Visit to Somaliland. 383 



we halted one day^ and spent most of our time in and 

 around the garden. Alas ! our old friend Farag, the ex- 

 Egyptian black soldier^ had gone the way of all fleshy his 

 place being taken by a Yemen Arab. Among the Berbera 

 jail-birds working in the garden we were shocked to find 

 one of our former and best-behaved camel-men with irons 

 on his legs. Of course, he assured us that he was the victim 

 of false swearing, and was perfectly innocent of the charge 

 against him, which was one of highway robbery with violence 

 to the person. Poor Yessir, he certainly did not look like a 

 brigand, and we could not help feeling sorry that he had, 

 guilty or not guilty, fallen on such evil times, so we gave 

 him the wherewithal to purchase a few luxuries, and left 

 him muttering — fatalist, as they all are — " Al Allah," "■ It is 

 the will of God." 



Leaving Dobar, we marched due west uutil we came to a 

 gap in the hills, when we turned southward along the dry 

 bed of the torrent that had made the " pass." At midday 

 we halted for luncheon at our old camping-ground, Boosti, 

 sending Egga on with the caravan Avith orders to have the 

 tents up and tea ready by the time we arrived. Though 

 Boosti is a parched, waterless place, it does not lack animal 

 life. Dik-diks {Neotragus j^hillipsi) and ground-squirrels 

 were plentiful, and there were several gazelles feeding within 

 sight. Birds and butterflies were well represented, and a 

 splendid Bateleur Eagle circled round and round us, uttering 

 its weird cry. At nightfall we found our tents pitched 

 among the tamarisk-bushes in a narrow defile called Daggach 

 Dyair, the " Baboon Rocks,^' a name well chosen, as the 

 next morning, before breakfast, a large troop of these brutes 

 barked and grunted at us from the overhanging cliffs, while 

 we, equally curious, turned every available glass upon our 

 inquisitive visitors. 



Our march that day followed the windings of a tiny stream, 

 which at first was a mere thread, but by the time we neared 

 its source (the big fig-tree at Bihen) it was quite a respectable 

 little beck. In most countries a stream dwindles towards 

 its source, but in parched and burning Africa the reverse is 



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