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CHAPTER XI. THE
CATARACT AND THE DESERT. AT Assûan,
one bids good-bye to Egypt and enters Nubia through the gates of the cataract –
which is, in truth, no cataract, but a succession of rapids extending
over
two-thirds of the distance between Elephantine and Philæ. The
Nile – diverted
from its original course by some unrecorded catastrophe, the nature of
which
has given rise to much scientific conjecture – here spreads
itself over a rocky
basin bounded by sand-slopes on the one side, and by granite cliffs on
the
other. Studded with numberless islets, divided into numberless
channels,
foaming over sunken rocks, eddying among water-worn boulders, now
shallow, now
deep, now loitering, now hurrying, here sleeping in the ribbed hollow
of a tiny
sand-drift, there circling above the vortex of a hidden whirlpool, the
river,
whether looked upon from the deck of the dahabeeyah or the heights
along the
shore, is seen everywhere to be fighting its way through a labyrinth,
the paths
of which have never been mapped or sounded. These
paths are everywhere difficult and everywhere dangerous; and to that
labyrinth
the Shellalee, or cataract-Arab, alone possesses the key. At the time
of the
inundation, when all but the highest rocks are under water, and
navigation is
as easy here as elsewhere, the Shelladee’s occupation is gone.
But as the
floods subside and travellers begin to reappear, his work commences. To
haul
dahabeeyahs up those treacherous rapids by sheer stress of rope and
muscle; to
steer skilfully down again through channels bristling with rocks and
boiling with
foam, becomes now, for some five months of the year, his principal
industry. It
is hard work; but he gets well paid for it, and his profits are always
on the
increase. From forty to fifty dahabeeyahs are annually taken up between
November and March; and every year brings a larger influx of
travellers.
Meanwhile, accidents rarely happen; prices tend continually upwards;
and the cataract-Arabs make a little fortune by their singular monopoly.1 The
scenery of the first cataract is like nothing else in the world –
except the
scenery of the second. It is altogether new, and strange, and
beautiful. It is
incomprehensible that travellers should have written of it in general
with so
little admiration. They seem to have been impressed by the wildness of
the waters,
by the quaint forms of the rocks, by the desolation and grandeur of the
landscape as a whole; but scarcely at all by its beauty – which
is paramount. The Nile
here widens to a lake. Of the islands, which it would hardly be an
exaggeration
to describe as some hundreds in number, no two are alike. Some are
piled up
like the rocks at the Land’s End in Cornwall, block upon block,
column upon
column, tower upon tower, as if reared by the hand of man. Some are
green with
grass; some golden with slopes of drifted sand; some planted with rows
of
blossoming lupins, purple and white. Others again are mere cairns of
loose
blocks, with here and there a perilously balanced top-boulder. On one,
a
singular upright monolith, like a menhir, stands conspicuous, as if
placed
there to commemorate a date, or to point the way to Philæ.
Another mass rises
out of the water squared and buttressed, in the likeness of a fort. A
third,
humped and shining like the wet body of some amphibious beast, lifts
what seems
to be a horned head above the surface of the rapids. All these blocks
and
boulders and fantastic rocks are granite; some red, some purple, some
black.
Their forms are rounded by the friction of ages. Those nearest the
brink
reflect the sky like mirrors of burnished steel. Royal ovals and
hieroglyphed
inscriptions, fresh as of yesterday’s cutting, start out here and
there from
those glittering surfaces with startling distinctness. A few of the
larger
islands are crowned with clumps of palms; and one, the loveliest of
any, is
completely embowered in gum-trees and acacias, dôm and date
palms, and feathery
tamarisks, all festooned together under a hanging canopy of
yellow-blossomed
creepers. On a
brilliant Sunday morning, with a favourable wind, we entered on this
fairy
archipelago. Sailing steadily against the current, we glided away from
Assûan,
left Elephantine behind, and found ourselves at once in the midst of
the
islands. From this moment every turn of the tiller disclosed a fresh
point of
view, and we sat on deck, spectators of a moving panorama. The
diversity of
subjects was endless. The combinations of form and colour, of light and
shadow,
of foreground and distance, were continually changing. A boat or a few
figures
alone were wanting to complete the picturesqueness of the scene; but in
all
those channels, and among all those islands, we saw no sign of any
living
creature. Meanwhile
the sheik of the cataract – a flat-faced, fishy-eyed old Nubian,
with his head
tied up in a dingy yellow silk handkerchief – sat apart in
solitary grandeur at
the stern, smoking a long chibouque. Behind him squatted some five or
six dusky
strangers; and a new steersman, black as a negro, had charge of the
helm. This
new steersman was our pilot for Nubia. From Assûan to Wady
Halfeh, and back again
to Assûan, he alone was now held responsible for the safety of
the dahabeeyah
and all on board. At length
a general stir among the crew warned us of the near neighborhood of the
first
rapid. Straight ahead, as if ranged along the dyke of a weir, a chain
of small
islets barred the way; while the current, divided into three or four
headlong
torrents, came rushing down the slope, and reunited at the bottom in
one
tumultuous race. That we
should ever get the Philæ up that hill of moving water seemed at
first sight
impossible. Still our steersman held on his course, making for the
widest
channel. Still the Sheykh smoked imperturbably. Presently, without
removing the
pipe from his mouth, he delivered the one word –
“Roóhh!” (Forward!) Instantly,
evoked by his nod, the rocks swarmed with natives. Hidden till now in
all sorts
of unseen corners, they sprang out shouting, gesticulating, laden with
coils of
rope, leaping into the thick of the rapids, splashing like water-dogs,
bobbing
like corks, and making as much show of energy as if they were going to
haul us
up Niagara. The thing was evidently a coup de théatre,
like the
apparition of Clan Alpine’s warriors in the Donna del Lago
– with bakhshîsh in
the background. The scene
that followed was curious enough. Two ropes were carried from the
dahabeeyah to
the nearest island, and there made fast to the rocks. Two ropes from
the island
were also brought on board the dahabeeyah. A double file of men on
deck, and
another double file on shore, then ranged themselves along the ropes;
the
Sheykh gave the signal; and, to a wild chanting accompaniment and a
movement
like a barbaric Sir Roger de Coverley dance, a system of double hauling
began,
by means of which the huge boat slowly and steadily ascended. We may
have been
a quarter of an hour going up the incline; though it seemed much
longer.
Meanwhile, as they warmed to their work, the men chanted louder and
pulled
harder, till the boat went in at last with a rush, and swung over into
a pool
of comparatively smooth water. Having
moored here for an hour’s rest, we next repeated the performance
against a
still stronger current a little higher up. This time, however, a rope
broke.
Down went the haulers, like a row of cards suddenly tipped over –
round swung
the Philæ, receiving the whole rush of the current on her beam!
Luckily for us,
the other rope held fast against the strain. Had it also broken, we
must have
been wrecked then and there ignominiously. Our Nubian
auxiliaries struck work after this. Fate, they said, was adverse; so
they went
home, leaving us moored for the night in the pool at the top of the
first
rapid. The Sheykh promised, however, that his people should begin work
next
morning at dawn, and get us through before sunset. Next morning came,
however,
and not a man appeared upon the scene. At about mid-day they began
dropping in,
a few at a time; hung about in a languid, lazy way for a couple of
hours or so;
moved us into a better position for attacking the next rapid; and then
melted
away mysteriously by twos and threes among the rocks, and were no more
seen. We now
felt that our time and money were being recklessly squandered, and we
resolved
to bear it no longer. Our painter therefore undertook to remonstrate
with the sheik, and to convince him of the error of his ways. The sheik
listened;
smoked; shook his head; replied that in the cataract, as elsewhere,
there were
lucky and unlucky days, days when men felt inclined to work, and days
when they
felt disinclined. To-day, as it happened, they felt disinclined. Being
reminded
that it was unreasonable to keep us three days going up five miles of
river,
and that there was a governor at Assûan to whom we should appeal
to-morrow
unless the work went on in earnest, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders,
and
muttered something about “destiny.” Now the painter, being of a practical turn, had compiled for himself a little
vocabulary of choice Arabic maledictions, which he carried in his
note-book for
reference when needed. Having no faith in its possible usefulness, we
were
amused by the industry with which he was constantly adding to this
collection.
We looked upon it, in fact, as a harmless pleasantry – just as we
looked upon
his pocket-revolver, which was never loaded; or his brand-new
fowling-piece,
which he was never known to fire. But the sheik of the cataract had gone too far. The fatuity of that smile
would have
exasperated the meekest of men; and our painter was not the meekest of
men. So
he whipped out his pocket-book, ran his finger down the line, and
delivered an
appropriate quotation. His accent may not have been faultless; but
there could
be no mistake as to the energy of his style or the vigour of his
language. The
effect of both was instantaneous. The sheik sprang to his feet as if
he had
been shot – turned pale with rage under his black skin –
vowed the Philæ might
stay where she was till doomsday, for aught that he or his men would do
to help
her a foot farther – bounded into his own rickety sandal and
rowed away,
leaving us to our fate. We stood
aghast. It was all over with us. We should never see Abou Simbel now
– never
write our names on the Book of Aboosîr, nor slake our thirst at
the waters of
the second cataract. What was to be done? Must the sheik be defied, or
propitiated? Should we appeal to the governor, or should we immolate
the painter? The majority were for immolating the painter. We went to
bed that night, despairing; but lo! next morning at sunrise appeared
the sheik
of the cataract, all smiles, all activity, with no end of ropes and a
force of
two hundred men. We were his dearest friends now. The painter was his
brother.
He had called out the ban and arrière ban of the cataract in our
service. There
was nothing, in short, that he would not do to oblige us. The
dragoman vowed that he had never seen Nubians work as those Nubians
worked that
day. They fell to like giants, tugging away from morn till dewy eve,
and never
giving over till they brought us round the last corner, and up the last
rapid.
The sun had set, the afterglow had faded, the twilight was closing in,
when our
dahabeeyah slipped at last into level water, and the two hundred, with
a
parting shout, dispersed to their several villages. We were
never known to make light of the painter’s repertory of select
abuse after
this. If that note-book of his had been the drowned book of Prospero,
or the
magical papyrus of Thoth fished up anew from the bottom of the Nile, we
could
not have regarded it with a respect more nearly bordering upon awe. Though
there exists no boundary line to mark where Egypt ends and Nubia
begins, the
nationality of the races dwelling on either side of that invisible
barrier is
as sharply defined as though an ocean divided them. Among the
Shellalee, or cataract villagers, one comes suddenly into the midst of a people that
have
apparently nothing in common with the population of Egypt. They belong
to a
lower ethnological type, and they speak a language derived from purely
African
sources. Contrasting with our Arab sailors the sulky-looking,
half-naked,
muscular savages who thronged about the Philæ during her passage
up the cataract, one could not but perceive that they are to this day as
distinct and
inferior a people as when their Egyptian conquerors, massing together
in one
contemptuous epithet all nations south of the frontier, were wont to
speak of
them as “the vile race of Kush.” Time has done little to
change them since
those early days. Some Arabic words have crept into their vocabulary.
Some
modern luxuries – as tobacco, coffee, soap, and gunpowder –
have come to be
included in the brief catalogue of their daily wants. But in most other
respects they are living to this day as they lived in the time of the
Pharaohs;
cultivating lentils and durra, brewing barley beer, plaiting mats and
baskets
of stained reeds, tracing rude patterns upon bowls of gourd-rind,
flinging the
javelin, hurling the boomerang, fashioning bucklers of crocodile-skin
and
bracelets of ivory, and supplying Egypt with henna. The dexterity with
which,
sitting as if in a wager boat, they balance themselves on a palm-log,
and
paddle to and fro about the river, is really surprising. This barbaric
substitute for a boat is probably more ancient than the pyramids. Having
witnessed the passage of the first few rapids, we were glad to escape
from the
dahabeeyah, and spend our time sketching here and there on the borders
of the
desert, and among the villages and islands round about. In all Egypt
and Nubia
there is no scenery richer in picturesque bits than the scenery of the
cataract. An artist might pass a winter there, and not exhaust the
pictorial
wealth of those five miles which divide Assûan from Philæ.
Of tortuous creeks
shut in by rocks fantastically piled – of sand-slopes golden to
the water’s
edge – of placid pools low-lying in the midst of lupin-fields and
tracts of
tender barley – of creaking sakkiehs, half hidden among palms and
dropping
water as they turn – of mud dwellings, here clustered together in
hollows,
there perched separately on heights among the rocks, and perpetuating
to this
day the form and slope of Egyptian pylons – of rude boats drawn
up in sheltered
coves, or going to pieces high and dry upon the sands – of
water-washed
boulders of crimson, and black, and purple granite, on which the wild
fowl
cluster at mid-day and the fisher spreads his nets to dry at sunset
– of
camels, and caravans, and camps on shore – of cargo-boats and
cangias on the
river – of wild figures of half-naked athletes – of dusky
women decked with
barbaric ornaments, unveiled, swift-gliding, trailing long robes of
deepest
gentian blue – of ancient crones, and little naked children like
live bronzes –
of these, and a hundred other subjects, in infinite variety and
combination,
there is literally no end. It is all so picturesque, indeed, so
biblical, so
poetical, that one is almost in danger of forgetting that the places
are
something more than beautiful backgrounds, and that the people are not
merely
appropriate figures placed there for the delight of sketchers, but are
made of
living flesh and blood, and moved by hopes, and fears, and sorrows,
like our
own. Mahatta –
green with sycamores and tufted palms; nestled in the hollow of a
little bay;
half-islanded in the rear by an arm of backwater, curved and glittering
like
the blade of a Turkish scimetar – is by far the most beautifully
situated
village on the Nile. It is the residence of the principal sheik, and,
if one
may say so, is the capital of the cataract. The houses lie some way
back from
the river. The bay is thronged with native boats of all sizes and
colours. Men
and camels, women and children, donkeys, dogs, merchandise, and
temporary huts
put together with poles and matting, crowd the sandy shore. It is
Assûan over
again; but on a larger scale. The shipping is tenfold more numerous.
The
traders’ camp is in itself a village. The beach is half a mile in
length, and a
quarter of a mile in the slope down to the river. Mahatta is, in fact,
the twin
port to Assûan. It lies, not precisely at the other extremity of
the great
valley between Assûan and Philæ, but at the nearest
accessible point above the cataract. It is here that the Soudan traders disembark their goods for
re-embarkation at Assûan. Such rickety, barbaric-looking craft as
these Nubian
cangias we had not yet seen on the river. They looked as old and
obsolete as
the Ark. Some had curious carved verandahs outside the cabin-entrance.
Others
were tilted up at the stern like Chinese junks. Most of them had been
slavers
in the palmy days of Defterdar Bey; plying then as now between Wady
Halfeh and
Mahatta; discharging their human cargoes at this point for re-shipment
at
Assûan; and rarely passing the cataract, even at the time of
inundation. If
their wicked old timbers could have spoken, they might have told us
many a
black and bloody tale. Going up
through the village and the palm-gardens, and turning off in a
north-easterly
direction towards the desert, one presently comes out about midway of
that
valley to which I have made allusion more than once already. No one,
however
unskilled in physical geography, could look from end to end of that
huge furrow
and not see that it was once a river-bed. We know not for how many tens
of
thousands, or hundreds of thousands, of years the Nile may have held on
its
course within those original bounds. Neither can we tell when it
deserted them.
It is, however, quite certain that the river flowed that way within
historic
times; this is to say, in the days of Amenemhat III (circa B.C.
2800).
So much is held to be proven by certain inscriptions2 which
record
the maximum height of the inundation at Semneh during various years of
that
king’s reign. The Nile then rose in Ethiopia to a level some 27
feet in excess
of the highest point to which it is ever known to attain at the present
day. I
am not aware what relation the height of this ancient bed bears to the
levels
recorded at Semneh, or to those now annually self-registered upon the
furrowed
banks of Philæ; but one sees at a glance, without aid of
measurements or
hydrographic science, that if the river were to come down again next
summer in
a mighty “bore,” the crest of which rose 27 feet above the
highest ground now
fertilised by the annual overflow, it would at once refill its
long-deserted
bed, and convert Assûan into an island. Granted,
then, that the Nile flowed through the desert in the time of Amenemhat
III,
there must at some later period have come a day when it suddenly ran
dry. This
catastrophe is supposed to have taken place about the time of the
expulsion of
the Hyksos (circa B.C. 1703), when a great disruption of the
rocky
barrier at Silsilis is thought to have taken place; so draining Nubia,
which
till now had played the part of a vast reservoir, and dispersing the
pent-up
floods over the plains of Southern Egypt. It would, however, be a
mistake to
conclude that the Nile was by this catastrophe turned aside in order to
be
precipitated in the direction of the cataract. One arm of the river
must always
have taken the present lower and deeper course; while the other must of
necessity have run low – perhaps very nearly dry – as the
inundation subsided
every spring. There
remains no monumental record of this event; but the facts speak for
themselves.
The great channel is there. The old Nile-mud is there – buried
for the most
part in sand, but still visible on many a rocky shelf and plateau
between
Assûan and Philæ. There are even places where the surface
of the mass is seen
to be scooped out, as if by the sudden rush of the departing waters.
Since that
time, the tides of war and commerce have flowed in their place. Every
conquering
Thothmes and Rameses bound for the land of Kush, led his armies that
way.
Sabacon, at the head of his Ethiopian hordes, took that short cut to
the throne
of all the Pharaohs. The French under Desaix, pursuing the Memlooks
after the
battle of the Pyramids, swept down that pass to Philæ. Meanwhile
the whole
trade of the Soudan, however interrupted at times by the ebb and flow
of war,
has also set that way. We never crossed those five miles of desert
without
encountering a train or two of baggage-camels laden either with
European goods
for the far south, or with Oriental treasures for the North. I shall
not soon forget an Abyssinian caravan which we met one day just coming
out from
Mahatta. It consisted of seventy camels laden with elephant tusks. The
tusks,
which were about fourteen feet in length, were packed in half-dozens
and sewn
up in buffalo hides. Each camel was slung with two loads, one at either
side of
the hump. There must have been about eight hundred and forty tusks in
all.
Beside each shambling beast strode a bare-footed Nubian. Following
these, on
the back of a gigantic camel, came a hunting leopard in a wooden cage,
and a
wild cat in a basket. Last of all marched a coal-black Abyssinian
nearly seven
feet in height, magnificently shawled and turbaned, with a huge
scimetar
dangling by his side, and in his belt a pair of enormous inlaid
seventeenth-century pistols, such as would have become the holsters of
Prince
Rupert. This elaborate warrior represented the guard of the caravan.
The hunting
leopard and the wild cat were for Prince Hassan, the third son of the
Viceroy.
The ivory was for exportation. Anything more picturesque than this
procession,
with the dust driving before it in clouds, and the children following
it out of
the village, it would be difficult to conceive. One longed for
Gerôme to paint
it on the spot. The rocks
on either side of the ancient river-bed are profusely hieroglyphed.
These
inscriptions, together with others found in the adjacent quarries,
range over a
period of between three and four thousand years, beginning with the
early
reigns of the Ancient Empire, and ending with the Ptolemies and
Cæsars. Some
are mere autographs. Others run to a considerable length. Many are
headed with
figures of gods and worshippers. These, however, are for the most part
mere
graffiti, ill drawn and carelessly sculptured. The records they
illustrate are
chiefly votive. The passer-by adores the gods of the cataract; implores
their
protection; registers his name, and states the object of his journey.
The
votaries are of various ranks, periods, and nationalities; but the
formula in
most instances is pretty much the same. Now it is a citizen of Thebes
performing the pilgrimage to Philæ; or a general at the head of
his troops
returning from a foray to Ethiopia; or a tributary Prince doing homage
to
Rameses the Great, and associating his suzerain with the divinities of
the
place. Occasionally we come upon a royal cartouche and a pompous
catalogue of
titles, setting forth how the Pharaoh himself, the Golden Hawk, the Son
of Ra,
the Mighty, the Invincible, the godlike, passed that way. It is
curious to see how royalty, so many thousand years ago, set the fashion
in
names, just as it does to this day. Nine-tenths of the ancient
travellers who
left their signatures upon these rocks were called Rameses or Thothmes
or
Usertasen. Others, still more ambitious, took the names of gods.
Ampèsre, who
hunted diligently for inscriptions both here and among the islands,
found the
autographs of no end of merely mortal Amens and Hathors.3 Our three days’ detention in the cataract was followed by a fourth of glassy calm. There being no breath of air to fill our sails and no footing for the trackers, we could now get along only by dint of hard punting; so that it was past mid-day before the Philæ lay moored at last in the shadow of the holy island to which she owed her name. ___________________1 The
increase of steamer traffic has considerably altered the conditions of
Nile
travelling since this was written, and fewer dahabeeyahs are
consequently
employed. By those who can afford it, and who really desire to get the
utmost
pleasure, instruction, and interest from the trip, the dahabeeyah will,
however, always be preferred. [Note to second edition.] 2 “The most
important discovery which we have made here, and which I shall only
mention
briefly, is a series of short rock-inscriptions, which mark the highest
rises
of the Nile during a series of years under the government of Amenemhat
III and
of his immediate successors. . . . They prove that the river, above
four
thousand years ago, rose more than twenty-four feet higher than now,
and
thereby must have produced totally different conditions in the
inundation and
in the whole surface of the ground, both above and below this
spot.” –
Lepsius’s Letters from Egypt, etc., Letter xxvi. “The
highest rise of the Nile in each year at Semneh was registered by a
mark
indicating the year of the king’s reign, cut in granite, either
on one of the
blocks forming the foundation of the fortress, or on the cliff, and
particularly on the east or right bank, as best adapted for the
purpose. Of
these markings eighteen still remain, thirteen of them having been made
in the
reign of Mœris (Amenemhat III) and five in the time of his next
two successors.
. . . We have here presented to us the remarkable facts that the
highest of the
records now legible, viz. that of the thirtieth year of the reign of
Amenemhat,
according to exact measurements which I made, is 8.17 metres (26 feet 8
inches)
higher than the highest level to which the Nile rises in years of the
greatest
floods; and, further, that the lowest mark, which is on the east bank
and
indicated the fifteenth year of the same king, is still 4.14 metres (13
feet 6
1/2 inches); and the single mark on the west bank indicating the ninth
year, is
2.77 metres (9 feet) above the highest level.” –
Lepsius’s Letter to
Professor Ehrenberg. See Appendix to the above. 3 For copies and translations of a large number of the graffiti of Assûan, see Lepsius’s "Denkmäler;" also, for the most recent and the fullest collection of the rock-cut inscriptions of Assûan and its neighbourhood, including the hitherto uncopied insciptions of the Saba Rigaleh Valley, of Elephantine, of the rocks above Silsileh, etc. etc., see Mr. W. M. Flinders Petrie’s latest volume, entitled "A Season’s Work in Egypt, 1887," published by Field and Tuer, 1888. [Note to second edition.] |
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