We had put our camels’ backs to the storm, to march before it: but these internal whirling winds tore our tightly-held cloaks from our hands, filled our eyes, and robbed us of all sense of direction by turning our camels right or left from their course. Sometimes they were blown completely round: once we clashed helplessly together in a vortex, while large bushes, tufts of grass, and even a small tree were torn up by the roots in dense waves of the soil about them, and driven against us, or blown over our heads with dangerous force. We were never blinded⁠—it was always possible to see for seven or eight feet to each side⁠—but it was risky to look out, as, in addition to the certain sandblast, we never knew if we should not meet a flying tree, a rush of pebbles, or a spout of grass-laden dust.