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 tent 
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- 
