MY SOMALI BOOK 71 



worth while sending for John all the way from India, 

 where he was waiting for my return. 



I was only going to shoot in the Western District 

 of the Protectorate, and was told that I had better 

 make straight, in the first instance, for Hargeisa, 

 where J., the Political Officer in charge, had his head- 

 quarters. This was not exactly what I had wanted 

 to do, as it would involve a loss of several shooting 

 days, but that could not be helped, and on the 24th 

 July the caravan left Berbera. 



I stayed another night in Berbera, as at that time 

 of the year I had no desire to have to accommodate 

 my pace to that of the caravan across the Maritime 

 Plain, and P. kindly offered me a good riding-camel 

 to get me quickly over the first two or three marches. 

 Berbera, in July, when the hot kharif wind is blowing 

 and the atmosphere is thick with whirling sand, is not 

 an abode of bliss. But still less is there any joy in 

 riding in the kharif across the hot sands of the Mari- 

 time Plain. Fortunately, however, during the after- 

 noon and evening the kharif dies down, so I was able 

 on the afternoon of the 28th to ride the twenty-five 

 miles straight through to Deragodleh comfortably 

 enough. Once you are used to it, a good riding-camel 

 is, to my mind, provided the going is fairly level, an 

 eminently satisfactory steed for a long distance ride. 

 I say a good one advisedly, for few things are calculated 

 to cause one more unalloyed misery and discomfort 

 than a compulsory ride of even a few miles on an un- 

 trained or baggage camel — experto crede. 



Next morning, just after sunrise, I passed within a 

 few yards of a great marabou stork standing upon one 



