The wind blew so violently on the morning of my departure from Khartoum, that the ferry-boat which had been engaged to convey my equipage to the Kordofan shore, could not round the point at the junction of the Niles. My camels, with the Kababish guide and drivers, had been ferried over the evening previous, and were in readiness to start. In this dilemma Dr. Péney, with whom I had engaged to take a parting breakfast, kindly gave me the use of his nekker and its crew. Our breakfast was a fête champêtre under the beautiful nebbuk tree in the Doctor’s court-yard, and consisted of a highly-spiced salmi of his own compounding, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes, and a bottle of Cyprus wine. The coolness and force of the north-wind gave us a keen appetite, and our kind host could not say that we slighted his culinary skill, for verily there was nothing but empty plates to be seen, when we arose from the table. Dr. Reitz and I hastened on board the nekker, which immediately put off. I left Khartoum, regretting to leave a few friends behind me in that furnace of Soudân, yet glad to escape therefrom myself. A type of the character of the place was furnished us while making our way to Omdurman. We passed the body of a woman, who had been strangled and thrown into the water; a sight which the natives regarded without the least surprise. The Consul immediately dispatched one of his servants to the Governor of the city, asking him to have the body taken away and properly interred. It was full two hours before we reached the western bank of the Nile, opposite Omdurman. Achmet, who had preceded me, had drummed up the Kababish, and they were in readiness with my camels. The work of apportioning and loading the baggage was finished by noon, and the caravan started, preceded by the guide, Mohammed, who shook his long spear in a general defiance of all enemies.

Dr. Reitz and I, with our attendants, set off in advance on a quick trot. Our path led over a bleak, barren plain, covered with thorns, through which the wind whistled with a wintry sound. The air was filled with clouds of sand, which gave a pale and sickly cast to the sunshine. My friend was unwell and desponding, and after we had ridden eight miles, he halted to rest in a deep, rocky gully, where we were sheltered from the wind. Here we lay down upon the sand until the caravan came along, when we parted from each other. “You are going back to Europe and Civilization;” said he mournfully; “you have an encouraging future before you—while I can only look forward to the prospect of leaving my bones in this accursed land.” He then embraced me, mounted his dromedary, and was soon lost to my sight among the sand and thorns. Little did I then imagine that his last words were the unhappy prediction which another year would see verified![6]

We halted for the night near the village of Gerrari. I slept but indifferently, with the heavy head and gloomy spirits I had brought from Khartoum; but the free life of my tent did not fail of its usual effect, and I rose the next morning fresh, strong, and courageous. We were obliged to travel slowly, on account of the nature of the road, which, for the greater part of the distance to El Metemma, lay in the Desert, just beyond the edge of the cultivated land. For the first day or two, we rode over dry, stony plains, covered with thickets of the small thorny mimosa and patches of long yellow grass. The country is crossed by deep gullies, through which the streams formed by the summer rains flow to the Nile. Their banks are lined with a thick growth of sont, nebbuk, and other trees peculiar to Central Africa, in which many lions make their lairs and prey upon the flocks of the Arabs. One bold, fierce fellow had established himself on the island of Musakar Bey, just below the junction of the Nile, and carried off nightly a sheep or calf, defying the attempts of the natives to take him. Our view was confined to the thorns, on whose branches we left many shreds of clothing as mementoes of the journey, and to the barren range of Djebel Gerrari, stretching westward into the Desert. Occasionally, however, in crossing the low spurs which ran out from this chain, the valley of the Nile—the one united Nile again—lay before us, far to the east and north-east, the river glistening in the sun as he spread his arms round island after island, till his lap could hold no more. The soil is a poor, coarse gravel, and the inhabitants support themselves by their herds of sheep and goats, which browse on the thorns. In places there are large thickets of the usher, or euphorbia, twenty feet high. It grows about the huts of the natives, who make no attempt to exterminate it, notwithstanding the poisonous nature of its juice. Every mile or two we passed a large Arab burying-ground, crowded with rough head and foot-stones, except where white pennons, fluttering on poles, denoted a more than ordinary sanctity in the deceased. The tomb of the Shekh, or holy man of Merreh, was a conical structure of stones and clay, about fifteen feet in breadth at the base, and twenty feet high. The graves are so numerous and the dwellings so few, that one has the impression of travelling in a country depopulated by the pestilence; yet we met many persons on the road—partly Kababish, and partly natives of Dongola and Màhass. The men touched their lips and foreheads on passing me, and the women greeted me with that peculiar “hab-bab-ba!” which seems to be the universal expression of salutation among the various tribes of Central Africa.

My guide, Mohammed, was a Kababish, and the vainest and silliest Arab I ever knew. He wore his hair in long braids, extending from the forehead and temples to the nape of the neck, and kept in their places by a layer of mutton-fat, half an inch thick, which filled up the intervening spaces. His hollow cheeks, deep-sunken eyes, thin and wiry beard, and the long spear he carried in his hand made him a fair representative of Don Quixote, and the resemblance was not diminished by the gaunt and ungainly camel on which he jogged along at the head of my caravan. He was very devout, praying for quite an unreasonable length of time before and after meals, and always had a large patch of sand on his forehead, from striking it on the ground, as he knelt towards Mecca. Both his arms, above the elbows, were covered with rings of hippopotamus hide, to which were attached square leathern cases, containing sentences of the Koran, as charms to keep away sickness and evil spirits. The other man, Saïd, was a Shygheean, willing and good-natured enough, but slow and regardless of truth, as all Arabs are. Indeed, the best definition of an Arab which I can give, is—a philosophizing sinner. His fatalism gives him a calm and equable temperament under all circumstances, and “God wills it!” or “God is merciful!” is the solace for every misfortune. But this same carelessness to the usual accidents of life extends also to his speech and his dealings with other men. I will not say that an Arab never speaks truth: on the contrary, he always does, if he happens to remember it, and there is no object to be gained by suppressing it; but rather than trouble himself to answer correctly a question which requires some thought, he tells you whatever comes uppermost in his mind, though certain to be detected the next minute. He is like a salesman, who, if he does not happen to have the article you want, offers you something else, rather than let you go away empty-handed. In regard to his dealings, what Sir Gardner Wilkinson says of Egypt, that “nobody parts with money without an effort to defraud,” is equally true of Nubia and Soudân. The people do not steal outright; but they have a thousand ways of doing it in an indirect and civilized manner, and they are perfect masters of all those petty arts of fraud which thrive so greenly in the great commercial cities of Christendom. With these slight drawbacks, there is much to like in the Arabs, and they are certainly the most patient, assiduous and good-humored people in the world. If they fail in cheating you, they respect you the more, and they are so attentive to you, so ready to take their mood from yours—to laugh when you are cheerful, and be silent when you are grave—so light-hearted in the performance of severe duties, that if you commence your acquaintance by despising, you finish by cordially liking them.

On a journey like that which I was then commencing, it is absolutely necessary to preserve a good understanding with your men and beasts; otherwise travel will be a task, and a severe one, instead of a recreation. After my men had vainly tried a number of expedients, to get the upper hand of me, I drilled them into absolute obedience, and found their character much improved thereby. With my dromedary, whom I called Abou-Sin, (the Father of Teeth), from the great shekh of the Shukoree Arabs, to whom he originally belonged, I was soon on good terms. He was a beast of excellent temper, with a spice of humor in his composition, and a fondness for playing practical jokes. But as I always paid them back, neither party could complain, though Abou-Sin sometimes gurgled out of his long throat a string of Arabic gutturals, in remonstrance. He came up to my tent and knelt at precisely the same hour every evening, to get his feed of dourra, and when I was at breakfast always held his lips pursed up, ready to take the pieces of bread I gave him. My men, whom I agreed to provide with food during the journey, were regaled every day with mutton and mareesa, the two only really good things to be found in Soudân. A fat sheep cost 8 piastres (40 cents), and we killed one every three days. The meat was of excellent flavor. Mareesa is made of the coarse grain called dourra, which is pounded into flour by hand, mixed with water, and heated over a fire in order to produce speedy fermentation. It is always drunk the day after being made, as it turns sour on the third day. It is a little stronger than small beer, and has a taste similar to wheat bran, unpleasant on the first trial and highly palatable on the second. A jar holding two gallons costs one piastre, and as few families, however poor, are without it, we always found plenty of it for sale in the villages. It is nutritious, promotive of digestion, and my experience went to prove that it was not only a harmless but most wholesome drink in that stifling climate. Om bilbil, the mother of nightingales, which is made from wheat, is stronger, and has a pungent flavor. The people in general are remarkably temperate, but sailors and camel-men are often not content without arakee, a sort of weak brandy made from dates. I have heard this song sung so often that I cannot choose but recollect the words. It is in the Arabic jargon of Soudân:

[Tobacco I smoke in the pipe; and mareesa is a medicine to the sufaïa; (i. e. the bag of palm fibres through which it is strained), but arakee makes me perfectly contented, and then I will not even look at bilbil].

The third day after leaving Khartoum, I reached the mountains of Gerri, through which the Nile breaks his way in a narrow pass. Here I hailed as an old acquaintance the island-hill of Rowyàn (the watered, or unthirsty). This is truly a magnificent peak, notwithstanding its height is not more than seven hundred feet. Neither is Soracte high, yet it produces a striking effect, even with the loftier Apennines behind it. The Rowyàn is somewhat similar to Soracte in form. There are a few trees on the top, which shows that there must be a deposit of soil above its barren ramparts, and were I a merchant of Khartoum I should build a summer residence there, and by means of hydraulics create a grove and garden around it. The akaba, or desert pass, which we were obliged to take in order to reach the river again, is six hours in length, through a wild, stony tract, covered with immense boulders of granite, hurled and heaped together in the same chaotic manner as is exhibited in the rocks between Assouan and Philæ. After passing the range, a wide plain again opened before us, the course of the Nile marked in its centre by the darker hue of the nebbuks and sycamores, rising above the long gray belts of thorn-trees. The mountains which inclose the fallen temples of Mesowuràt and Naga appeared far to the east. The banks of the river here are better cultivated than further up the stream. The wheat, which was just sprouting, during my upward journey, was now two feet high, and rolled before the wind in waves of dark, intense, burning green. The brilliancy of color in these mid-African landscapes is truly astonishing.

The north-wind, which blew the sand furiously in our faces during the first three days of the journey, ceased at this point and the weather became once more intensely hot. The first two or three hours of the morning were, nevertheless, delicious. The temperature was mild, and there was a June-like breeze which bore far and wide the delicate odor of the mimosa blossoms. The trees were large and thick, as on the White Nile, forming long, orchard-like belts between the grain-fields and the thorny clumps of the Desert. The flocks of black goats which the natives breed, were scattered among these trees, and numbers of the animals stood perfectly upright on their hind legs, as they nibbled off the ends of the higher branches.

On the morning after leaving Akaba Gerri, I had two altercations with my men. Mohammed had left Khartoum without a camel, evidently for the purpose of saving money. In a day or two, however, he limped so much that I put him upon Achmet’s dromedary for a few hours. This was an imposition, for every guide is obliged to furnish his own camel, and I told the old man that he should ride no more. He thereupon prevailed upon Saïd to declare that their contract was to take me to Ambukol, instead of Merawe. This, considering that the route had been distinctly stated to them by Dr. Reitz, in my presence, and put in writing by the moodir, Abdallah Effendi, and that the name of Ambukol was not once mentioned, was a falsehood of the most brazen character. I told the men they were liars, and that sooner than yield to them I would return to Khartoum and have them punished, whereupon they saw they had gone too far, and made a seeming compromise by declaring that they would willingly take me to Merawe, if I wished it.

Towards noon we reached the village of Derreira, nearly opposite the picturesque rapids of the Nile. I gave Mohammed half a piastre and sent him after mareesa, two gallons of which he speedily procured. A large gourd was filled for me, and I drank about a quart without taking breath. Before it had left my lips, I experienced a feeling of vigor and elasticity throughout my whole frame, which refreshed me for the remainder of the day. Mohammed stated that the tents of some of his tribe were only about four hours distant, and asked leave to go and procure a camel, promising to rejoin us at El Metemma the next day. As Saïd knew the way, and could have piloted me in case the old sinner should not return, I gave him leave to go.

Achmet and I rode for nearly two hours over a stony, thorny plain, before we overtook the baggage camels. When at last we came in sight of them, the brown camel was running loose without his load and Saïd trying to catch him. My provision-chests were tumbled upon the ground, the cafass broken to pieces and the chickens enjoying the liberty of the Desert. Saïd, it seemed, had stopped to talk with some women, leaving the camel, which was none too gentle, to take care of himself. Achmet was so incensed that he struck the culprit in the face, whereupon he cried out, with a rueful voice: “ya khosara!” (oh, what a misfortune!). After half an hour’s labor the boxes were repacked, minus their broken crockery, the chickens caught and the camel loaded. The inhabitants of this region were mostly Shygheeans, who had emigrated thither. They are smaller and darker than the people of Màhass, but resemble them in character. In one of the villages which we passed, the soog, or market, was being held. I rode through the crowd to see what they had to sell, but found only the simplest articles: camels, donkeys, sheep, goats; mats, onions, butter, with some baskets of raw cotton and pieces of stuff spun and woven by the natives. The sales must be principally by barter, as there is little money in the country.

In the afternoon we passed another akaba, even more difficult for camels than that of Gerri. The tracks were rough and stony, crossed by frequent strata of granite and porphyry. From the top of one of the ridges I had a fine view of a little valley of mimosas which lay embayed in the hills and washed by the Nile, which here curved grandly round from west to south, his current glittering blue and broad in the sun. The opposite bank was flat and belted with wheat fields, beyond which stretched a gray forest of thorns and then the yellow savannas of Shendy, walled in the distance by long, blue, broken ranges of mountains. The summit of a hill near our road was surrounded with a thick wall, formed of natural blocks of black porphyry. It had square, projecting bastions at regular intervals, and an entrance on the western side. From its appearance, form and position, it had undoubtedly been a stronghold of some one of the Arab tribes, and can claim no great antiquity. I travelled on until after sunset, when, as no village appeared, I camped in a grove of large mimosas, not far from the Nile. A few Shygheean herdsmen were living in brush huts near at hand, and dogs and jackals howled incessantly through the night.

On the fifth day I reached the large town of El Metemma, nearly opposite Shendy, and the capital of a negro kingdom, before the Egyptian usurpation. The road, on approaching it, leads over a narrow plain, covered with a shrub resembling heather, bordered on one side by the river, and on the other by a long range of bare red sand-hills. We journeyed for more than three hours, passing point after point of the hills, only to find other spurs stretching out ahead of us. From the intense heat I was very anxious to reach El Metemma, and was not a little rejoiced when I discerned a grove of date-trees, which had been pointed out to me from Shendy, a month before, as the landmark of the place. Soon a cluster of buildings appeared on the sandy slopes, but as we approached, I saw they were ruins. We turned another point, and reached another group of tokuls and clay houses—ruins also. Another point, and more ruins, and so for more than a mile before we reached the town, which commences at the last spur of the hills, and extends along the plain for a mile and a half.

It is a long mass of one-story mud buildings, and the most miserable place of its size that I have seen in Central Africa. There is no bazaar, but an open market-place, where the people sit on the ground and sell their produce, consisting of dourra, butter, dates, onions, tobacco and a few grass mats. There may be a mosque in the place, but in the course of my ramble through the streets, I saw nothing that looked like one. Half the houses appeared to be uninhabited, and the natives were a hideous mixture of the red tribes of Màhass and Shygheea and the negro races of Soudân. A few people were moving lazily through the dusty and filthy lanes, but the greater portion were sitting in the earth, on the shady side of the houses. In one of the streets I was taken for the Medical Inspector of the town, a part of whose business it is to see that it is kept free from filth. Two women came hastily out of the houses and began sweeping vigorously, saying to me as I came up: “You see, we are sweeping very clean.” It would have been much more agreeable to me, had the true Inspector gone his rounds the day before. El Metemma and Shendy are probably the most immoral towns in all Central Africa. The people informed me that it was a regular business for persons to buy female slaves, and hire them for the purpose of prostitution, all the money received in this vile way going into the owner’s pocket.

I was occupied the rest of the day and the next morning in procuring and filling additional water-skins, and preparing to cross the Beyooda. Achmet had a quantity of bread baked, for the journey would occupy seven or eight days, and there was no possibility of procuring provisions on the road. Mohammed did not make his appearance at the appointed time, and I determined to start without him, my caravan being increased by a Dongolese merchant, and a poor Shygheean, whose only property was a club and a wooden bowl, and who asked leave to help tend the camels for the sake of food and water on the way. All of the Beyooda, which term is applied to the broad desert region west of the Nile and extending southward from Nubia to Kordofan and Dar-Fūr, is infested with marauding tribes of Arabs, and though at present their depredations are less frequent than formerly, still, from the total absence of all protection, the traveller is exposed to considerable risk. For this reason, it is not usual to find small parties traversing this route, as in the Nubian Desert.

I added to my supplies a fat sheep, a water-skin filled with mareesa, a sheaf of raw onions (which are a great luxury in the Desert), and as many fowls as could be procured in El Metemma. Just as we were loading the camels, who should come up but Beshir and two or three more of the Mahassee sailors, who had formed part of my crew from Berber to Khartoum. They came up and kissed my hand, exclaiming: “May God prosper you, O Effendi!” They immediately set about helping to load the camels, giving us, meanwhile, news of every thing that had happened. Beshir’s countenance fell when I asked him about his Metemma sweetheart, Gammerò-Betahadjerò; she had proved faithless to him. The America was again on her way from Berber to Khartoum, with a company of merchants. The old slave, Bakhita, unable to bear the imputation of being a hundred and fifty years old, had run away from the vessel. When the camels were loaded and we were ready to mount, I gave the sailors a few piastres to buy mareesa and sent them away rejoicing.