We sailed through narrow, tortuous channels against a rapid stream to the island of Sheyál at the foot of the first bab or gate. The first cataract, as it is termed, is a series of five short rapids on the eastern shore, where the ascent is made, and one long and one short one on the western shore. These rapids are called gates. We stopped at the foot of the first. Three finely-built Nubians, _in puris naturalibus_, save turbans on their heads, came sailing down the turbulent and surging waters astride of logs. Borne on with great velocity, they seize hold of our boat as they reach it, in a moment are on deck, their heads bare, the turbans girded around their loins. “Backsheesh, howadjii!” They deserve it for this feat. It made the howadjii shudder to see them in these raging waters. An impromptu row now springs up between our pilot and old Nogood. The boat is aground, and more help is needed to push it off. Here is the dialogue, as translated by Ahmud: Pilot (old man with gray whiskers, costume soiled and tattered coffee-bag): “O Mohammed Nogood! send some of your people to move the boat.” Old Nogood: “O pilot, you jack-ass! why do you not attend to the helm and mind your business?” Intense excitement on board, during which the pilot swears by Allah and the Prophet that he will not stay on the boat after such an insult, and goes off in high dudgeon. The howadjii, having locked up everything portable below stairs, are seated on the quarter-deck enjoying the scene in a mild manner, and waiting to see what will come next. The prospects of being kept here for an indefinite time are delightful. The head sheik is angry and the pilot has disappeared. But the silver lining of the dark cloud soon shines out. The second sheik takes command, and Nogood’s son comes aboard as pilot—very unlike his father, a hard worker and a quiet sort of man. We are ready to start now, but where are the men to pull us up? None can be seen. The river is here filled with broken and disjointed rocks—small islets. A great fall was here once, no doubt; hence the rapids now. The sheik throws two handfuls of sand in the air. Immediately from all sides, like the warriors of Roderick Dhu, rise the Shellallee. From behind every rock come forth a score or more. Three long ropes are made fast to the boat. A hundred men take hold of two; the third is turned two or three times around a rock, the end being held by a dozen men. This rope is gradually tightened as the boat moves up, to hold it in case the others should break. By the united help of the wind and this struggling mass of naked humanity we move slowly up the first gate, not ten yards long. In the same manner we pass the second and third gates. Our friends the log-riders are useful to us now. Plunging into the boiling, seething waters, that rush with such force it seems impossible for man to struggle against them, they make ropes fast to this rock; now they detach them, and, taking the end between their