30 p.m.,
memories of that ride being blurred by the physical discomfort endured.
Over a vast plateau framed in distant mountains we were wending in the
direction of a low gap which never came nearer; the road itself was full
of deep ruts that caused exquisite agony as we jolted into them; the
sun--a patch of dazzling light, cold and cheerless. At this hour, I
reflected, the train from Sfax would already have set me down at Gafsa.
Save for a few stunted thorns in the moister places, the whole land, so
far as the eye could reach, was covered with halfa-grass--leagues upon
leagues of this sad grey-green desert reed. We passed a few nomad families
whose children were tearing out the wiry stuff--it is never cut in
Tunisia--which is then loaded on camels and conveyed to the nearest depot
on the railway line, and thence to the seaboard. They were burning it here
and there, to keep themselves warm; this is forbidden by law, but
then--there is so much of it on these uplands, and the wind is so cold!
The last miles were easier travelling, as we had struck the track from
Feriana on our left.
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