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

when in the heart of the Hadendowah Hills we
came suddenly upon a scene in its weirdness the most extraordinary
and most appallingly grand I had ever seen. A huge wilderness lay
before us like the dry bed of a vast ocean, whose waters by some
subterranean convulsion had been sucked into the bowels of the earth,
leaving in its whirling eddies the debris of submarine mountains heaped
up in rugged confusion or scattered over its sandy 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