530
PAUL F. HOYE
dotted with high spines of eroded sandstone marching off in rows
toward the west where, legends say, lie even larger valleys, rich in
formations of unimaginable beauty.
It is a strange country, almost entirely unknown to the West.
The Hijaz Railway once served the region, but that was in an
era when few travelers ventured into Saudi Arabia. Until very
recently, in fact, visitors were numbered in the dozens, but by
1965 fewer than 200 Westerners had ever been there. Here is
an account of travel in this beautiful and awesome region. A map
of the region appears in Fig. 1.
Jiddah
MARCH 1
The trucks are ready and so are we and at dawn, Inshallah, we head
north—north from Jiddah to Medina, to the ruins of the Hijaz Railway,
to what I hear are areas of scenic grandeur unmatched this side of the
American Southwest, and to Mada'in Salih, with its tombs, legends, and
its ancient curse.
The trucks are preposterous—huge red Ford 800's big enough to bowl
in and fitted with 12-ply tires, special sand gears, and belly tanks that can
hold 150 gallons of gasoline. However, with a thousand miles of what I'm
told is pretty rugged driving ahead, I assume they're necessary.
We loaded our gear aboard this afternoon and Moody seems to have
touched all the bases. There's food enough for a battalion—everything
from Maine lobster to peanut butter—two tents I think they got from
Ringling Brothers, compact two-burner Primus stoves, lamps, cots, sleeping bags, and—since it's supposed to get very chilly there—a pair of rather
elegant, if incongruous, après ski boots.
There are also six barrels of drinking water and the photographic equipment—cameras for both Moody and Sa'id and two large leather cases
crammed with light meters, lenses, filters in all the colors of the spectrum,
a tripod, and enough film to make Mathew Brady go green. And, of
course, there's my equipment too: one spiral notepad, one pencil, and two
felt-tipped pens. Pity they already found Livingstone; we would have
found him faster, and covered it more thoroughly.
In jotting down the above notes, I was thinking that this seemed like
an excessive amount of gear to take along for two weeks no matter how
rugged the country up there is supposed to be. Tonight, however, during
a visit with a man who has been there I discovered that I may have been
PAUL F. HOYE
dotted with high spines of eroded sandstone marching off in rows
toward the west where, legends say, lie even larger valleys, rich in
formations of unimaginable beauty.
It is a strange country, almost entirely unknown to the West.
The Hijaz Railway once served the region, but that was in an
era when few travelers ventured into Saudi Arabia. Until very
recently, in fact, visitors were numbered in the dozens, but by
1965 fewer than 200 Westerners had ever been there. Here is
an account of travel in this beautiful and awesome region. A map
of the region appears in Fig. 1.
Jiddah
MARCH 1
The trucks are ready and so are we and at dawn, Inshallah, we head
north—north from Jiddah to Medina, to the ruins of the Hijaz Railway,
to what I hear are areas of scenic grandeur unmatched this side of the
American Southwest, and to Mada'in Salih, with its tombs, legends, and
its ancient curse.
The trucks are preposterous—huge red Ford 800's big enough to bowl
in and fitted with 12-ply tires, special sand gears, and belly tanks that can
hold 150 gallons of gasoline. However, with a thousand miles of what I'm
told is pretty rugged driving ahead, I assume they're necessary.
We loaded our gear aboard this afternoon and Moody seems to have
touched all the bases. There's food enough for a battalion—everything
from Maine lobster to peanut butter—two tents I think they got from
Ringling Brothers, compact two-burner Primus stoves, lamps, cots, sleeping bags, and—since it's supposed to get very chilly there—a pair of rather
elegant, if incongruous, après ski boots.
There are also six barrels of drinking water and the photographic equipment—cameras for both Moody and Sa'id and two large leather cases
crammed with light meters, lenses, filters in all the colors of the spectrum,
a tripod, and enough film to make Mathew Brady go green. And, of
course, there's my equipment too: one spiral notepad, one pencil, and two
felt-tipped pens. Pity they already found Livingstone; we would have
found him faster, and covered it more thoroughly.
In jotting down the above notes, I was thinking that this seemed like
an excessive amount of gear to take along for two weeks no matter how
rugged the country up there is supposed to be. Tonight, however, during
a visit with a man who has been there I discovered that I may have been