Pictures of the Desert

Dominion, Volume 25, Issue 69, 15 December 1931, Page 21 (Supplement)

Pictures of the Desert

A Prime Minister Meditates IMPRESSIONS OF EGYPT

By The

Rt. Hon. J. Ramsay MacDonald.

It is in their brief interludes from public life that our prominent men so often reveal new and unexpected traits. Mr. MacDonald made a tour of the Egyptian desert some years ago when he wrote the interesting pen pictures which zve now present.

A SQUAT, dark-brown erection like a tent that has fallen in, or like a monstrous collapsed hat, is before us. One side is open to what wind there is and to the sand that certainly is, and within is gloomy shade in which we can see that something (which turns out to be the lady of the tent) is moving. Dogs tied to stakes by short strings yelp furiously and spring to get at us. A% camel surveys us with a large inquiring eye, swinging his head as he does so, and with a leisurely dignity that goes far to hide his natural clum siness, gets up from the ground. An ass, taking us more philosophically, shakes his ears and' gives no further heed. Lord of the camp, a big, muscular, dark-skinned son of the desert, robed in tarnished white, greets us. and a troop of tatterdemalions, bare-legged and bare-bosomed, surround us at a respectful distance. , We have come upon the tent of a desert nomad. All around there is nothing but sand and stones bearing scrub that seems dry and dead. Not far off is a low round wall, the head of a well, and upon it sit three or four men like him who stands before us, and a large flock of white sheep and black goats crowd close by waiting patiently for water. We think of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. There they are with their flocks and herds. They seem to have been wandering since the days of Genesis, and four days out from London we have met with them. Every mile we have come from London seems to have been an unrolling back of the scroll of time by a century, and now we have got to the patriarchs. In the evening we read the wonderful tribal tales in Genesis. They are a more living interpretation of the life around ns than the guide books. Nomads on (lie March. ’ Contrary to general belief, the road through the desert is one of endless variety to him who has an eye to see. Desolation may lie like a scroll unfolded from horizon to horizon, but its face changes from lipuy to hour, and is veiled by the most exquisite tints of delicate blue and pink and purple that change every minute as if by magic. Sometimes the soil is tawny like a lion's hide, sometimes ' spotted with bushes and tufts of pale grey-green, sometimes white as snow glistening in the sun. And the movements upon it. too. are wonderfully beautiful. A caravan comes along with slow, graceful, swinging motion; the heads of the camels sway as though they regard the vain show of life with dreamy indifference, and they stand on the skyline like creatures of another world contemplating their own ugliness and calm in their own superiority; little troops of gazelles, hardly distinguishable from their surroundings, flee like ghosts in the sunshine; flocks of white

sheep and black goats trot over the landscape with their quaint flapping ears following the leisurely movements of the white-robed shepherd ; the endless variety in the flight of birds —the quails, the ravens, the partridges, the shrikes, the hawks: the whole moving scene is of endless interest.

But the grand movement of the desert is the trek of the nomads. Some way in front of them come their flocks of sheep and goats, running, cropping, ceaselessly moving with their shepherds in their midst. Then the cavalcade of camels and asses appears, and a great rout of men and women, youths and infants, walking, riding on donkeys, perched high on camels, some closely veiled, Some exposing their dark-brown skins to the gaze of every passer-by. all tattooed. There they come humptydumptying along, a confused medley of man and beast, of plodding creature and dare-devil rapscallion.

They bunch up when they come up to you. The camels threaten to stampede, and there is hurrying and scurrying, shouting and the laying on of sticks ’ the donkeys stand as though waiting patiently for a shove forward; the rabble crowd round you demanding "argent.” By dint of whacking and shouting the eddying confusion ■is brought into a stream-like movement. First there comes a camel laden with bundles wrapped in carpets, tent poles, odds and ends, with half a dozen fowls hanging head downward, legs tied to the saddle and wings flapping. Right behind scurries another with a bowl erection made of carpet rolls on his hump, like a huge stork’s nest, from the rim of which nod the heads of two babes and a kid or two. Then another carrying an enormous tent on its back curtained by red stuff. From it a woman peeps coyly, and we see some infants and fowls on her lap. and on the outside of her bower hangs a fes toon of pots and pans and rattling tins. This old camel jogs past in well-feigned unconcern, and is followed by a rush of young camels that look like halffledged ostriches. Then the stream swells into a flood of donkeys with packs or persons on their backs, cocks and hens and more kids and lambs, white and dun-coloured dogs, rapscallions, male and female, young and old When the Hudibras cavalcade has passed we look back and the last we see of it is a crowd of ragged, muchexposed ragamuffins, heads together, comparing and quarrelling over the proceeds of their encounter with civilisation and small change.

Snake-Charmers and Jugglers. The mood of the desert and its face change from hour to hour, but its spirit is like a quality fixed in marble or bronze. To it, the stories of all religions tell us, the devout have retired when moments of great revelation and creative changes have come upon them. In its vast space or solitude, in its brooding silences, men, by losing their smaller and changing selves, find their larger and abiding selves. The chrysalis is there shed and the imprisoned being is liberated. But. be’it not forgotten, in these same vastnesses and solitudes there lurk demons and evil spirits, too. For the desert, like the sea. will remain for ever hostile to men, and its allurements are sometimes rather of the order of liewitchery than of love. The uncanny broods there. Dark-browed fear wanders about there. There you find the fortune-teller of specially black arts, the juggler of horrid tricks and deceptions. the obscene dancer, the dervish

the snake-charmer, the vendor of spells and amulets; they weave their magic round man and beast. With the air of liberation you --breathe mephitic whiffs, heavy laden with demoniac terror and black superstition. and you have tc. fight the besetting devils as well as glide into your" own release. It is rather in the prison than in the freedom of the desert that its children live. The gay story of romance they love, but still more are they drawn to the arts and mysteries. You should see the childlike response they give to the tricks of the snake-charmer, the juggler and mesmerist. I came across a crowd of white-robed figures one day in a village far in the desert. They enclosed a long oval space, in the inner edge of which chil dren crouched: behind them men sat. crouched, or stood open-mouthed and open-eyed. In the centre was a brown robed figure; squatting on the dust two cobra-like serpents faced him. and by him lay a bag and bagpipes He was for the moment engaged in pushing long iron rods up his nose. The concentration of minds and eyes was intense. This item of horrible wonder over, he addressed himself to the snakes. They lunged at him; he expostulated and called to his aid a local saint, which relieved the strain of attention and made his audience laugh (and subscribe). The creatures swayed, watched, turned as he turned, never took their unflickering eye off him. Then he played his pipes. They nodded and bobbed and struck at him. He lqj.ighed at them, made fools of them, lifted them up. turned from them ami produced another from his bag The crowd murmured: they knew its deadly poison. It began its performance with grand and haughty ..its; it was to stand no nonsense. lie played a seductive air and laughed at it. He really was an artist in insulting diplomacy. It came for him and struck—and whipped the dust. It listened to that troublesome pipe wail, and then the supreme moment for the crowd came. The wizard was uttering his charms and the wicked and proud beast was passing under the spell. The magic man touched its tail and it was riveted to the ground. He lifted it, stretched it out above his head, laid it down flat; he took a pinch of dust in his fingers, and, while he muttered more spells, sprinkled it on the snake’s head. There it lay like a yard stick, stiff and dead, for the rest of the show. Another day I stood and watched a troop of jugglers and acrobats from Morocco. They gave an extraordinarily good show tliat surpassed ninetenths of our music-hall tumbling. Bur again the piece which knit the crowd into one gaping, tense personality was that into which black.art entered. A small, yellow-faced, fuzzy-haired, lithe man entered the ring. The crowd pressed together, some crouching lower, some craning their necks. Tea was produced from an empty tin teapot. and when coffee was asked for an innocent youth was placed in the ring, and after lie had held the pot aloft for a minute, the tea was turned into coffee. a trick they had probably seen a

hundred times, but here it was again, fresh and mysterious as ever. That, however, was but by-play. Steel was produced and sheathed in flesh. A boy standing in the ring was touched on the back of the head and fell back in the arms of the juggler rigid and lifeless. A knife was passed round, solemnly examined by the wiseacres, pronounced to be good, and the operation of cutting oil the boy’s thumb was begun in tense silence. When the joint was half severed, the hand was held up with the knife in it. Another spell was passed over the youngster, he rose up, the juggler holding his hand by the wrist, the knife sticking in the thumb. More spells and manipulation, and behold, the knife in the hand of the juggler, and the thumb without a scratch or an ache on that of the boy. W’hen the moon is full, you feel the two warring spirits of the desert. The hills bounding it, its open spaces, its sands, lie in happy silvery brightness like the light on the face of innocence asleep. Nowhere else does one have such a simply direct feeling of Nature sleeping, resting, dreaming placidly of beautiful and happy things. And yet there are many strange shadows and weird dark places dead to the moonbeams. The silver on the upper surface'of the palms hides forbidding shadows, dark abodes lie on the sides of the dunes, and eerie sighs and cries pass through the moonlight. Verily, the desert, like a ruined castle, abounds in witchcrafts. It is ■the dwelling-place of dark sorceries tnd influences. The Oasis. Nothing is more striking in the desert than the approach of an oasis. You have perhaps been deceived all day by the shimmering mirage with its cooling vision jof glittering waters, its , headlands of cool earth, its fringes of shading trees’ reflected so beautifully in , the magic lake. But a time comes : when something that is surely more : eubstantial appears—something of this earth earthy. Breaking the dun ex- (

panse is a long stretch of dark green which does not faint and fade. You are Indeed coming upon palms and shades and springs. Among the spots of happiest and most comforting beauty that I know in the world I place the oasis of Nefta high. You come upon it in the midst of the desert on the Tunisian western border by the northern margin of the famous salt lake known as the Chott Djerid. The guide books and their faithful followers, the guides, tell z you that there are 152 springs at Nefta which gush at the rate of 500 litres a second. They have gushed until in process of time they have cut deep into the stiff, sandy deposits of the desert so that high precipices rise from their beds. You enter the gorges by the springs and ride down the streams as you would” along a deep-cut Devonshire lane.

The water is warm and clear, and the bottom is white, like a chalk Stream at home. What a delicious spot. The leaves of the palms throw a deep cool shade over you and long sharp spears of light come through, flash on the water, and speckle the Bides of the precipices. Folks hurry along by the narrow paths, donkeys carrying water-jars block the way; Stream after stream joins in, and you have glimpses of a wonderful play z of light and shade up its gorge. At a point where several such streams join, the bed expands into a broad shallow lake and then there is a lively scene of colour, movement, and gaiety. Donkeys stand in the water having their jars filled; children are bathing; men and women are washing elothes, swilling them, swinging them over their heads, beating them on stones. Up in the village above there are filth, poverty, and squalor; but down in the river beds are glimpses of paradise, and above are gardens like nooks Bnatched from a world of dreams. I rode out from this lively and happy scene leaving my heart behind.

The Eternal Desert. The desert is a grim place, however, •nd its splrit'ls the camel, the jackal, the bleached skeleton. Down from the hills which bound it on the north,

where there are great forests of cedar, far-flung groves of olives, vineyards, and wide fields of corn, men have come, but all have been thrown back except the beaten tribes, the broken men who have fled into it as a refuge. In the north, civilisation after civilisation has flourished, and their ruins He piled literally on the top of each other—the races who buried their dead under dolmens, the Phoenicians who made Carthage, the Romans who built Timgad—but the desert defied them all. On its edge are the ruins of their armed camps; not a footprint of theirs was impressed upon it. We behold what they beheld, drifting sands, salt lakes, leprous flats. The land accursed but strangely fascinating in Its doom; the land where sorcery walks in the shadow of wisdom and witchcraft by the side of peace; the land where during the noon-day the sun burns with fiendish ardour, during the afternoon the most wonderful visions of colour are displayed, and during the night strange ghosts of the good and

the evil walk and discourse on "unknown things and strange calamities.” The desert Is still unconquered by man. So over it the winds blow and the sands drift and the years pass like a tale that for ever remains untold.