CHRISTMAS IN THE DESERT 123 



cumbersome bales. Arabs and blacks alike were standing 

 about in sorrowful groups. Mohammed, with a plaid 

 rug wound over the fleece-lined mackintosh, was cleaning 

 a ruthless-looking knife. Even the camels had the most 

 depressed possible expression. One of the nagas lay 

 beside the fire with drooping head. It appeared that she 

 was the direct cause of the agitation, though most of the 

 animals were suffering severely from their unaccustomed 

 date meal followed by a heavy drink. The naga appeared 

 to be in extremis. Foam frothed from her mouth and 

 nostrils, her neck was twisted into a stiff distorted curve, 

 her sides were labouring painfully. I could not have 

 believed that even the most acute indigestion could reduce 

 an animal to such a state after so few hours. "She 

 is going to die," said Yusuf. "Prepare the knife!" 

 "Wait! Wait!" exclaimed Abdullah. "I will try 

 burning her first!" Apparently there are but two 

 remedies in the desert, bleeding and firing. They had 

 already tried the first without effect, as it was too cold 

 for the blood to run. They now pushed the unfortunate 

 animal on its side and laid a hot iron on its abdomen. 

 It protested much less than it usually did at being loaded, 

 but the warmth presumably galvanised it into action, for 

 it managed to struggle to its feet and wander off with 

 the others, a sorry-looking, hunched-up group, one of 

 which appeared dead lame. 



During a wasted morning the friction between the 

 two hastily formed zaribas became intense. The blacks, 

 incensed at the abuse which had been showered upon them 

 for riding the camels between Aujela and Jalo, now 

 got their owti back. They said that the Arabs knew 

 nothing at all about a caravan and could not even feed 

 the animals properly. At noon the miserable naga got 

 much worse, and Mohammed, Abdullah and I spent the 

 whole afternoon sitting by her side, trying desperate 



