and for his intelligent and amicable attitude toward Italy. They looked to him to preserve Libya for the Sanusi, while realizing that Italy will always have a hold on Sereneica. It is too early yet for the new constitution to be appreciated in Libya. The terms of the accord at Regima have not yet been transmitted to the desert oases. Therefore there was still much doubt in the minds of our visitors as to the future of their country. When the broad-minded policy of Italy is fully known, there should be an excellent understanding between the Sanusi and their Latin allies. The whole prosperity of the country will depend upon that good understanding. Two men are responsible for its initiation. The Bedouins owe their present peace entirely to the straightforward progressive spirit of Seyyed Idris. Italy owes hers to the Governor of Sereneica, Senator De Martino, who appears to be the first European statesman of this era, to realize that in dealing with Arab races it pays to keep one's pledged word. His Excellency said to me while I was staying with him at Benghazi, when the candles were lit and mint leaves put in the tea, our guests grew confidential. They told us of their love of freedom and of their desire for a quiet life without political intrigue. The war had done them much harm for it had raised prices and closed routes. The trade of the country was almost at a standstill. The export of hides had stopped altogether. Bitter feeling had to a large extent died down, but it could be rekindled by any act of aggression. The Arabs hoped at the moment that Italy would come no farther inland, but I imagine that their merchants will be anxious to avail themselves of the increased facilities for trade which Italian protection will give to Sereneica. Sheikh Ibrahim asked about the Hajjah's kingdom. There is a famous Senusi Zawiyah near Mecca, and the bonds between Libya and the Hajjahs must always be close because of the pilgrimage to the Vite-Ula. It is to the interests of every devout Muslim, especially to these ascetic fanatics, that there should be peace in the territory of King Asaim. All were interested in the career of the Emir Faisal, and they asked when he would return to Damascus. To this embarrassing question, we were obliged to give evasive replies, but the point was pressed with more decision than usual. Is not England going to help him? asked the Khai Makhan indignantly. We tried to explain the complicated policy of my country, but the oldest Sheikh shook his head impatiently. Are not the English strong enough to protect their allies? he said. We were sorry when Seyed Ahmad made war upon England because we thought she was strong and powerful. Has she become weak now? We changed the conversation lightly, but the little sting rankled. Once more it was brought home to us how British prestige among the Arab had dwindled during the last years. We may have won the war, but we have lost the peace. Maybe we have lost even a greater thing. As I listened to the words of censure of our Bedouin guests, I remember the last speech I had heard on the subject. It came from the lips of a great statesman at an Asiatic society dinner in London, and delineating Britain's future policy in the Middle East, it left its hearers bewildered by their rhetoric, but ignorant of the fact. Chapter 6 The Secret of the Sahara Koufara by Rosita Forbes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Christmas in the Desert The Oasis of Jallow contains two villages a few hundred yards apart. El Erg is the seat of the government and contains the caser, or government office, the Kaimakan's house, and a new Zawiya with some 40 equan. The blad rambles by securities narrow lanes bordered by windowless walls pierced by low doorways over a rise down the farther side to the foot of a large dune, from the top of which one sees mile after mile of scattered palms with here and there a well, its mouth strengthened by palm trunks. Generally a group of picturesque figures surrounds it and gossips while the day's water supply is drawn. An effective contrast to the glaring white sands are the indigo and royal blue tobes with which the black slave women mingle the orange and reds of their more barbaric taste. At the door of every mosque one finds a group of swathed white figures sunk in contemplation, or in sleep, yet mechanically flicking away the ever-attentive flies.  It is a twin village, except that the streets are broader and straighter and the whole place is dominated by the square tower of Seyed Hilal's house. As I pass below its lattice windows, a very pretty face, framed in its sapphire veil, peeped out. It was olive skinned and round with dark coal blurred around darker eyes, long lashed and misty. The blue tattoo marks on chin and lips but served to throw up the gleam of pearl white teeth, and great silver earrings, red studded, swung against plate after plate of midnight hair. Leba possesses a very old Zawiya founded by Seedy Mohammed Ben Ali. I went through its palm filled yard to the court of the mosque where I was warmly greeted by Sheik Omar, who told me he was happy to meet anyone with English blood. He introduced me to all his teachers and his most intelligent pupils, who wanted to show me there and then how well they could write. You are cleverer than I, for I cannot write Arabic, I said, and a murmur of surprise and score and ran through the group. She cannot write, and she is big, so big. I believe she is older than Fatima or Aisha, or any other female relative of advanced years. There are a hundred and fifty boy students at the Leba Zawiya and about eighty Eqwan. The long, low mosque is very small, clean and white. With its sand arches and palm walls, a few palm mats on the floor and a little painted mirab, fragile and bent. It cost two hundred megeties to build, said the Sheik proudly. And again, as I left, he spoke kind words about my country, which were a balm after the censure of the previous evening. On our last afternoon we had a council in the house of the Qaimakhan. We left our shoes outside his door and sat cross-legged around the walls of a room, empty save for a packing case which carried little used writing materials. Now is everything ready to start tomorrow at dawn, I asked briskly. A most dubious inshallah came from Yusuf. I have always thought it rather hard that the deity should be made responsible for the whole doubt of the East. The question repeated, each produced a pet difficulty. The oil has not come, said the portly sergeant, Mourajah. Take two soldiers and get it, ruthlessly replied Hassanine. The man relapsed into prompt silence, lest he should really be obliged to leave before the arrival of delicious, hot, sweet milk flavored with cinnamon. Muhammad wanted to write letters for Jeda Biyah. Abdullah pointed out that some of the gearbos were new and smeared with oil instead of tar, which would melt in hot weather and make the water nauseous. Yusuf frankly wanted to stay under a roof where he could eat and sleep all day. His fat face had assumed an expression of habitual discontent, and through much yawning his eyes had almost disappeared into narrow slits. All the retinue had donned their best clothes in jallow. Abdullah retained his snowy, woollen jerd in bernus, with scarlet belt supporting his huge, old-fashioned wooden pistol inlaid with much silver. But Muhammad and Yusuf wore short, embroidered jackets of green and blue and striped silk jerds crossed with gay-aggles worn like aglets. We alone could not change, and I wondered how long I would have to appear in the same unwashed, red-toed, and checkered barricade. There is no good water at Jallow, so the washing is always sent a day's journey to Butifal. This is the last well on the route to Kufara and Tizerbow. Therefore we decided to depart thither on the Marl and camp for a day beside its sweet waters before starting on our stern journey south. When they saw that we meant to insist, the retinue became almost brisk and to my great surprise even the lazy Yusuf was up the next morning at four o'clock, busy with preparations. Nothing ever arrives till the last moment in the East, but one must always be prepared for it to come just when one has made up one's mind to do without it. Thus when everything was packed, the hard-boiled eggs and bread ordered twenty-four hours before made their appearance and had to be dumped into the first available sack. It is no easy matter loading a caravan that has got to travel two hundred and fifty miles with a seven days waterless stretch. I looked at our eighteen camels with much anxiety. Some of them were small and weak. One of them was a living picture of all that a camel should not be. He might have been used successfully by the cartoon camel corps as an example to enthusiastic young officers of what not to buy. His feet were worn, his hump was soft, his elbows rubbed together as he walked, his chest pad was insufficient, and he had sores under his shoulders. Besides this, many of the Nagas were in full. However, it was no use worrying in advance. Long ago I had realized that we should get to Kefara only if Allah so willed, and the farther we moved into the desert, the more I felt impelled by some ulterior force. I was never surprised when difficulties piled themselves up and then vanished without reason at the last moment. I began to feel a fatalistic trust in the destiny that had dragged me from hunting and hunt balls and sent me out into the white Sahara to find the holy place which had been a secret for so long. The feeling of kismet was so strong that it prevented my troubling excessively over our weak camels even though I felt they were dangerously overloaded. Our party had increased to nineteen by two black slave girls in vivid barricades and little else, property of one of the sayads who wished them sent to Kefara. In spite of the utmost exertions the caravan was not ready to start till eleven thirty, when, amidst a chorus of kindly wishes, regrets, and blessings, we plotted slowly out of the hospitable town into a raging northwesterly wind. We meant to march on into the night and reach Butterfall about ten p.m., but fate decided otherwise, for almost before the walls of Jallow had disappeared the winds strengthened into the worst gibbly I have ever encountered. It was behind us, for we were heading southeast, yet the camels staggered and swung around, huddling against each other for shelter. I was nearly swept off the back of my blonde beast. Every loose mat and blanket flapped in wide circles and loads began to sway dangerously. On all sides palms were bending and cracking in the sudden gale, while great leaves were torn off and whirled whistling above our heads. The air became a thick sheet of sand. Sun and direction were blotted out. Screaming gusts stung our faces and blinded us. It was the most extraordinary sight, for one minute camels and figures would be blotted out in a whirling white fog. Then a head or a wildly gyrating blanket or a portion of a laboring camel would appear for an instant through the shroud and vanish again in the smarting desk. We stumbled and choked and fell through the storm till even Abdullah saw it was useless. In an instant's lull a palm tree fence appeared to our left, with a small boy crouching beside a garden plot of onions, radishes, and pumpkins. We turned our camels toward the low shelter and they sank heavily to their knees besides a clump of the gray nameless trees. The boy gave our guide some radishes as he passed, and in spite of the agony of flying sand the Bedouin turned to me with a smile. It is a blessed journey, he said. Look at the green which has been given us. It is proof of how far one had wandered from the mentality of London and Paris that his words gave me great comfort. I gathered the thickest blanket around me and dug myself into the sand, while a hail of dust and grit beat upon me. Through a narrow slit I saw the blacks with kufias tied across their mouths and noses, staggering about with sacks and boxes. They appeared like phantasmic figures on the lantern screen to vanish in the next strong gust of wind. It was impossible to put up a tent. The camels were barracked in a semicircle where they lay groaning but not attempting to move. The baggage was piled to form zaribas, and in the lee of these we crouched for four or five hours, blankets covering our faces, handkerchiefs wound over our mouths. I thought the retinue would look upon the storm as a bad omen, but Mohamed only smiled with dust-parched lips. This will be a successful journey. We shall have good luck, he said, for when the Seyed travels there is nearly always a ghibli thus. Once when I tried to change my cramp position I felt something soft huddled against me. I peered out of my wrappings cautiously and found the black face of Zynab, the prettiest slave girl almost on my shoulder. She seized my hand and kissed it devoutly, while a companion, Hawa, drew closer. Their thin, gaudy barricades were no protection against the madness of the sand, so I offered them a share in my blanket, and we made friends under the sheltering thickness. Zynab was young, about sixteen and round-faced, with curved full lips and big velvet eyes modestly downcast. Hawa looked ancient with her wrinkled skin and yellow uneven teeth, but her years were only twenty-four. The Sudanese marry, if the parents have money, when the girl is nine and the boy thirteen. Therefore these ebony slaves may be grandmothers at an age when an English girl is wondering whether she is old enough to wed. My little companions were full of questions and comment, mixed with praise of Seyed Rita. They wanted to give me the eggs they had brought for themselves, and it is almost impossible to refuse a gift in the east. It is accepted as a matter, of course, without expression of thanks. It used to surprise me, at first, that if one gave a man a watch or a revolver, he took it without comment. But gradually I realized that they give and they receive with the same simplicity.  Both had broad sticks of scarlet corals stuck through holes in their nostrils. When the storm abated, about five-thirty p.m., they emerged from the blanket and busied themselves briskly preparing the Bedouin evening meal. By this time there were always two rival camps in neighboring Zarebas. Behind one wall of heavy sacks, the soldiers cooked their savory flour.  Muhammad was always kind to them, providing them with some of his own flour and dates, together with the occasional loan of a blanket, but otherwise nobody troubled about them except when it was a question of cooking your washing clothes. True, when the length of our stay permitted the pitching of tents, the Bedouins always contented themselves with the Zareba, leaving to Zynab and Hawa the use of their tent. But the girls accepted as a matter of course that, after riding all day, they should cook and wash and clean and generally see to the comfort of the Arab retina. We wanted to break camp after the evening meal, but though the sandstorm had abated the wind was still cold. Abdullah pointed out that we should walk all night and arrived too tired to work in the morning, which would be a waste of energy as all the firewood for the journey had to be collected in the vicinity of Butterfall. We therefore crawled into our sleeping bags under the shelter of the palm fence at 7 p.m., and were up again while it was still dark. The same cold wind stimulated the blacks to brisk action, and there was a great deal of running about and singing, but the sun rose while the camels were still being loaded, and we did not start till 7. We had camped on the very edge of the Jala Oasis. The last palms were behind us, and in front lay the flattest country I had ever seen. To the rim of the near horizon stretched an unbroken expanse of yellowish gravelly sand. We thought we had crossed flat and not in this country before, but on December 23rd we rode across a drab, colored billiard table whereon was not a blade of grass, a bird, an insect, or a mound. It was as if we were at the end of the world and the round horizon, the edge off which we should presently fall. The only objects that marred the extraordinary monotony were a few scattered skeletons of camels which had died at the end of a long march from Kufara or Tizerbowl. Occasionally a bleached thigh bone had been stuck upright in the sand to mark the direction. It was a cool, bright day with a northwest wind. Persistent neglect had practically cured my foot, so I was able to walk for a couple of hours with Abdul Rahim. He waxed enthusiastic over the extent of the Sinusi influence in Borno, Senegal, and Sudan, and Wadi, giving me a list of principal Zawias. Only in Wadi there is none, he said. For the Sultan said to Sidi bin Ali, We will always be your friends and allies, but if you build a Zawia here, the next thing you will do would be to come and conquer us. The commandant was in a locations mood and reminiscences flowed from his lips. It was he who had been sent by Sidi Amen to kill Muqtar, the Sinusi officer in the pay of Turkey, who had attacked Bomba and Egyptian territory without direct orders from his master. He was at Jagabab when Sidi Halal quarreled with his uncle and, under sense of death, fled the Tobruk in forty-eight hours. The young Seyed had described the horrors of the two hundred and fifty kilometers ride to me at dinner in his house at Jedabia. When, amidst his rich carpets and brilliant clothes, he could laugh at the memory of aching bones and failing strength. Abdul was conversant also with the doings of Ramadan Shetwi, a great Arab leader who for many years held the Italians at bay in Tripolitania, but he was killed a few months ago in a fight with the Orphela. It appears that his alliance with Seyed Amen was but lukewarm, for on one occasion when he provided a bodyguard for a German mission which was taking a large sum of money to the Seyed in Sireneika, his men had orders to kill the unfortunate two-tons as soon as they were out of sight of Misurata. Ramadan Shetwi took the official gold and the mission's private wealth was divided among the murderers. At noon, Yusuf pointed to the faintest rise in the distance. Behind that hill is Bir Budafal, he said, and with visions of another green spot on our wonderful map we hoped to see at dusk one palm and a few tufts of brushwood. Not a single blade of grass marks the slight hollow. There is not a stone nor a stick nor a tuft of green sage in all the white expanse of thick soft sand. The day we arrived there was not even a hole. Before we had time to ask where was the well, Abdullah and two of the blacks apparently went mad.  Only when they had sunk to their wastes and the heap around them began to grow dark and moist did we realize that they were actually digging out the well, which had been entirely filled by the Yidli of the previous day. On Christmas Eve the whole party devoted themselves to washing their clothes, with surreptitious drinks of the sweet Budafal spring, the first good water we had tasted since we left Jadabia. Zinab and Hawa labored patiently to reduce the retinues flowing garments to their pristine whiteness. I had to disguise myself and adjured while my own red tuft was in the tin pan that served as a laundry. The blacks stripped to the waist, their top knots bobbing above their shaven heads, pommeled and pounded beside the well. By the afternoon the desert was spotted with patches of white, whose snowiness rapidly disappeared beneath stray, drifting sand. However, there was a general feeling of cleanliness in the air, and we were glad when Musashiyab appeared from the direction of Jalo, with three donkeys and a camel, in search of the waters of Budafal, which could be sold in Jalo, where wells are brackish in salt, for half a mejedi agirba. We were glad to have an excuse for faddling, so we pressed the kind old man to stay for midday meal, and, sitting around the fire in the largest sariba, we made green tea while Abdullah cut goat-hide thongs for a new pair of sandals. Hassanine mended the watches of the party, all of which had stopped in the sandstorm, and Muhammad made primitive rope out of the palm fiber. That night we watched the camels being fed by moonlight. It struck me at the time that it was stupid plan to put all the dates in one large heap, as the greediest camels devoured more than their share, and the slowest eaters got little. However, I daren't argue with Abdullah about what was obviously his own job. After the animals had eaten, there was a great argument as to whether they should be watered that night or the following morning. Finally it was decided to let them drink at once, and it was amusing to see the way they rushed to the well. Only two at a time could approach the shallow pan, which the Bedouins kept filling and refilling, shouting monotonously. Come and drink, then you will be strong. Come and drink, then you will be strong. Which changed when the camels became violent into a chanted, see how your drinking splashes me, see how your drinking wets me. One realized the loneliness into the desert that night. The four tents and the animated group at the well were infinitesimal specks on a desolate, limitless waste, silvered by moonlight into an unbroken sea without ripple or borne. How easily even a mighty caravan might vanish in the Libyan desert, and no more trace be left of it than of a few ants crushed underfoot on a sandy court. I longed for even one lonely palm to break the awful monotony. It was the aching solitude of nature pitted against the pathetic energy of man, and nature had no need to fight. She could leave the struggle and the stress to the human midges who would traverse her trackless silences. And when their pitiful vitality and force were spent in battling with their winds and her droughts, she could bury them noiselessly in her fathomless drifts beneath the white serenity of her moons. First the fuel failed, then the food failed, then the last water dried. With the faith of little children we laid us down and died, follow on, follow on by the bones of the wayside you shall come into your own. On Christmas Day the camp was a stir by 3 a.m. Everybody was prepared for prodigies of endurance in the way of an immensely long march. Therefore, when I plunged briskly out of my tent while the moonlight was still clear, I could not understand why there were no chants or shouts, no cheerful rushing about with the cumbersome bales. Arabs and blacks alike were standing about in sorrowful groups. Muhammad, with a plaid rug, wound over the fleece-lined Macintosh, was cleaning a ruthless looking knife. Even the camels had the most depressed possible expression.  It appeared that she was the direct cause of the agitation, though most of the animals were suffering severely from their unaccustomed date-kneel followed by a heavy drink. The Naga appeared to be in extremis. Foam frothed from her mouth and nostrils. Her neck was twisted into a stiff, distorted curve. Her sides were laboring painfully. I could not have believed that even the most acute indigestion could reduce an animal to such a state after so few hours. She is going to die, said Yusuf. Prepare the knife. Wait, wait, exclaimed Abdullah. I will try burning her first. Apparently there are about two remedies in the desert, bleeding and firing. They had already tried the first without effect, and it was too cold for the blood to run. They now pushed the unfortunate animal on its side and laid a hot iron on its abdomen. It protested much less than it usually did at being loaded, but the warmth presumably galvanized it into action, for it managed to struggle to its feet and wander off with the others, a sorry-looking, hunched-up group. One of them appeared to be dead lame. During a wasted morning the friction between the two hastily formed Zarebas became intense. The blacks incensed at the abuse which had been showered upon them for riding the camels between Al Jala and Jalal, now got their own back. They said that the Arabs knew nothing at all about a caravan and could not even feed the animals properly. At noon the miserable Naga got much worse, and Muhammad, Abdullah and I spent the whole afternoon sitting by her side, trying desperate remedies from massage to soap. When we left at 5 p.m., she was obviously dying, and we prepared to face the problem of the seven days waterless journey with one camel of fewer. We argued about what luggage we could best dispense with, until use of calmly announce that, as we had waited an extra day at Budafal, there would not now be sufficient dates to last a week. Muhammad said that we must announce the death of the Seyed's camel to the Kaimakan at Jalal, which meant an extra two days wait. We held depressed councils at which I insisted on an immediate start, but apparently the camel shared the sacredness of its master, and even his body could not be left at Budafal. Very well said I, we will send someone back with the news, but we must leave here at Don. We will give all our eating dates for the camels, and that will make up for today's rations. Then the real difficulty appeared. The friction between blacks and Bedouins was so strong that both parties feared that it would eventually come to a fight, and neither wished to decrease their number. When I suggested to Sudanese going, Abdullah showed his hand. Yes, yes, send back four or five, he said eagerly. The journey will be easier without them. But Abdullah Rahim refused point blank to dispense with one of his soldiers. The night we thought we were going to be attacked on the way from Jedabiyah, Abdullah left us and slept with some kinsmen nearby, he remarked shrewdly. The whole party was sunken in the deepest gloom. We, because the camels were already overloaded, the retinue because each side feared to endanger its power by the loss of a fighting man. When a black form appeared on the faint rise beyond which we had left the dying camel. Masha Allah, exclaimed Muhammad, it is the influence of Sidi Idris, a miracle, a miracle. And two minutes later the source of all our woe walked calmly back into camp. Its reception must have surprised it considerably, for everyone rushed out to meet it, firing revolvers and rifles into the still starlit air, after which the blacks performed a wild phantasia to the music of a tin pan beaten by Abdullah's Sunni fingers. So into the most unpleasant Christmas I have ever known.


Live from Las Vegas, Nevada, it's theCUBE at IBM Interconnect 2015. Brought to you by headline sponsor, IBM. Okay, we are back live inside theCUBE. This is SiliconANGLE's flagship program. We go out to the events, extract the signal from the noise. I'm John Furrier, the founder of SiliconANGLE. Showing my co-host, Dave Vellante, go for a new Wikibon research. Our next guest is Jeff Fry, CTO, SystemZ platform with IBM, welcome to theCUBE. Thank you. So SystemZ is the big event we covered in New York City at the Jazz Center, which is phenomenal. It's the mainframe, huge, I call it the God Box, but it's California term, I guess. It's powerful, it's a mainframe system, but no one calls high-performance computing mainframes anymore, they're just big machines that kick ass, basically. So what's under the hood? What is the mainframe evolution to this modern world? People still probably have mainframes out there, big banks and whatever, but right now it's about speed, I need in-memory, I got all this stuff going on, large data, tsunami data, what's the innovation, what's under the hood? Well, I think that a traditional value of the mainframe is the more work you put on it, the better it performs. It's a large, shared pool of resources that's got the best, fastest single-thread processor speed in the industry, lots of memory. We focus on a balanced system design, so processor, memory, bandwidth, internal buses, I.O., it all comes together to provide ultimate scale and performance, and with the Z13, we've taken another turn on that crank, with absolute best single-thread performance in the industry. I think what's interesting about this mainframe is that we really focused on compute performance, so the traditional performance. Give an example of, for the order of magnitude, like, okay, I get the single-threaded thing, that's great, but performance, what does that mean? Well, we have a 5.0 gigahertz single-thread core, which is probably almost double what most distributed platforms have in terms of single-thread performance, and while a lot of competitive server platforms have traded off single-thread performance for more cores or more parallelism scale out, we haven't given up on that. Everybody's hitting the laws of physics, right, and in terms of the rate at which you can improve performance in these single-threads, but we're pulling every trick we know out of the book to ensure that we deliver industry-led performance. So, you focused this time around on compute performance as opposed to IO? Well, I think there's a well-earned reputation for Z being a high-volume transaction processing engine, data-serving traditional workloads, but I think there had been a view that if you want to do numeric-intensive or compute-intensive or statistically mathematically-intensive workloads, you run those somewhere else. And with the advent of our objective to get more predictive and prescriptive analytics to the platform, with this machine in particular, we focused on mathematical performance of the engines. So we introduced vector processing, single instruction, multiple data, lots of memory, multiple threads per core, and that all contributes to computing. I see what you're saying. So, yeah, the mainframe you don't think of as traditionally as your high-performance computing system, should we start thinking about it as a high-performance? You know, I think there are extremes, right, in terms of high-performance computing, but it's fair to, I think, recognize that commercial, traditional, even traditional transaction processing is becoming more compute-intensive. The language runtimes are making more use of compute performance rather than just moving data around. And I think it's really part of the core strategy here to use tools like, you know, IBM's SPSS, right, modeling tools, which generate these, you know, these statistical models, and those things are mathematically and computationally intense, so we got to make sure we run those, you know, best of breed on the platform. Got a long history at IBM, we're talking off camera. When you saw the virtualization trend occur. Yeah. What did that feel like to you? I'm going to say the virtualization, I mean, VMware specifically. Yeah, I thought you might have been talking about 1967 when we invented it. Right, right, yeah. That's what I mean. Yeah. So did you just look at that and shake your head or say, boy, that was a missed opportunity or what was going through your mind at that time? Well, you know, I think that, yeah, a little bit.  And people, I think there are some that just aren't completely aware, completely up to speed on the technologies that have been in this platform for quite some time. Now the guys at VMware have done a fantastic job, right, of taking the x86 environment and virtualizing it. We still have, in my opinion, the best-to-breed server virtualization. The benefit that we have is that it's in the hardware, right? That level of integration is the way we get near native performance out of our engines even when they're virtualized and highly virtualized. I think the thing with virtualization that we need to be focusing on now is not just whether or not the processors are, you know, are effectively utilized or how much work you can consolidate on the platform because that's a strength at Z. We can take, you know, 10, 20 cores worth of x86 and run it on a single engine on Z, right? And that's been a strength of our virtualization. And I think now with cloud and with all this dynamic provisioning and software-defined environments, I think the key to virtualization is in the management, right? So to have a really good, effective, standardized way to do virtualization management is really the key. And so when you talk about relative to x86, you've got an advantage because it's in the hardware and firmware. That's performance and utilization factor. Your virtualization tax is not as great. It's really minimal. It's de minimis. Yeah, like I said, we run near native speed. Yeah, and VMware, you're right, has done a very good job, but I wanted to ask your opinion on something. So in 2009, I listened to Paul Moritz. He was at an investor financial analyst meeting and he said, we are building a software mainframe. And I was taking notes and I went, that's interesting. Now they don't use that term anymore. There's marketing people at VMware who said to stop saying software mainframe. It's not, we don't want to market it that way. But what it was- Well, what he meant was it's all software team world. That's the beginning of Moritz. And he understands technology. So that really caught my attention. I said, wow, okay. Never goes down, it's just global sysplex. I thought about that. Runs any workload, any app, highly virtualized. Has VMware in your opinion built a software mainframe? No. Tell me why. Well, I think the part of what makes a mainframe a mainframe is the economies of scale. As I said earlier, the thing actually runs better when you put more work on it. So when other competitive systems can drive utilizations to 80, 90, even 100% with consistent response times across all of the workloads, then maybe they'll have some of the mainframe characteristics. I think what he was referring to, which I happen to agree with, is this notion of software defined environments. I mean, I think the point I made earlier, virtualization isn't just about having fast or utilized hardware anymore. It's about using virtual resources as the foundation for all of your operational environment. When you virtualize a system, it's dynamic. It can be programmed. You can grow it. You can shrink it. You can dynamically instantiate it. You can make it smarter. And these are the things. That's the holy grail. Yeah, this is what software brings. So if we can make hardware look more like software, server storage and network, holy grail. Holy grail, holy grail. So I want to get your perspective on this. It did. We've talked all the time on theCUBE. The software made by Maritz, a great vision. 2010, what happened next? It was like, it stalled. It was a Picasso that he painted, the Mona Lisa of tech. Okay, beautiful. The problem was the market wasn't ready for you. All the stuff going on the stack, then they go to Pivotal. So they bring everything over to Pivotal, the couple, nice little concept. But they're still working on the virtualization piece on the network layer. So there's still work to be done. So I think it's storage, by the way. Yeah. Right? I think the moonshot is software mainframe. And then it's just not there yet. The industry. Yeah. Yeah, so you guys have it. But Steve, you're saying utilization is not the battleground anymore, certainly for you. But when you look at the real utilization of a VMware environment. Yeah. They talk 20, 30, maybe 40%. They talk way over 50, it's no way, not even close. David Floyer knows, our David Floyer knows this stuff. Certainly sub 30%. Yeah. Right? So for the balance of the industry, it is still a warm market. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't mean to suggest that's not important. What I'm suggesting is. For you. Next, what's next? And what's next is to make use of virtualization as the foundation for all operational control of the environment. And aren't you doing that today? Yeah, we do a lot of that today. But I think we have focused on the mainframe on the traditional core value proposition of our virtualization being utilization and performance and scale. Right? You'll see us do even more than we do today in the way of optimizing underlying resources based on the needs of the workload. Right? That's another strength of ours, right? Is that we can assign service levels to the work and then have the operating system and the underlying hardware and virtualization layers optimized to the business importance of the work. So what's your take on Docker? Docker has this model. And we just heard Nancy Pierce talk about the cloud, new division, all the IBM resources coming together. And then probably going to just jam, just run like the wind. Now you bring a different perspective in technology with the mainframe. And you've been working under the hood. Share with the audience what's the modern stuff that you've done that makes it state of the art, state of the art. Missouri runs workloads with all that stuff. What is it? There's Linux involved, the Java, tease out some of the highlights, the new shiny part of the engine that you've added onto this. Yeah, well, with this particular announcement for the first time, we've focused on core engine performance, again, delivering 40% more capacity, lots more cores, 10 terabytes of memory on this machine.  Who does that help? Is it a big bank? Minutes matter, right? For some of these guys? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take with people wanting to put more data, more data in memory. If you give a terabyte of memory to DB2 running on this platform and have it use that stuff for in-memory, more in-memory, you reduce IOs, you improve response time by 70% for those transactions. And those are all core transactional environments that are running, right? Those financial institutions, those banks, those insurance companies. That's hardcore users that you have on that, right? This is like big, and what's the alternative? Say the Z wasn't around. I had to go build out a distributed system, buy some boxes. Yeah, I mean, people, I think generally, believe that in the absence of a mainframe, right? And the value proposition I think you get with a mainframe, that's all about scale out, right?  The stakes are high. They said, we've already bought three, not even looking at it. Site unseen. Site unseen, we got the beta, we're just like, and I go, I go, so you're writing a blank check. Is it R&D? It's cool, you got a good R&D. No, no, no, no, no. He said, minutes matter. Hundreds of millions of dollars matter on a minute window. Minutes window. Is it anything you can squeeze performance? Well, it's not just that, it's availability, right? I mean, the ability to make sure that you have a platform if it's running core critical business, that's always there, always on all the time, right? It's not going to provide resiliency or availability problems. That's key to a lot of our customers. Accessibility too is important. Accessibility. Yeah, but Z13 is not changing my application availability. No, well, improving it. I mean, we continue, like, yes, the technical corp of this is that, take our IO subsystem, right? Every release, including this machine, we make the subsystems that drive IO smarter, more autonomic, right? So we have hardware that can sense congestion in the fabric, congestion in the network, can route around failures, all transparently, right? Multi-pathing that does transparent routing around congestion and failure with no impact to the application whatsoever, right? This is what we focus on. I see, okay, again, that's certainly, you can measure that as application availability. I want to talk more about IO. You just said you focused on compute performance. Then you mentioned innovations in IO, it goes through the whole balance system is the key. I remember when I was a young pup in this business, I lived inside of the systems and technology guides. I would just pour through that stuff. And I remember when IBM announced MBSXA, expanded storage, I said, wow, if IBM could persist that memory extension, it would be totally be a game changer. We were a few decades ahead of our time, I guess, in terms of understanding what technology couldn't do. But now flash comes into play, and you're starting to see the pendulum swing back, that persistence at near memory speeds. So can you talk about flash and where it fits? Yeah, I mean, we got a couple, there's a couple of places we can talk about flash, right? The traditional thought on flash is, you build storage with, you build storage flash in our storage subsystems. And of course, the latency and the performance is extraordinary, right? And so we're even looking at the possibility of synchronous IO and really exploiting like the response times and the latency improvements that flash can give you in the storage devices themselves. But the other emphasis for Z is internal flash. We actually have the ability to put, you know, 6.4 terabytes worth of internal flash in the system, and we use that for internal purposes, right? So in a traditional ZOS system now, you can completely eliminate all of the paging, right? Virtual memory paging to external disk, right? By using internal flash. That gives performance advantage, that gives availability advantage, right? It's huge. So, given the slow nature of spinning disk, you mentioned paging. How much emphasis in the prior to flash did you actually put on paging algorithms? Again, given the latency, and do you have to sort of rethink paging now with that consistent resource? Like I said, I mean there, in the last generation machine is where we introduced this, and one of the primary use cases was paging, right?  But now what about when I'm running Linux? It's coming. Because I would think that Linux open source industry didn't even worry about paging for a long time. Well, I mean I think there's paging of the guests, right? And then there's paging and memory over commitment and optimizations you can make on the virtual machines themselves, right? So that's our next step, right? Is to make use and really exploit internal flash, right, for the hypervisor itself. Is one of the big benefits to scaling up a virtual environment is effective memory management, working set management, over commitment of memory, and flash will help. So essentially bypassing spinning disk, and as well as the storage protocol. That's correct, and it's all internal. And so it's essentially a memory extension. Yeah, that's the way we view it. That's the way we view it is a natural kind of high performance extension in the memory hierarchy. And it's an atomic right into that memory extension? Yeah. And you're doing that today, or? Yeah, we're doing that today on the last generation of machine, EC12. We introduced the flash for ZOS. It was a ZOS-only environment. And are apps being rewritten to take advantage of that? No. Or new apps? Yeah, you know, a lot of what we do in the underlying middleware or operating system hardware, I think another benefit to the mainframe is that we introduce this technology and wherever possible exploit it transparently to the application. So it's not that some of these capabilities aren't made available to the application, but in the real leverage point is all of a sudden your operating system, your DB2, your WebSphere, that stuff just runs faster and better with no change to the app. We did that with networking, where we introduced, you mentioned high performance computing before. InfiniBand brought us RDMA capabilities for networking. So we've introduced that now on standard converged ethernet, completely transparent to the application. So now any applications that are driving JDBC access or the DB2, for example, standard socket IP transparent to the app, getting huge performance gains because we slide this stuff underneath it and it's all transparent. All right, Jeff, we're getting the hook here. We've got the keynotes going on. Thanks for coming. Appreciate bottom line for the folks out there. What the system Z platform all about, bottom line and a bumper sticker for what Z is about these days. Yeah, I think that the positioning here is with Linux, right, with the advances in the hardware, it's focused on not only providing the traditional value proposition for the traditional workloads, but with Linux, with standardization, with best of read virtualization, with the openness and the standardization to plug into standard cloud environments, right? You take all of that value of economy scale. It's a great cloud platform. They're bringing analytics to the platform with the compute intensive stuff, right? Very important for us. 80% security is solid. We've got advances in our crypto stuff again in this. The crypto is a big deal, I think. In this machine. That's a big deal right here. Two X performance over the last year. Inter-memory analytics. Big memory, right? All right, there it is. It's the big irons, the God box. It's all-knowing, the more work you give it, the harder it pushes, and the better performance. Love that line. This is theCUBE, same here. The more interviews we do, the better we get. So, we're bringing it out to you with the event coverage here, and I'll be able to connect live in my space. We'll be right back at this short break.


Studying William Shakespeare Macbeth? Let's discuss Macbeth's growing paranoia when he realises that Pheonce escaped in spite of Banquo being killed. In Act 3 Scene 4 the murderer confesses Pheonce has escaped. Macbeth goes from being incredibly happy to saying, then comes my fit again and the caesura here shows he's suddenly changed. This is a turning point. The similes holds the marble found under the rock show that before he learned that Pheonce had escaped he was absolutely happy and fine. He says he feels cabined, cribbed, confined. And this is Rule 3 as well as alliteration of sea. This shows that Macbeth now feels trapped by his fears inside his mind. His references to Saucy doubts and fears show he's increasing mental paranoia, knowing that Pheonce, who is Banquo's descendant, might take over and come back as king. The alliteration of B when he asks, but Banquo is safe, shows he's trying to gain composure, he's trying to find some kind of comfort in knowing that Banquo is dead.