Scientific American Supplement, No. 1157, March 5, 1898 | Page 8

bottom. Porphyry and black granite bowlders, in every conceivable form and size, lay strewn over the plain. Sometimes so fantastic did their shapes become that the least imaginative of our party could picture the gigantic ruins of some mighty citadel, with its ramparts, bastions and towering castle. For many hours we were traversing this weird and desolate valley, and when the sun cast long shadows across our track as he sank to rest, his ruddy light falling upon the dark bowlders, polished with the sand storms of thousands of years, stray pieces of red granite would catch his rosy glint, and sparkle like giant rubies in a setting of black pearls.
We found more life in ten miles of the Hadendowah country than during the whole of the first part of our journey. Flocks of sheep, goats and oxen passed us coming to the wells, or going to some pasturage up in the hills, but few natives came near us, and there were no signs of habitation anywhere. The wells we now passed were mere water holes similar to those met with up country in Australia. The flocks of the natives would hurry down at eventide and drink up all the water that had percolated through the sand during the day, befouling the pools in every conceivable way. Natives seem to revel in water contaminated by all kind of horrors. They wash the sore backs of their camels, bathe their sheep and drink from the same pool. At one large hole round which a number of natives were filling their girbas we halted, and procured some of the liquid, which was muddy and tepid, but wholesomer. A native caravan had camped near by and the Hadendowah escort of spearmen crowded round us.
The Fuzzy Wuzzy is a much more pleasant object when seen through a binocular than when he is close to you. His frizzy locks are generally clotted with rancid butter, his slender garment is not over clean. He is a very plucky individual, as we know, thrifty, and lives upon next to nothing, but many live upon him. Several graybeards came up to salute their sheikh, who was traveling with us, and this they did by pressing his hand many times, and bowing low, but they glanced at us with no amiable eyes, and suddenly turned away. There was no absolute discourtesy; they simply did not want to be introduced. Probably they remembered the incident at Tamai, where many of their friends were pierced with British bullets. So they slung their shields, trailed their spears and turned away.
My camel had much improved by gentle treatment and I was able to ride on ahead. Just as I neared the narrow neck of the Tamai Pass, two men and a boy climbed down toward us from a small guard house, on a lofty rock to our left. My camel man and I instinctively came to a halt, for the manner of the comers, who were fully armed, was impressive. They confronted us and immediately began questioning my camel man, after much altercation, during which I quietly leaned over my saddle and unbuttoned my revolver case, for they looked truculent and somewhat offensive. My camel man mysteriously felt about his waist belt, and eventually handed something to the foremost native, whereat he and his companions turned and began to reclimb the hill. As we went on our way, I inquired the reason of the men barring our path. "Oh," my man said, "it is simply a question of snuff." "Snuff," I exclaimed, in astonishment. "Yes; that was all they wanted--a little tobacco powder to chew." Here was a possible adventure that seemed as if it were going to end in smoke, and snuff was its finale.
After all the Suakim-Berber road, that was looked upon as full of dramatic incident--for even our military friends in Berber, when they bid us goodby, said, "It was a very sporting thing to do. Great Scott! They only wished they had the luck to come along"--was a highway without even a highwayman upon it, and apparently for the moment as pleasantly safe, minus the hostelries en route, as the road from London to York. Prom the top of Tamai Pass, 2,870 feet--though of the same name, not to be confounded with the famous battle which took place further south--we began to make a rapid descent, and the last sixty miles of our journey were spent in traversing some of the most lovely mountain scenery I think I have ever visited. Sometimes one might be passing over a Yorkshire moorland, with its purple backing of hills, for the sky was lowering and threatened rain. Then the scene would as quickly change to a Swiss valley, when, on rounding the base of a spur, one would strike a weird, volcanic-torn