IX. MAN IN ARID LANDS: NORTH FROM JIDDAH
533
defy the curse and so, for more than twelve centuries, the tombs, and whatever else was there, have mouldered in the sun, untouched, unexplored,
unexplained. . . .
In Camp
MARCH 3
Out of the darkness this evening, silently and without preamble, strode
an old Bedouin. "Assalumu 'alaykum," he said, the traditional "Peace be
unto you," and crouched down to try Muhammad's tea. He liked it and
I can understand why. Muhammad—he's the No. 2 driver—makes superb
tea. He makes it in a small, smoke-blackened kettle over a twig fire. Only
over a twig fire, in fact. We offered him the use of a camp stove and his
scorn was scathing. "The flavor," he said, "is in the smoke."
Today was tiring. We had heard that there are two ways to circle
Medina, one that takes almost 2 hours and another that takes 40 minutes.
We found the short route, a meandering track that cuts west and wanders
northward through a long valley commanded by a circular mud-brick fort
on a ridge 300 feet above. The valley is spotted with small deserted villages
of brown mud-brick, the bricks melded one into the other so that the surfaces have become sagging lumpy masses of crumbling sand. With the
boles of palm trees poking out of the walls at roof level they could be
adobe huts in Mexico or Arizona.
Even though we took the short route, however, we didn't save much
time. Halfway around, Muhammad's truck bogged down in soft sand. One
minute we were racing along confidently on what looked to be a firm,
packed-gravel surface. The next we were roaring like mired elephants as
the big 12-plys bit fruitlessly into deep loose powder. Misfir, the head
driver, sensed the trap the very second that the surface changed, swiftly
shifted down, engaged the big sand gear and tramped hard on the gas.
He almost escaped completely and was close enough to firm ground to
coax it out. Muhammad wasn't so fortunate. He sank to the hubcaps. To
get him out we had to lay track of thick planks and metal treads, wrench
the planks and treads out of the sand as fast as the truck drove over them
and ram them down in front of the tires again while the wheels were still
moving. It took sweat, swearing, hard work, and all the power those big
Fords could muster. Preposterous, did I call them?
With Medina behind us, the land, almost imperceptibly, began to
change. Yesterday, only the arid brownness of the low mountains—or perhaps they should be called jabals—broke the flat monotony of the coastal
plains. But this afternoon the land began to roll in gentle swells and there
appeared great stretches covered with a layer of round black stones that
533
defy the curse and so, for more than twelve centuries, the tombs, and whatever else was there, have mouldered in the sun, untouched, unexplored,
unexplained. . . .
In Camp
MARCH 3
Out of the darkness this evening, silently and without preamble, strode
an old Bedouin. "Assalumu 'alaykum," he said, the traditional "Peace be
unto you," and crouched down to try Muhammad's tea. He liked it and
I can understand why. Muhammad—he's the No. 2 driver—makes superb
tea. He makes it in a small, smoke-blackened kettle over a twig fire. Only
over a twig fire, in fact. We offered him the use of a camp stove and his
scorn was scathing. "The flavor," he said, "is in the smoke."
Today was tiring. We had heard that there are two ways to circle
Medina, one that takes almost 2 hours and another that takes 40 minutes.
We found the short route, a meandering track that cuts west and wanders
northward through a long valley commanded by a circular mud-brick fort
on a ridge 300 feet above. The valley is spotted with small deserted villages
of brown mud-brick, the bricks melded one into the other so that the surfaces have become sagging lumpy masses of crumbling sand. With the
boles of palm trees poking out of the walls at roof level they could be
adobe huts in Mexico or Arizona.
Even though we took the short route, however, we didn't save much
time. Halfway around, Muhammad's truck bogged down in soft sand. One
minute we were racing along confidently on what looked to be a firm,
packed-gravel surface. The next we were roaring like mired elephants as
the big 12-plys bit fruitlessly into deep loose powder. Misfir, the head
driver, sensed the trap the very second that the surface changed, swiftly
shifted down, engaged the big sand gear and tramped hard on the gas.
He almost escaped completely and was close enough to firm ground to
coax it out. Muhammad wasn't so fortunate. He sank to the hubcaps. To
get him out we had to lay track of thick planks and metal treads, wrench
the planks and treads out of the sand as fast as the truck drove over them
and ram them down in front of the tires again while the wheels were still
moving. It took sweat, swearing, hard work, and all the power those big
Fords could muster. Preposterous, did I call them?
With Medina behind us, the land, almost imperceptibly, began to
change. Yesterday, only the arid brownness of the low mountains—or perhaps they should be called jabals—broke the flat monotony of the coastal
plains. But this afternoon the land began to roll in gentle swells and there
appeared great stretches covered with a layer of round black stones that