THE CROSS DESERT JOURNEY TO KOSSEIR
I PROPOSE now to break the sequence of events during my second season at Thebes, and attempt to describe a desert journey I took early in November. During the months I spent at Der el-Bahri, when I joined the camp of the Egyptian Exploration Fund, I was awakened every morning by the first light in the eastern sky, and daily saw the sun rise above the distant hills which shut off the Nile valley from the Arabian desert. The Libyan desert, on the eastern fringe of which we camped, stretches for two thousand miles and more in a westerly direction till it reaches Morocco, that land of the setting sun known in Egypt as el-Maghrib, the West.
The ‘call of the desert’ could easily have been satisfied without crossing the Nile valley; but the Libyan desert called me no further into its tractless wastes than to the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings. Distance lent an enchantment to the view of the low-lying hills between me and the rising sun, and as Alice wished to see what went on in the room beyond the looking-glass, so I felt drawn to the land which lay between those hills and the Red Sea.
It was across that tract that the Thebans of old207 journeyed to the port of Kosseir to bring back the products from the far East. Beyond those hills gangs of slaves were driven to dig for the gold now found in the tombs of the Pharaohs—King Solomon’s mines are spoken of as being there—and the Rehenu valley of the ancient Egyptians, shut in with black breccia cliffs, echoed to the sounds of hammer and pick, while many a statue was there being fashioned, to be dragged down to the Nile and floated to far-away Gizeh or Memphis.
From the earliest dynasties right up to the present day each generation has left its mark on the rock surfaces between those hills and the sea-coast. Ancient Kosseir, which remained a port of some importance to within a quite recent date, had often been the goal of imaginary journeys I had made across the desert which lay between it and my present camp.
Imagine my surprise when, shortly after I and my assistant from Paris had settled down at Der el-Bahri, Mr. Weigall, who is Chief Inspector of Antiquities in Upper Egypt, told me he was about to take that desert journey, and wondered whether I would care to accompany him. I had only to provide my own camel and to share in the provisions we should need on the way; the chief expense of the train of camels and men to take the tents, the water-supply, and the other necessaries of a desert journey, would be borne by the government, as Mr. Weigall was going to get information connected with his department. Mr. Charles Whymper, who had come out from England with me, and Mr. Erskine Nicol, whom I had long known in Egypt, were also asked to join the party. None of us wished to lose208 such a chance, and in three or four days after first hearing the proposal, we mounted our camels and started from Luxor for the over and beyond which had been my dream for many a long day.
Our caravan consisted of twenty-three camels, fourteen of which left an hour or two before us, to take our heavy baggage to that night’s halting-place. We four started in company of the sheykh of the camel-drivers, two guards, Mr. Weigall’s servant, who carried our lunch, and an Ababdi son of the desert, who acted as our guide. We struck inland for a short distance and then took a northern course parallel to the Nile; we skirted the further side of the ruins of Karnak, and shortly after left the cultivation to continue our route on the higher level of the desert. During the twenty miles of our first day’s ride nothing could have been more dissimilar than the country on our right to that which we beheld to the left of us. The contrast was startling—the scorching desert on one hand, and on the other the shady palm groves on the fringe of the cultivation, with the rich dark soil covered in places by the Nile’s overflow or just turning to green by the lately sown crops. Yet this very contrast is more characteristic of Egypt than anything else; and it is this which must have called forth the saying of Herodotus that ‘Egypt is the gift of the Nile.’
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A MARKET ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT
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209 We halted for lunch under the shade of the tamarisk trees, which seem able to grow on a slightly higher level than the palms. The shade was more than welcome; for sitting still in the noonday sun is a very different matter to passing through it even at the gentle trot of our camels. It was a beautiful spot, for no trees harmonise with a desert background as do the tamarisks, and these had an especially massive and plumy leafage of an even more delicate grey than usual; their gnarled and twisted trunks seeming a mute protest to the poor soil in which fete had forced them to grow.
We did not remain here long, as we wished to reach the Coptic convent, Maris Bughtra, while there was still daylight, and there we proposed to pitch our camp for the night. Though the sun was hot, the crisp air was so invigorating that what would be a very fatiguing day elsewhere is easily borne in the desert. The motion of the camel is trying till one has got accustomed to it, and a few miles will cause the beginner an incredible amount of stiffness. There being no stirrups, it takes some time to learn to rise and fall with the motion of the beast, and until that is acquired every stride means a bump for the would-be rider. I had unhappily not acquired this, and felt rather stiff and sore when I dismounted for lunch; when we halted at the end of that day’s journey the stiffness was positive pain. I had misgivings as to how I should feel by the time Kosseir was reached and when longer hours in the saddle would be the order of the day. To lie down seemed more painful than to walk about, for on whatever part of one’s anatomy one rested that part seemed more painful than any other—until one tried that other.
Outside the walls of the Coptic convent we came on our baggage, and found the men already pitching our210 tents, hobbling the camels, and boiling some water over a fire of dry brushwood. We sent some one to Qus (on the outskirts of which little town this convent is situated) to find the priest who could show us over the building. No monks dwell there at present and the chapel is only used on the day dedicated to Saint Bughtra, whoever he may be. All that remains of the convent, except the chapel, could be seen before the priest arrived, as the fortress-like wall which encircled it had crumbled down in several places. A few cells were still roofed over, but for the most part ugly ruin had disfigured the buildings. Except where some fine columns or portals have endured the wear and tear of ages, as in the case of some of the temples, a desert ruin is a depressing sight; no growth to hide the shapeless bits of fallen masonry are there, neither moss nor lichen give it the beautiful colouring associated with the remains of bygone structures. A shrine which may have crumbled down centuries ago might have fallen in the day before yesterday unless the desert winds had swept a covering of sand to give it a partial burial.
The little many-domed church still stood erect amidst the fallen masonry, and when the priest arrived and fumbled with his wooden key to loose the bolt in the ponderous lock, our expectations somewhat revived. Some tawdry objects of piety showed that some folks still remained who gave this place of worship a passing thought; but in the otherwise neglected interior these tawdry ornaments reminded me horribly of the patches of paint I have seen on the cheeks of a corpse laid out for burial in Portugal. The simile may be far-fetched,211 but there it was, and I was pleased when we had gone through the farce of giving the priest his gratuity—called, to save his face, ‘for the upkeep of the church.’
We found our camp all prepared for us when we rejoined it. The packing-cases which served as a table were neatly set for dinner, and our saddles were arranged to do duty as chairs. Our two sleeping-tents stood primly one on each side of the small marquee which served as a dining-room. Weigall’s servant was an excellent cook, and a long day in the desert had prepared us to do justice to his dishes. The saddles make very good chairs when sitting is not a painful operation; they are covered with sheepskin, but the thickest fleece, in my condition, could not disguise the hard wooden skeleton beneath it. An air-cushion helped matters a trifle, though the air seemed harder than it usually is. Stiffness crept over the bodies of the two of us who had most recently come from England; but on comparing our complaints I fancied that I had more than my share—I was more conscious of it anyhow.
When the dinner was cleared and pipes were alight, we discussed our several interests in our desert journey. To Charles Whymper the birds we had seen along the fringe of the cultivation were of the greatest importance. We had passed many white Egyptian vultures; we had also put up some coveys of cream-coloured coursers; the desert lark, the sand-grouse, and desert martins had all been seen as well as the familiar hoopoes, the black kite, the little owl, and green bee-eaters—or shall we call them blue, for they can be either colour according212 as the light catches their plumage? The arch?ological interests were still before us, and though these had not been explored for some time, records of journeys in this eastern desert have been left by the German Egyptologist Lepsius, by Golenischeff, the Russian, as well as by the more recent Schweinfurth. Its pictorial aspects appealed to each of us, and as I had brought my sketching materials I hoped that there might be sufficiently long halts to allow of my doing some painting. Erskine Nicol is well versed in the habits of the wandering tribes who pitch their tents on the higher levels where the cultivation stops short. The Ababdi and the Bishareen territories meet on this desert highroad, and we should probably come across a few of both one and the other. As we were to start soon after sunrise the next morning, we deferred our topics of conversation to another occasion.
It was still dark in our tents when we were awakened, because the heavy baggage was to be got off as soon after daybreak as possible. The tents were lowered and stowed away on the camels, leaving us to pack our bedding in the open, and it was surprising to find what a difference in temperature there was when our canvas shelters were removed. It was bitterly cold, and much movement was impossible in my case, for I was rigidly stiff. I stuck to a couple of blankets, and with some straps improvised a primitive garment; my camel served as a shelter from the cold breeze and made a warm back to lean against, while we squatted in a circle to have our breakfast. The blankets would serve later, when the sun got up, as extra padding to the saddle.
213 Our cross desert journey began this morning, for on the previous day we had skirted the cultivation to reach at Qus the medi?val route from the Nile to the Red Sea port. We started before the baggage train of camels, which would overtake us before we reached Lakéta, a small oasis where we should spend the night. Selim, as the cook was called, and our Ababdi guide accompanied us. The former looked a quaint object, seated on his camel amidst pots and kettles, photographic apparatus, sketching materials, and any other odds and ends which we might require before the camp would again be pitched.
The rising sun was very beautiful; when I have tried to paint it, it has always risen and lost its rich colouring too quickly. This morning I was concerned with the............