S.L. Bensusan - Morocco

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I learned to enjoy Djedida by night. Then the town was almost as silent as
our camp below Mediunah had been. The ramparts left by the Portuguese and
the white walls of the city itself became all of a piece, indistinct and
mysterious as the darkness blended them. Late camels coming into the town
to seek the security of some fandak would pad noiselessly past me; weird
creatures from the under-world they seemed, on whom the ghostlike Arabs in
their white djellabas were ordered to attend. Children would flit to and
fro like shadows, strangely quiet, as though held in thrall even in the
season of their play by the solemn aspect of the surroundings. The
market-place and road to the landing-stage would be deserted, the gates of
the city barred, and there was never a light to be seen save where some
wealthy Moor attended by lantern-bearing slaves passed to and from his
house. One night by the Kasbah the voice of a watchman broke upon the
city's silence, at a time when the mueddin was at rest, and it was not
incumbent upon the faithful to pray. "Be vigilant, O guardians," he
cried,--"be vigilant and do not sleep." Below, by my side, on the ground,
the guardians, wrapped warm in their djellabas, dreamed on, all
undisturbed.

By night, too, the pariah dogs, scavengers of all Mohammedan cities,
roamed at their ease and leisure through Djedida, so hungry and so free
from daintiness that no garbage would be left on the morrow. Moorish
houses have no windows fronting the road--decency forbids, and though
there might have been ample light within, the bare walls helped to darken
the pathway, and it was wise to walk warily lest one should tumble over
some beggar asleep on the ground.

[Illustration: SUNSET OFF THE COAST]

On nights like these and through streets not greatly different, Harun
al Raschid fared abroad in Baghdad and lighted upon the wonderful folk who
live for all time in the pages of the _Arabian Nights_. Doubtless I passed
some twentieth-century descendants of the fisher-folk, the Calendars, the
slaves, and the merchants who move in their wonderful pageantry along the
glittering road of the "Thousand Nights and a Night,"--the type is
marvellously unchanging in Al Moghreb; but, alas, they spoke, if at all,
to deaf ears, and Salam was ever more anxious to see me safely home than
to set out in search of adventure. By day I knew that Djedida had little
of the charm associated even in this year of grace with the famous city on
the Tigris, but, all over the world that proclaims the inspiration of
Mohammed, the old times come back by night, and then "a thousand years are
but as yesterday."

Happily we were right below the area of rebellion. In the north, round Fez
and Taza, there was severe fighting, spreading thence to the Riff country.
Here, people did no more than curse the Pretender in public or the Sultan
in private, according to the state of their personal feelings.
Communication with the south, said the Maalem, was uninterrupted; only in
the north were the sons of the Illegitimate, the rebels against Allah,
troubling Our Lord the Sultan. From Djedida down to the Atlas the tribes
were peaceful, and would remain at rest unless Our Master should attempt
to collect his taxes, in which case, without doubt, there would be
trouble.

[Illustration: A VERANDAH AT MAZAGAN]

He was a busy man in these days, was the Maalem. When he was not baking
bread or smoking kief he was securing mules and bringing them for our
inspection. To Mr. T. Spinney, son of the British Vice-Consul in Mazagan,
we owed our salvation. A master of Moghrebbin Arabic, on intimate terms
with the Moors, and thoroughly conversant with the road and its
requirements, he stood between me and the fiery-tongued Maalem. This mule
was rejected, that saddle was returned, stirrups tied with string were
disqualified, the little man's claim to have all "the money in the hand"
was overruled, and the Maalem, red-hot sputtering iron in my hands, was as
wax in Mr. Spinney's. My good friend and host also found Kaid M'Barak,[7]
the soldier, a tall, scorched, imperturbable warrior, who rode a brave
horse, and carried a gun done up in a very tattered, old, flannel case
tied with half a dozen pieces of string. The kaid's business was to strike
terror into the hearts of evil men in return for a Moorish dollar a day,
and to help with tent setting and striking, or anything else that might be
required, in return for his food. He was a lean, gaunt, taciturn man, to
whom twelve hours in the saddle brought no discomfort, and though he
strove earnestly to rob me, it was only at the journey's end, when he had
done his work faithfully and well. His gun seemed to be a constant source
of danger to somebody, for he carried it at right angles to his horse
across the saddle, and often on the road I would start to consciousness
that the kaid was covering me with his be-frocked weapon. After a time
one grew accustomed and indifferent to the danger, but when I went
shooting in the Argan forest I left the blessed one in camp. He was
convinced that he carried his gun in proper fashion, and that his duty was
well done. And really he may have been right, for upon a day, when a hint
of possible danger threatened, I learned to my amusement and relief that
the valiant man carried no ammunition of any sort, and that the barrel of
his gun was stuffed full of red calico.

Our inland tramp over, he took one day's rest at Mogador, then gathered
the well-earned store of dollars into his belt and started off to follow
the coast road back to Djedida. Perhaps by now the Basha has had his
dollars, or the Sultan has summoned him to help fight Bu Hamara. In any
case I like to think that his few weeks with us will rank among the
pleasant times of his life, for he proved a patient, enduring man, and
though silent, a not unedifying companion.

Among the strange stories I heard in Djedida while preparing for the
journey was one relating to the then War Minister, Kaid Mahedi el Menebhi,
some-time envoy to the Court of St. James's. In his early days Menebhi,
though a member of the great Atlas Kabyle of that name, had been a poor
lad running about Djedida's streets, ready and willing to earn a handful
of _floos_[8] by hard work of any description. Then he set up in business
as a mender of old shoes and became notorious, not because of his skill as
a cobbler, but on account of his quick wit and clever ideas. In all
Mohammedan countries a Believer may rise without any handicap on account
of lowly origin, and so it fell out that the late Grand Wazeer, Ba Ahmad,
during a visit to Djedida heard of the young cobbler's gifts, and
straightway gave him a place in his household. Thereafter promotion was
rapid and easy for Menebhi, and the lad who had loafed about the streets
with the outcasts of the city became, under the Sultan, the first man in
Morocco. "To-day," concluded my informant, "he has palaces and slaves and
a great hareem, he is a Chief Wazeer and head of the Sultan's forces, but
he still owes a merchant in Djedida some few dollars on account of leather
he had bought and forgot to pay for when Ba Ahmad took him to
Marrakesh."[9]

[Illustration: A BLACKSMITH'S SHOP]

In the R'hamna country, on the way to the southern capital, we pitched our
tents one night in a Government n'zala, or guarded camping-ground, one of
many that are spread about the country for the safety of travellers. The
price of corn, eggs, and chickens was amazingly high, and the Maalem
explained that the n'zala was kept by some of the immediate family of
Mahedi el Menebhi, who had put them there, presumably to make what profit
they could. I looked very carefully at our greedy hosts. They were a rough
unprepossessing crowd, but their wealth in sheep and goats alone was
remarkable, and their stock was safe from molestation, for they were
known to be relatives of the Sultan's chief minister, a man whose arm is
long and hard-hitting. Since last autumn Menebhi has resigned his high
office, reduced his household, manumitted many slaves, and gone on the
great pilgrimage to Mecca, so it may be presumed that his relatives in the
forsaken R'hamna country have lowered their prices. Yet, 'tis something to
have a great wazeer for relative even though, for the time being, loss of
favour has given him leisure for pious observances.

At length the evening came, when the last mule was selected, the last
package made up, and nothing lay between us and the open road. Sleep was
hard to woo. I woke before daylight, and was in the patio before the first
animal arrived, or the sleepy porter had fumbled at the door of the
warehouse where the luggage was stacked.

Morn in the white wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold,

and gave to the tops of walls and battlements a momentary tinge of rose
colour, a sight well worth the effort demanded by early rising.
Sparrow-hawks and pigeons were fluttering over their nests on the deserted
battlements, a stork eyed me with solemn curiosity from the minaret of a
near mosque, and only the earliest wayfarers were astir. How slowly the
men seemed to do their work, and how rapidly the morning wore on. Ropes
and palmetto baskets refused to fit at the last moment, two mules were
restive until their "father," the Maalem, very wide awake and energetic,
cursed their religion, and reminded them that they were the children of
asses renowned throughout the Moghreb for baseness and immorality. One
animal was found at the last moment to be saddle-galled, and was rejected
summarily, despite its "father's" frenzied assurances. Though I had been
astir shortly before three, and at work soon after four, it was nearly
seven o'clock when the last crooked way had been made straight, the last
shwarri[10] balanced, and the luggage mules were moving to the Dukala
gate.

The crowd of curious onlookers then gave way, some few wishing us well on
the journey. I daresay there were many among them, tied by their daily
toil to the town, who thought with longing of the pleasant road before us,
through fertile lands where all the orchards were aflower and the peasants
were gathering the ripe barley, though April had yet some days to revel
in. Small boys waved their hands to us, the water-carrier carrying his
tight goat-skin from the wells set his cups a-tinkling, as though by way
of a God-speed, and then M'Barak touched his horse with the spur to induce
the bravery of a caracole, and led us away from Djedida. I drew a long
breath of pleasure and relief; we were upon the road.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] The sok is the market-place.

[7] Kaid is a complimentary title--he was a common soldier. M'Barak means
"the blessed one," and is one of the names usually set apart for slaves.

[8] Base copper coins, of which a penny will purchase a score.

[9] It is fair to say that this is no more than one of many stories
relating to the great Wazeer's early days. Another says that he started
life as a soldier. There is no doubt that he is a man of extraordinary
talent.

[10] A pannier made of palmetto.

ON THE MOORISH ROAD

[Illustration: A SAINT'S TOMB]

CHAPTER III

ON THE MOORISH ROAD

With the brief gladness of the Palms,
that tower and sway o'er seething plain,
Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade,
and welling spring, and rushing rain;
'Tis their's to pass with joy and hope,
whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,--
visions of Allah's Holy Hill.

_The Kasidah._

We travel slowly, for the Maalem "father" of the pack-mules--guide,
philosopher, and trusted companion--says that haste kills strong men, and
often repeats a Moorish proverb which tells us that walking is better than
running, and that of all things sitting still is best. If Salam and I,
reaching a piece of level sward by the side of some orchard or arable land
when the heat of the day has passed, venture to indulge in a brisk canter,
the Maalem's face grows black as his eyes.

"Have a care," he said to me one evening, "for this place is peopled by
djinoon, and if they are disturbed they will at least kill the horses and
mules, and leave us to every robber among the hills." Doubtless the
Maalem prophesied worse things than this, but I have no Arabic worth
mention, and Salam, who acts as interpreter, possesses a very fair amount
of tact. I own to a vulgar curiosity that urges me to see a djin if I can,
so, after this warning, Salam and I go cantering every late afternoon when
the Enemy, as some Moors call the sun, is moving down towards the west,
and the air gets its first faint touch of evening cool. Fortunately or
unfortunately, the evil spirits never appear however, unless unnoticed by
me in the harmless forms of storks, stock-doves, or sparrow-hawks.

[Illustration: NEAR A WELL IN THE COUNTRY]

In this fertile province of the Dukala, in the little-known kingdom of the
victorious Sultan, Mulai Abd-el-Aziz, there are delightful stretches of
level country, and the husbandman's simplest toil suffices to bring about
an abundant harvest. Unhappily a great part of the province is not in
permanent cultivation at all. For miles and miles, often as far as the eye
can see, the land lies fallow, never a farmhouse or village to be seen,
nothing save some zowia or saint's tomb, with white dome rising within
four white walls to stare undaunted at the fierce African sun, while the
saint's descendants in the shelter of the house live by begging from pious
visitors. Away from the fertility that marks the neighbourhood of the
douars, one finds a few spare bushes, suddra, retam, or colocynth, a few
lizards darting here and there, and over all a supreme silence that may be
felt, even as the darkness that troubled Egypt in days of old. The main
track, not to be dignified by the name of road, is always to be discerned
clearly enough, at least the Maalem is never in doubt when stray paths,
leading from nowhere to the back of beyond, intersect it.

At long intervals we pass a n'zala, a square empty space surrounded by a
zariba of thorn and prickly pear. The village, a few wattled huts with
conical roofs, stands by its side. Every n'zala is a Government shelter
for travellers; you may pitch your tent within the four walls, and even if
you remain outside and hire guards the owners of the huts are responsible
for your safety, with their worldly goods, perhaps with their lives. I
have tried the interior of the Moorish n'zalas, where all too frequently
you must lie on unimagined filth, often almost within reach of
camel-drivers and muleteers, who are so godly that they have no time to be
clean, and I have concluded that the drawbacks outweigh the advantages.
Now I pitch my tent on some cleaner spot, and pay guards from the village
to stretch their blankets under its lee and go to sleep. If there are
thieves abroad the zariba will not keep them out, and if there are no
thieves a tired traveller may forget his fatigue.

On the road we meet few wayfarers, and those we encounter are full of
suspicion. Now and again we pass some country kaid or khalifa out on
business. As many as a dozen well-armed slaves and retainers may follow
him, and, as a rule, he rides a well-fed Barb with a fine crimson saddle
and many saddle cloths. Over his white djellaba is a blue selham that
came probably from Manchester; his stirrups are silver or plated. He
travels unarmed and seldom uses spurs--a packing needle serves as an
effective substitute. When he has spurs they are simply spear-heads--sharp
prongs without rowels. The presence of Unbelievers in the country of the
True Faith is clearly displeasing to him, but he is nearly always diplomat
enough to return my laboured greeting, though doubtless he curses me
heartily enough under his breath. His road lies from village to village,
his duty to watch the progress of the harvest for his overlord. Even the
locusts are kinder than the country kaids. But so soon as the kaid has
amassed sufficient wealth, the governor of his province, or one of the
high wazeers in the Sultan's capital, will despoil him and sell his place
to the highest bidder, and in the fulness of time the Sultan will send for
that wazeer or governor, and treat him in similar fashion. "Mektub," it is
written, and who shall avoid destiny?[11]

[Illustration: NEAR A WELL IN THE TOWN]

When the way is long and the sun hot, pack and saddle animals come
together, keeping a level pace of some five miles an hour, and Salam or
the Maalem beguiles the tedium of the way with song or legend. The Maalem
has a song that was taught him by one of his grandfather's slaves, in the
far-off days when Mulai Mohammed reigned in Red Marrakesh. In this chant,
with its weird monotonous refrain, the slaves sing of their journey
from the lands of the South, the terrors of the way, the lack of food and
water. It is a dismal affair enough, but the Maalem likes it, and Salam,
riding under a huge Tetuan hat, carrying my shot gun, in case some fresh
meat should come along, and keeping watchful eye on the mules, joins
lustily in the refrain. Salam has few songs of his own, and does not care
to sing them, lest his importance should suffer in the native eyes, but he
possesses a stock of Arabian Nights' legends, and quotes them as though
they were part of Al Koran.

Now and again, in some of the waste and stony places beyond Dukala's
boundaries, we come across a well, literally a well in the desert, with
husbandmen gathered about it and drawing water in their goat-skin buckets,
that are tied to long palmetto ropes made by the men of the neighbouring
villages. The water is poured into flat, puddled troughs, and the thirsty
flocks and herds drink in turn, before they march away to hunt for such
scanty herbage as the land affords. The scene round these wells is
wonderfully reminiscent of earliest Bible times, particularly so where the
wandering Bedouins bring their flocks to water from the inhospitable
territory of the Wad Nun and deserts below the Sus.

I note with pleasure the surprising dignity of the herdsmen, who make far
less comment upon the appearance of the stranger in these wild places than
we should make upon the appearance of a Moor or Berber in a London street.

The most unmistakable tribute to the value of the water is paid by the
skeletons of camels, mules, sheep and goats that mark the road to the
well. They tell the tale of animals beaten by the Enemy in their last
stride. It is not easy for a European to realise the suffering these
strange lands must see when the summer drought is upon the face of the
earth. Perhaps they are lessened among the human sufferers by the very
real fatalism that accepts evil as it accepts good, without grief and
without gladness, but always with philosophic calm; at least we should
call it philosophic in a European; superstitious fatalism, of course, in a
Moor.

[Illustration: MOORISH WOMAN AND CHILD]

The earliest and latest hours of our daily journey are, I think, the best.
When afternoon turns toward evening in the fertile lands, and the great
heat begins to pass, countless larks resume their song, while from every
orchard one hears the subdued murmur of doves or the mellow notes of the
nightingale. Storks sweep in wide circles overhead or teach their awkward
young the arts of flight, or wade solemnly in search of supper to some
marsh where the bull-frogs betray their presence by croaking as loudly as
they can. The decline of the sun is quite rapid--very often the afterglow
lights us to our destination. It is part of the Maalem's duty to decide
upon the place of our nightly sojourn, and so to regulate the time of
starting, the pace, and the mid-day rest, that he may bring us to the
village or n'zala in time to get the tent up before darkness has fallen.
The little man is master of every turn in the road, and has only failed
once--when he brought us to a large village, where the bulk of the
inhabitants of outlying douars had attacked the Governor's house, with
very little success, on the previous day, and were now about to be
attacked in their turn by the Governor and his bodyguard. There had been
much firing and more shouting, but nobody was badly hurt. Prudence
demanded that the journey be resumed forthwith, and for three hours the
Maalem kept his eyes upon the stars and cursed the disturbers of the
land's peace. Then we reached the desired haven, and passed unscathed
through the attacks of the native dogs that guarded its approaches.

The procedure when we approach a n'zala in the evening is highly
interesting. Some aged headman, who has seen our little company
approaching, stands by the edge of the road and declares we are
welcome.[12] Salam or the Maalem responds and presents me, a traveller
from the far country of the Ingliz, carrying letters to the great sheikhs
of the South. The headman repeats his welcome and is closely questioned
concerning the existing supplies of water, corn, milk, eggs, and poultry.
These points being settled, Salam asks abouts guards. The strangers would
sleep outside the n'zala: Can they have guards at a fair price? Three are
promised for a payment of about sevenpence apiece, and then the headman
precedes us and we turn from the main track to the place of shelter.

Instantly the village is astir. The dogs are driven off. Every wattled
hut yields its quota of men, women, and children, spectral in their white
djellabas and all eager to see the strangers and their equipment. The men
collect in one group and talk seriously of the visit, well assured that it
has some significance, probably unpleasant; the women, nervous by nature
and training, do not venture far from their homes and remain veiled to the
eyes. But the children--dark, picturesque, half-naked boys and girls--are
nearly free from fear if not from doubt. The tattoo marks on their chins
keep them safe from the evil eye; so they do not run much risk from chance
encounter with a European. They approach in a constantly shifting group,
no detail of the unpacking is lost to them, they are delighted with the
tent and amazed at the number of articles required to furnish it, they
refuse biscuits and sugar, though Salam assures them that both are good to
eat, and indeed sugar is one of the few luxuries of their simple lives.

[Illustration: EVENING ON THE PLAINS]

By the headman's direction our wants are supplied. The patriarch, with his
long white beard and clear far-seeing eyes, receives the respect and
obedience of all the village, settles all disputes, and is personally
responsible to the kaid of the district for the order and safety of the
n'zala. Three men come from the well, each bearing a big clay amphora of
water that must be boiled before we drink it. One brings an ample measure
of barley, costing about four shillings or a little more in English money,
another bends under a great load of straw. Closely-veiled women carry
small jars of milk and hand them to their lord, who brings them up to
Salam and states the price demanded. Milk is dear throughout Morocco in
the late spring and summer, for, herbage being scanty, cows are small and
poor. Eggs, on the other hand, are cheap; we can buy a dozen for twopence
or its equivalent in Spanish or Moorish money, and chickens cost about
fivepence apiece. If Salam, M'Barak and the Maalem were travelling alone
they would pay less, but a European is rarely seen, and his visit must be
made memorable.

Provisions purchased, the tent up, mules and horses tethered together in
full view of the tent, a great peace falls upon our little party. I am
permitted to lie at full length on a horse rug and stare up at the dark,
star-spangled sky; Salam has dug a little hole in the ground, made a
charcoal fire, and begun to prepare soup and boil the water for coffee.
The Maalem smokes kief in furtive manner, as though orthodox enough to be
ashamed of the practice, while M'Barak prepares plates and dishes for the
evening meal. Around, in a semicircle, some ten yards away, the men and
boys of the village sit observing us solemnly. They have little to say,
but their surprise and interest are expressed quite adequately by their
keen unfailing regard. The afterglow passes and charcoal fires are lighted
at the edge of most of the native huts, in preparation for the evening
meal, for the young shepherds have come from the fields and the flocks are
safely penned. In the gathering dusk the native women, passing through the
smoke or by the flame of their fire, present a most weird picture, as it
might be they were participating in a Witches' Sabbath. Darkness envelops
all the surrounding country, hiding the road by which we came, sealing up
the track we have to follow, striking a note of loneliness that is awesome
without being unpleasant. With what we call civilisation hundreds of miles
away, in a country where law and order are to be regarded more as names
than facts, one has a great joy in mere living, intensified doubtless by
long hours spent in the saddle, by occasional hard work and curtailed
rest, and by the daily sight of the rising sun.

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