284 THE SECRET OF SAHARA: KUFARA 



and then, worst of all, oh! intolerably worst, the sand- 

 rash that tortured our nights ! Let no one who dreams of 

 a poetic, Swinburaian desert come to Libya! We had 

 not washed anything but our hands since leaving Hawari 

 thirteen days before and not even these since the Zakar 

 well; since then we had had a sandstorm which had 

 filled every pore with minute grit, so that by day the 

 irritation was just bearable, but at night, in the warmth 

 and the restricted space of the flea-bag, it was a torture 

 beyond behef. I used to feel that never, so long as I 

 lived, would I able to bear seeing water spilled or 

 wasted. 



Fate had been cruel to us in one respect, for the 

 day at the Zakar well, when we had dreamed of sandy 

 baths in the canteen lid behind a friendly palm tree, 

 she had sent us the first of our two sandstorms, so wash- 

 ing had been confined to a teacup for our fingers. One 

 lay at night, sleepless and burning, and looked up at 

 the aloof peace of the stars and wondered vindictively 

 how one could get even w4th the desert for this last 

 trick of hers. Yet, in the cold, still dawn, the desperate 

 tiredness vanished and one made a huge, unnecessary 

 fire to breakfast by and ate black rice with immense 

 relish. Yusuf was very proud of his skill as a cook, so 

 we did not like to tell him of all the foreign bodies we 

 found in our food — bits of leaf and straw from the 

 baggage saddles, grit, hair, pebbles and sand — it was the 

 Libyan sauce and I think Hassanein suffered much in 

 silence, for it was his first desert journey and he still 

 hankered after cleanhness. I used to find him desperately 

 and secretly rubbing a plate with a comer of his muffler 

 or his best silk handkerchief and, whenever he was late 

 for breakfast, I knew it was because he had been unwise 

 enough to look at his cup or fork before using them! 



On our second day in the dunes the flat spaces grew 



