The Arabs Adhere To Those Ancestral Principles Of Bread-Baking
Which Have Been Sanctioned By The Experience Of Ages.
The very
first baker of bread that ever lived must have done his work
exactly as the Arab does at this day.
He takes some meal and holds
it out in the hollow of his hands, whilst his comrade pours over it
a few drops of water; he then mashes up the moistened flour into a
paste, which he pulls into small pieces, and thrusts into the
embers. His way of baking exactly resembles the craft or mystery
of roasting chestnuts as practised by children; there is the same
prudence and circumspection in choosing a good berth for the
morsel, the same enterprise and self-sacrificing valour in pulling
it out with the fingers.
The manner of my daily march was this. At about an hour before
dawn I rose and made the most of about a pint of water, which I
allowed myself for washing. Then I breakfasted upon tea and bread.
As soon as the beasts were loaded I mounted my camel and pressed
forward. My poor Arabs, being on foot, would sometimes moan with
fatigue and pray for rest; but I was anxious to enable them to
perform their contract for bringing me to Cairo within the
stipulated time, and I did not therefore allow a halt until the
evening came. About midday, or soon after, Mysseri used to bring
up his camel alongside of mine, and supply me with a piece of bread
softened in water (for it was dried hard like board), and also (as
long as it lasted) with a piece of the tongue; after this there
came into my hand (how well I remember it) the little tin cup half-
filled with wine and water.
As long as you are journeying in the interior of the Desert you
have no particular point to make for as your resting-place. The
endless sands yield nothing but small stunted shrubs; even these
fail after the first two or three days, and from that time you pass
over broad plains, you pass over newly-reared hills, you pass
through valleys that the storm of the last week has dug, and the
hills and the valleys are sand, sand, sand, still sand, and only
sand, and sand and sand again. The earth is so samely that your
eyes turn towards heaven - towards heaven, I mean, in the sense of
sky. You look to the sun, for he is your task-master, and by him
you know the measure of the work that you have done, and the
measure of the work that remains for you to do. He comes when you
strike your tent in the early morning, and then, for the first hour
of the day as you move forward on your camel, he stands at your
near side and makes you know that the whole day's toil is before
you; then for a while, and a long while, you see him no more, for
you are veiled and shrouded, and dare not look upon the greatness
of his glory, but you know where he strides overhead by the touch
of his flaming sword.
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