Beyond that was howling desert, not even picturesquely sandy, but a dried up marsh overblown with dust, like the foreshore of a third-rate port.  The only relief to the landscape was when we passed tributaries and creeks, each palm-fringed like the river.  Otherwise the only notable sights were the Anglo Persian Oil Works, which cover over a hundred acres and raised an interesting question of comparative ugliness with man and nature in competition, and a large steamer sunk by the Turks to block the channel and, needless to add, not blocking it.

There was a stiff, warm wind off the desert, hazing the air with dust and my cabin temperature was 100 deg..  Altogether it was rather a depressing entree, since amply atoned for so far as Nature is concerned.

We reached Basra about 2 p.m. and anchored in midstream, the river being eight hundred yards or so wide here.  The city of Basra is about three miles away, up a creek, but on the river there is a port and native town called Ashar.

The scene on the river is most attractive, especially at sunrise and sunset.  The banks rise about ten feet from the water:  the date palms are large and columnar; and since there is a whole series of creeks, parallel and intersecting—­they are the highways and byeways of the place—­the whole area is afforested and the wharves and bazaars are embowered in date groves.  The river front and the main creeks are crowded with picturesque craft, the two main types being a large high prowed barge, just what I picture to have taken King Arthur at his Passing, but here put to the prosaic uses of heavy transport and called a mahila; and a long darting craft which can be paddled or punted and combines the speed of a canoe with the grace of a gondola and is called, though why I can’t conceive, a bhellum.  Some of the barges are masted and carry a huge and lovely sail, but the ones in use for I.E.F.D. are propelled by little tugs attached to their sides and quite invisible from beyond, so that the speeding barges seem magically self-moving.

Ashore one wanders along raised dykes through a seemingly endless forest of pillared date palms, among which pools and creeks add greatly to the beauty, though an eyesore to the hygienist.  The date crop is just ripe and ripening, and the golden clusters are immense and must yield a great many hundred dates to the tree.  When one reaches the native city the streets are unmistakably un-Indian, and strongly reminiscent of the bazaar scene in Kismet.  This is especially true of the main bazaar, which is a winding arcade half a mile long, roofed and lined with shops, thronged with men.  One sees far fewer women than in India, and those mostly veiled and in black, while the men wear long robes and cloakes and scarves on their heads bound with coils of wool worn garland-wise, as one sees in Biblical pictures.  They seem friendly, or rather wholly indifferent to one, and I felt at times I might be invisible and watching an Arabian Nights’ story for all the notice they took of me.  By the way, I want you to send me a portable edition of the Arabian Nights as my next book, please.