Egypt -- Description and travel; Egypt -- History -- 19th century; Nile River -- Description and travel
A solitary dôm palm, the northernmost of its race and the first specimen
one meets with on the Nile, grows in a garden adjoining this
market-place; but we could scarcely see it for the blinding dust. Now,
a dôm palm is just the sort of tree that De Wint should have
painted--odd, angular, with long forked stems, each of which terminates
in a shock-headed crown of stiff finger-like fronds shading heavy
clusters of big shiny nuts about the size of Jerusalem artichokes. It
is, I suppose, the only nut in the world of which one throws away the
kernel and eats the shell; but the kernel is as hard as marble, while
the shell is fibrous, and tastes like stale gingerbread. The dôm palm
must bifurcate, for bifurcation is the law of its being; but I could
never discover whether there was any fixed limit to the number of stems
into which it might subdivide. At the same time, I do not remember to
have seen any with less than two heads or more than six.
Coming back through the town, we were accosted by a withered one-eyed
hag like a reanimated mummy, who offered to tell our fortunes. Before
her lay a dirty rag of handkerchief full of shells, pebbles and chips of
broken glass and pottery. Squatting, toad-like, under a sunny bit of
wall, the lower part of her face closely veiled, her skinny arms covered
with blue and green glass bracelets and her fingers with misshapen
silver rings, she hung over these treasures, shook, mixed and
interrogated them with all the fervor of divination, and delivered a
string of the prophecies usually forthcoming on these occasions.
“You have a friend far away, and your friend is thinking of you. There
is good fortune in store for you; and money coming to you; and pleasant
news on the way. You will soon receive letters in which there will be
something to vex you, but more to make you glad. Within thirty days you
will unexpectedly meet one whom you dearly love,” etc., etc., etc.
It was just the old familiar story, retold in Arabic, without even such
variations as might have been expected from the lips of an old fellâha
born and bred in a provincial town of Middle Egypt.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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