maroc and mazagan :2

It is hopeless to wait for wild boar now. One or two pariah dogs, hailing
from nowhere, have been attracted to the camp, Salam has given them the
waste food, and they have installed themselves as our protectors, whether
out of a feeling of gratitude or in hope of favours to come I cannot tell,
but probably from a mixture of wise motives. They are alert, savage
beasts, of a hopelessly mixed breed, but no wild boar will come rooting
near the camp now, nor will any thief, however light-footed, yield to the
temptation our tents afford.

[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE KASBAH, TANGIER]

We have but one visitor after the last curtain has been drawn, a strange
bird with a harsh yet melancholy note, that reminds me of the night-jar of
the fen lands in our own country. The hills make a semicircle round the
camp, and the visitor seems to arrive at the corner nearest Spartel about
one o'clock in the morning. It cries persistently awhile, and then flies
to the middle of the semicircle, just at the back of the tents, where the
note is very weird and distinct. Finally it goes to the other horn of the
crescent and resumes the call--this time, happily, a much more subdued
affair. What is it? Why does it come to complain to the silence night
after night? One of the men says it is a djin, and wants to go back to
Tangier, but Salam, whose loyalty outweighs his fears, declares that
even though it be indeed a devil and eager to devour us, it cannot come
within the charmed range of my revolver. Hence its regret, expressed so
unpleasantly. I have had to confess to Salam that I have no proof that he
is wrong.

Now and again in the afternoon the tribesmen call to one another from the
hill tops. They possess an extraordinary power of carrying their voices
over a space that no European could span. I wonder whether the real secret
of the powers ascribed to the half-civilised tribes of Africa has its
origin in this gift. Certain it is that news passes from village to
village across the hills, and that no courier can keep pace with it. In
this way rumours of great events travel from one end of the Dark Continent
to the other, and if the tales told me of the passage of news from South
to North Africa during the recent war were not so extravagant as they seem
at first hearing, I would set them down here, well assured that they would
startle if they could not convince. In the south of Morocco, during the
latter days of my journey, men spoke with quiet conviction of the doings
of Sultan and Pretender in the North, just as though Morocco possessed a
train or telegraph service, or a native newspaper. It does not seem
unreasonable that, while the deserts and great rolling plains have
extended men's vision to a point quite outside the comprehension of
Europe, other senses may be at least equally stimulated by a life we
Europeans shall: never know intimately. Perhaps the fear of believing too
readily makes us unduly sceptical, and inclined to forget that our
philosophy cannot compass one of the many mysteries that lie at our door.

If any proof were required that Morocco in all its internal disputes is
strictly tribal, our safe residence here would supply one. On the other
side of Tangier, over in the direction of Tetuan, the tribes are out and
the roads are impassable. Europeans are forbidden to ride by way of Angera
to Tetuan. Even a Minister, the representative of a great European Power,
was warned by old Hadj Mohammed Torres, the resident Secretary for Foreign
Affairs, that the Moorish Administration would not hold itself responsible
for his safety if he persisted in his intention to go hunting among the
hills. And here we remain unmolested day after day, while the headmen of
the Mediunah tribe discuss with perfect tranquillity the future of the
Pretender's rebellion, or allude cheerfully to the time when, the Jehad
(Holy War) being proclaimed, the Moslems will be permitted to cut the
throats of all the Unbelievers who trouble the Moghreb. In the fatalism of
our neighbours lies our safety. If Allah so wills, never a Nazarene will
escape the more painful road to eternal fire; if it is written otherwise,
Nazarene torment will be posthumous. They do not know, nor, in times when
the land is preparing for early harvest, do they greatly care, what or
when the end may be. Your wise Moor waits to gather in his corn and see it
safely hoarded in the clay-lined and covered pits called mat'moras. That
work over, he is ready and willing, nay, he is even anxious, to fight, and
if no cause of quarrel is to be found he will make one.

[Illustration: HEAD OF A BOY FROM MEDIUNA]

Every year or two a party of travellers settles on this plateau, says
the headman of Mediunah. From him I hear of a fellow writer from England
who was camped here six years ago.[5] Travellers stay sometimes for three
or four days, sometimes for as many weeks, and he has been told by men who
have come many miles from distant markets, that the Nazarenes are to be
found here and there throughout the Moroccan highlands towards the close
of the season of the winter rains. Clearly their own land is not a very
desirable abiding place, or they have sinned against the law, or their
Sultan has confiscated their worldly goods, remarks the headman. My
suggestion that other causes than these may have been at work, yields no
more than an assertion that all things are possible, if Allah wills them.
It is his polite method of expressing reluctance to believe everything he
is told.

From time to time, when we are taking our meals in the open air, I see the
shepherd boys staring at us from a respectful distance. To them we must
seem no better than savages. In the first place, we sit on chairs and not
on the ground. We cut our bread, which, as every True Believer knows, is a
wicked act and defies Providence, since bread is from Allah and may be
broken with the hand but never touched with a knife. Then we do not know
how to eat with our fingers, but use knives and forks and spoons that,
after mere washing, are common property. We do not have water poured out
over our fingers before the meal begins,--the preliminary wash in the tent
is invisible and does not count,--and we do not say "Bismillah" before we
start eating. We are just heathens, they must say to themselves. Our daily
bathing seems to puzzle them greatly. I do not notice that little Larbi or
his brother Kasem ever tempt the sea to wash or drown them. Yet they look
healthy enough, and are full of dignity. You may offer them fruit or
sweetmeats or anything tempting that may be on the table, and they will
refuse it. I fancy they regard the invitation to partake of Nazarene's
food as a piece of impertinence, only excusable because Nazarenes are mad.
The days slip away from the plateau below Mediunah. March has yielded
place to April. To-morrow the pack-mules will be here at sunrise. In the
afternoon, when the cool hours approach, camp will be struck, and we shall
ride down the avenue of cork trees for the last time on the way to "Tanjah
of the Nazarenes," whence, at the week end, the boat will carry us to some
Atlantic port, there to begin a longer journey.

[Illustration: THE GOATHERD FROM MEDIUNA]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Moreover, we have decked the lower heaven with lamps, and have made
them for pelting the devils."--Al Koran; Sura, "The Kingdom."

[2] "The Far West", the native name for Morocco.

[3] One of the most charming of these houses is "Aidonia," belonging to
Mr. Ion Perdicaris. He was seized there by the brigand Rais Uli in May
last.

[4] Shelters provided by the Government for travellers.

[5] A.J. Dawson, whose novels dealing with Morocco are full of rare charm
and distinction.




FROM TANGIER TO DJEDIDA




[Illustration: OLD BUILDINGS, TANGIER]




CHAPTER II

FROM TANGIER TO DJEDIDA

    Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
    The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

           *       *       *       *       *

    Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

    _The Canterbury Tales._

We have rounded the north-west corner of Africa, exchanged farewell
signals with our friend on Lloyd's station,--who must now return to his
Spanish and Arabic or live a silent life,--and I have taken a last look
through field-glasses at the plateau that held our little camp. Since then
we have raced the light for a glimpse of El Araish, where the Gardens of
the Hesperides were set by people of old time. The sun was too swift in
its decline; one caught little more than an outline of the white city,
with the minarets of its mosques that seemed to pierce the sky, and flags
flying in the breeze on the flat roofs of its Consuls' houses. The river
Lekkus showed up whitely on the eastern side, a rising wind having whipped
its waters into foam, and driven the light coasting vessels out to sea. So
much I saw from the good ship _Zweena's_ upper deck, and then evening
fell, as though to hide from me the secret of the gardens where the
Golden Apples grew.

Alas, that modern knowledge should have destroyed all faith in old legend!
The fabled fruits of the Hesperides turn to oranges in the hands of our
wise men, the death-dealing dragon becomes Wad Lekkus itself, so ready
even to-day to snarl and roar at the bidding of the wind that comes up out
of the south-west, and the dusky maidens of surpassing loveliness are no
more than simple Berber girls, who, whilst doubtless dusky, and possibly
maidenly as ever, have not inherited much of the storied beauty of their
forbears. In spite of this modern perversion of the old tale I find that
the oranges of the dining-table have a quite rare charm for me
to-night,--such an attraction as they have had hitherto only when I have
picked them in the gardens of Andalusia, or in the groves that perfume the
ancient town of Jaffa at the far eastern end of the Mediterranean. Now I
have one more impression to cherish, and the scent of a blossoming orange
tree will recall for me El Araish as I saw it at the moment when the
shroud of evening made the mosques and the kasbah of Mulai al Yazeed melt,
with the great white spaces between them, into a blurred pearly mass
without salient feature.

[Illustration: MOORISH HOUSE, CAPE SPARTEL]

You shall still enjoy the sense of being in touch with past times and
forgotten people, if you will walk the deck of a ship late at night. Your
fellow-passengers are abed, the watch, if watch there be, is invisible,
the steady throbbing movement of the screw resolves itself into a
pleasing rhythmic melody. So far as the senses can tell, the world is your
closet, a silent pleasaunce for your waking dreams. The coast-line has no
lights, nor is any other vessel passing over the waters within range of
eye or glass. The hosts of heaven beam down upon a silent universe in
which you are the only waking soul. On a sudden eight bells rings out
sharply from the forecastle head, and you spring back from your world of
fancy as hurriedly as Cinderella returned to her rags when long-shore
midnight chimed. The officer of the middle watch and a hand for the wheel
come aft to relieve their companions, the illusion has passed, and you go
below to turn in, feeling uncomfortably sure that your pretty thoughts
will appear foolish and commonplace enough when regarded in the
matter-of-fact light of the coming day.

Dar el Baida, most Moorish of seaports, received us in the early morning.
The wind had fallen, and the heavy surf-boats of the port could land us
easily. We went on shore past the water-gate and the custom-house that
stands on the site of the stores erected by the society of the Gremios
Majores when Charles V. ruled Spain. Dar el Baida seemed to have straggled
over as much ground as Tangier, but the ground itself was flat and full of
refuse. The streets were muddy and unpaved, cobble stones strove
ineffectually to disguise drains, and one felt that the sea breezes alone
stood between the city and some such virulent epidemic as that which smote
Tangier less than ten years ago. But withal there was a certain
picturesque quality about Dar el Baida that atoned for more obvious
faults, and the market-place afforded a picture as Eastern in its main
features as the tired Western eye could seek. Camel caravans had come in
from the interior for the Monday market. They had tramped from the
villages of the Zair and the Beni Hassan tribes, bringing ripe barley for
sale, though the spring months had not yet passed. From places near at
hand the husbandmen had brought all the vegetables that flourish after the
March rains,--peas and beans and lettuces; pumpkins, carrots and turnips,
and the tender leaves of the date-palm. The first fruits of the year and
the dried roses of a forgotten season were sold by weight, and charcoal
was set in tiny piles at prices within the reach of the poorest customers.

Wealthy merchants had brought their horses within the shadow of the
sok's[6] high walls and loosened the many-clothed saddles. Slaves walked
behind their masters or trafficked on their behalf. The snake-charmer, the
story-teller, the beggar, the water-carrier, the incense seller, whose
task in life is to fumigate True Believers, all who go to make the typical
Moorish crowd, were to be seen indolently plying their trade. But
inquiries for mules, horses, and servants for the inland journey met with
no ready response. Dar el Baida, I was assured, had nothing to offer;
Djedida, lower down along the coast, might serve, or Saffi, if Allah
should send weather of a sort that would permit the boat to land.

[Illustration: A PATRIARCH]

As it happened, Djedida was the steamer's next port of call, so we made
haste to return to her hospitable decks. I carried with me a vivid
impression of Dar el Baida, of the market-place with its varied goods, and
yet more varied people, the white Arabs, the darker Berbers, the black
slaves from the Soudan and the Draa. Noticeable in the market were the
sweet stores, where every man sat behind his goods armed with a feather
brush, and waged ceaseless war with the flies, while a corner of his eye
was kept for small boys, who were well nigh as dangerous. I remember the
gardens, one particularly well. It belongs to the French Consul, and has
bananas growing on the trees that face the road; from beyond the hedge one
caught delightful glimpses of colour and faint breaths of exquisite
perfume.

I remember, too, the covered shed containing the mill that grinds the
flour for the town, and the curious little bakehouse to which Dar el Baida
takes its flat loaves, giving the master of the establishment one loaf in
ten by way of payment. I recall the sale of horses, at which a fine raking
mare with her foal at foot fetched fifty-four dollars in Moorish silver, a
sum less than nine English pounds.

And I seem to see, even now as I write, the Spanish woman with cruel
painted face, sitting at the open casement of an old house near the
Spanish church, thrumming her guitar, and beneath her, by the roadside, a
beggar clad, like the patriarch of old, in a garment of many colours, that
made his black face seem blacker than any I have seen in Africa. Then Dar
el Baida sinks behind the water-port gate, the strong Moorish rowers bend
to their oars, their boat laps through the dark-blue water, and we are
back aboard the ship again, in another atmosphere, another world.
Passengers are talking as it might be they had just returned from their
first visit to a Zoological Garden. Most of them have seen no more than
the dirt and ugliness--their vision noted no other aspect--of the
old-world port. The life that has not altered for centuries, the things
that make it worth living to all the folk we leave behind,--these are
matters in which casual visitors to Morocco have no concern. They resent
suggestion that the affairs of "niggers" can call for serious
consideration, far less for appreciation or interest of any sort.

Happily Djedida is not far away. At daybreak we are securely anchored
before the town whose possession by the Portuguese is recorded to this
hour by the fine fortifications and walls round the port. We slip over the
smooth water in haste, that we may land before the sun is too high in the
heavens. It is not without a thrill of pleasure that I hear the ship's
shrill summons and see the rest of the passengers returning.

[Illustration: PILGRIMS ON A STEAMER]

By this time it is afternoon, but the intervening hours have not been
wasted. I have found the Maalem, master of a bakehouse, a short,
olive-skinned, wild, and wiry little man, whose yellowed eyes and
contracting pupils tell a tale of haschisch and kief that his twitching
fingers confirm. But he knows the great track stretching some hundred and
twenty miles into the interior up to Red Marrakesh; he is "the father
and mother" of mules and horses, animals that brighten the face of man by
reason of their superlative qualities, and he is prepared to undertake the
charge of all matters pertaining to a journey over this roadless country.
His beasts are fit to journey to Tindouf in the country of the Draa, so
fine is their condition; their saddles and accoutrements would delight the
Sultan's own ministers. By Allah, the inland journey will be a picnic!
Quite gravely, I have professed to believe all he says, and my
reservations, though many, are all mental.

In the days that precede departure--and in Morocco they are always apt to
be numerous--I seek to enter into the life of Djedida. Sometimes we stroll
to the custom-house, where grave and dignified Moors sit in the bare,
barnlike office that opens upon the waste ground beyond the port. There
they deliver my shot guns after long and dubious scrutiny of the order
from the British Consulate at Tangier. They also pass certain boxes of
stores upon production of a certificate testifying that they paid duty on
arrival at the Diplomatic Capital. These matters, trivial enough to the
Western mind, are of weight and moment here, not to be settled lightly or
without much consultation.

Rotting in the stores of this same custom-house are two grand pianos and
an electric omnibus. The Sultan ordered them, the country paid for
them,--so much was achieved by the commercial energy of the infidel,--and
native energy sufficed to land them; it was exhausted by the effort. If
Mulai Abd-el-Aziz wants his dearly purchased treasure, the ordering and
existence of which he has probably forgotten, he must come to Mazagan for
it, I am afraid, and unless he makes haste it will not be worth much. But
there are many more such shipments in other ports, not to mention the
unopened and forgotten packing cases at Court.

[Illustration: THE HOUR OF SALE]

The Basha of Djedida is a little old man, very rich indeed, and the terror
of the entire Dukala province. I like to watch him as he sits day by day
under the wall of the Kasbah by the side of his own palace, administering
what he is pleased to call justice. Soldiers and slaves stand by to
enforce his decree if need be, plaintiff and defendant lie like tombstones
or advertisements of patent medicines, or telegrams from the seat of war,
but no sign of an emotion lights the old man's face. He tempers justice
with--let us say, diplomacy. The other afternoon a French-protected
subject was charged with sheep-stealing, and I went to the trial. Salam
acted as interpreter for me. The case was simple enough. The defendant had
received some hundred sheep from plaintiff to feed and tend at an agreed
price. From time to time he sent plaintiff the sad news of the death of
certain rams, always among the finest in the flock. Plaintiff, a farmer in
good circumstances, testified to the Unity of Allah and was content to
pray for better luck, until news was brought to him that most of the sheep
reported dead were to be seen in the Friday market fetching good prices.
The news proved true, the report of their death was no more than the
defendant's intelligent anticipation of events, and the action arose
out of it. To be sure, the plaintiff had presented a fine sheep to the
Basha, but the defendant was a French subject by protection, and the
Vice-Consul of his adopted nation was there to see fair play. Under these
circumstances the defendant lied with an assurance that must have helped
to convince himself; his friends arrived in the full number required by
the law, and testified with cheerful mendacity in their companion's
favour. The Basha listened with attention while the litigants swore
strange oaths and abused each other very thoroughly. Then he silenced both
parties with a word, and gave judgment for the defendant. There was no
appeal, though, had the defendant been an unprotected subject, the
plaintiff's knife had assuredly entered into the final settlement of this
little matter. But the plaintiff knew that an attack upon a French protege
would lead to his own indefinite imprisonment and occasional torture, to
the confiscation of his goods, and to sundry other penalties that may be
left unrecorded, as they would not look well in cold print. He knew,
moreover, that everything is predestined, that no man may avoid Allah's
decree. These matters of faith are real, not pale abstractions, in
Morocco. So he was less discontented with the decision than one of his
European brethren would have been in similar case--and far more
philosophic regarding it.

[Illustration: EVENING, MAZAGAN]

Quite slowly we completed our outfit for the inland journey. Heaven aid
the misguided Nazarene who seeks to accomplish such matters swiftly in
this land of eternal afternoon. I bought an extraordinary assortment of
what our American friends call "dry-goods" in the Jewish stores, from the
very business-like gentlemen in charge of them. These all wore black
gaberdines, black slippers, stockings that were once white, and black
skull-caps over suspiciously shining love-locks. Most of the Jewish men
seemed to have had smallpox; in their speech they relied upon a very base
Arabic, together with worse Spanish or quite barbarous French. Djedida
having no Mellah, as the Moorish ghetto is called, they were free to trade
all over the town, and for rather less than a pound sterling I bought
quite an imposing collection of cutlery, plate, and dishes for use on the
road. It is true, as I discovered subsequently, that the spoons and forks
might be crushed out of shape with one hand, that the knives would cut
nothing rougher than Danish butter, and were imported from Germany with a
Sheffield mark on them to deceive the natives, and that the plates and
dishes were not too good to go with the cutlery. But nothing had been
bought without bargaining of a more or less exciting and interesting sort,
and for the bargaining no extra charge whatever was made. The little
boxlike shops, with flaps that served as shutters, were ill-adapted for
private purchase; there was no room for more than the owner inside, and
before we had been at one for five minutes the roadway became impassable.
All the idlers and beggars in that district gathered to watch the
strangers, and the Maalem was the only one who could keep them at bay.
Salam would merely threaten to cuff an importunate rogue who pestered
us, but the Maalem would curse him so fluently and comprehensively, and
extend the anathema so far in either direction, from forgotten ancestors
to unborn descendants, that no native could stand up for long against the
flashing eye, the quivering forefinger, the foul and bitter tongue of him.
There were times, then and later on, when the Maalem seemed to be some
Moorish connection of Captain