To either side the main street lay long narrow dark alleys, in which
flared single lights, across which flitted mysterious long-robed
figures, from which floated stray snatches of music either palpitatingly
barbaric or ridiculously modern. There the authority of the straight,
soldierly-looking Soudanese policemen ceased, and it was not safe to
wander unarmed or alone.
Besides these motley variegations of the East and West, the main feature
of the town was the street car. It was an open-air structure of spacious
dimensions, as though benches and a canopy had been erected rather
haphazard on a small dancing platform. The track is absurdly narrow in
gauge; and as a consequence the edifice swayed and swung from side to
side. A single mule was attached to it loosely by about ten feet of
rope. It was driven by a gaudy ragamuffin in a turban. Various other
gaudy ragamuffins lounged largely and picturesquely on the widely spaced
benches. Whence it came or whither it went I do not know. Its orbit
swung into the main street, turned a corner, and disappeared. Apparently
Europeans did not patronize this picturesque wreck, but drove elegantly
but mysteriously in small open cabs conducted by totally incongruous
turbaned drivers.
We ended finally at an imposing corner hotel, where we dined by an open
window just above the level of the street. A dozen upturned faces
besought us silently during the meal.
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