We waited for upwards of an hour, in the hope
of seeing those camels hoisted aboard; but in vain. While we were so
waiting one of the deck passengers below us, a Somali in white clothes
and a gorgeous cerise turban, decided to turn in. He spread a square of
thin matting atop one of the hatches, and began to unwind yards and
yards of the fine silk turban. He came to the end of it--whisk! he sank
to the deck; the turban, spread open by the resistance of the air,
fluttered down to cover him from head to foot. Apparently he fell asleep
at once, for he did not again move nor alter his position. He, as well
as an astonishingly large proportion of the other Somalis and
Abyssinians we saw, carried a queer, well-defined, triangular wound in
his head. It had long since healed, was an inch or so across, and looked
as though a piece of the skull had been removed. If a conscientious
enemy had leisure and an icepick he would do just about that sort of a
job. How its recipient had escaped instant death is a mystery.
At length, about three o'clock, despairing of the camels, we turned in.
After three hours' sleep we were again on deck. Aden by daylight seemed
to be several sections of a town tucked into pockets in bold, raw, lava
mountains that came down fairly to the water's edge. Between these
pockets ran a narrow shore road; and along the road paced haughty camels
hitched to diminutive carts.
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