Each day, at one time or another while _en route_—sometimes at an extremely awkward hour, when only a short distance had been travelled from the last camp—great black clouds would race up from the skyline, to be watched anxiously until the first deep rumblings of thunder gave warning to hasten to take cover. Whereat the camels had to be halted at once on any piece of raised ground near at hand that gave promise of not being under water when the torrent should fall. It was always a mad race against the elements. So soon as the brutes were on their knees camel-men hurriedly released the loads from the saddles, then piled them in a heap, and covered all with a large ship’s tarpaulin carried for the purpose. At the same time a tent would be hurriedly pitched. Sometimes we were ready for the onslaught of the storm just in the nick of time, or got drenched to the skin battling to hold down the last few tent-ropes and drive home secure pegs as the first wave of the gale hurled in upon us. Then, packed into the small space of the tent, masters and men crouched, sheltering from the storm, and waited impotently its passing. No meal could be cooked—not even a comforting cup of tea. If it happened to be evening, or night, camp-beds and blankets had perforce to remain unpacked among the baggage. Sometimes the operator and I slept on the ground, under cover of the tent, in the clothes we stood in, and went to bed foodless. On other occasions we risked the rain and sought such rest as could be found in wet bedding, soaked either by actual rain or the heavy dew that always followed. This did not end discomfort. Mosquitoes and sand-flies followed these storms, and were terrible pests. I have never known them more persistent and venomous, and everyone suffered from poisonous scars, as if we had been attacked by swarms of bees. So bad were they that some of the natives slept on platforms in the branches of thorn-trees, gaining some little relief from their tormentors in these elevated but body-racking “crows’ nests.” But my camels suffered most of all. The poor brutes appeared to get no rest whatever, even round the smoke of huge log fires that were built, when it was possible, to keep away the pests. All night they could be heard tossing and rolling in the sand to throw off their tormentors: vain efforts that brought barely a moment’s relief, for the air hummed with armies of the terrible insects. These were our troubles in camp. When it was fine enough to travel we found a fairyland of damp, fragrant sand from which fresh green shoots were already springing, while insects hummed and birds twittered with all the gladness of a wonderful dawn. The magic touch of abundant rain was upon the land, though swift would be its passing.