THE ESCAPE FROM JEDABIA 55 



could hardly understand the dialect used by the Libyan 

 Beduins. It is not a case of accent or pronunciation. 

 Nearly all the words are different. 



I cannot imagine why Wadi Farig is marked on the 

 map as a vivid gi-een splash across the colourless desert. 

 The slight depression running due east and west between 

 the two faint ridges about 15 metres high varies in no 

 respect from the surrounding country. No blade of 

 grass or green thing decorates it. Nothing breaks the 

 monotonous sand and gi'ey brushwood except the one 

 well of bitter brackish water. We arrived just as the 

 sun was setting and had difficulty in getting the camels 

 past the well in order to camp on the higher ground 

 beyond. Hassanein was riding a nervous "naga" 

 (female), who never kept her head in one direction for 

 more than a minute or two. She now decided to race 

 for the well while a playful companion kicked off a bale 

 or two, upset the balance of the rest, caught her foot 

 in a falling sack and tore wildly away, scattering her 

 load to the winds. My stately beast was in an amorous 

 mood, so, with guttural gurglings, he added himself to 

 the general melee. I had to dismount and limp up to 

 the rise, dragging him forcibly after me, while the men 

 collected our belongings and reloaded them. It was a 

 race with the sun, but we just won it. As the last 

 crimson glow faded in the radiant west and the devout 

 Mohammed hfted a sandy nose from his ablutions, the 

 last tent peg was driven in. Brush fires gleamed on the 

 rise opposite, for wherever there is a desert well there 

 are a few scattered tents of the nomads whose homes 

 move with the season and the pasture. 



We made a flaming pyre and sat round it in a circle 

 of pack-saddles. Yusuf had foimd his beloved Jedi and 

 he pointed her out to me triumphantly — the Pole star! 

 The silence of the desert encircled us and a faint scent 



