The canal itself seemed to be in a continual state of repair. Dredgers
were everywhere; some of the ordinary shovel type, others working by
suction, and discharging far inland by means of weird huge pipes that
apparently meandered at will over the face of nature. The control
stations were beautifully French and neat, painted yellow, each with its
gorgeous bougainvilleas in flower, its square-rigged signal masts, its
brightly painted extra buoys standing in a row, its wharf--and its
impassive Arab fishermen thereon. We reclined in our canvas chairs, had
lemon squashes brought to us, and watched the entertainment steadily and
slowly unrolled before us.
We reached the end of the canal about three o'clock of the afternoon,
and dropped anchor off the low-lying shores. Our binoculars showed us
white houses in apparently single rank along a far-reaching narrow sand
spit, with sparse trees and a railroad line. That was the town of Suez,
and seemed so little interesting that we were not particularly sorry
that we could not go ashore. Far in the distance were mountains; and the
water all about us was the light, clear green of the sky at sunset.
Innumerable dhows and row-boats swarmed down, filled with eager salesmen
of curios and ostrich plumes. They had not much time in which to
bargain, so they made it up in rapid-fire vociferation. One very tall
and dignified Arab had as sailor of his craft the most extraordinary
creature, just above the lower limit of the human race.
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