294 TWO DIANAS IN SOMALILAND 



The hot karif wind here blew hurricanes for a couple 

 of days, and tents would not stand against it. We 

 tried to keep them up, but the anxiety of the prospect 

 of one's house about one's ears kept us awake, and the 

 next night we had a sort of circle made of all our 

 boxes and luggage generally, and slept inside the ring 

 with the gale blowing great guns over our heads. The 

 karif is part of the Haga season, July and August, and 

 we had met it, only less furiously inclined, on and off 

 lately. It springs up at night, and you may go to 

 bed with not a breath stirring to wake to feel the tents 

 straining at its moorings. The sand blows before the 

 wind in clouds, and the best way to combat it is to 

 precipitate oneself face downwards until the swirl of 

 grit has passed for the time. At the height of the 

 Golis the karif is not usually prevalent, keeping its 

 attentions for the plains. And we were delighted that 

 each morning as the day advanced the wind of the 

 night spent itself into a pleasant refreshing breeze. 



Just where we pitched our camp was a reserved 

 area for game, so we descended next morning, minus 

 the hunters, to lower country, down the remains of 

 elephant trails. They are not so amazing to me as 

 the tracks of the bison — extinct, or practically extinct 

 anyway — one comes on in some parts of Montana. I 

 remember one in particular that I thought was the 

 ancient bed of some great river, so wide and deep was 

 it. And yet thousands of bison passing over it to 

 drink daily at a lake in the vicinity had made the 

 wondrous track. But I'm digressing, and that badly. 



A couple of agile wild asses raced along a little path- 



