TAFILET
[Illustration: BERBER VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE GHADAT.]
TAFILET
THE NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY OF EXPLORATION IN THE
ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE OASES OF THE
NORTH-WEST SAHARA
BY
WALTER B. HARRIS, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
‘A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN,’ ‘THE LAND OF AN AFRICAN SULTAN
TRAVELS IN MOROCCO,’ ‘DANOVITCH, AND OTHER
STORIES,’ ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY MAURICE ROMBERG_
_FROM SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR_
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCV
_All Rights reserved_
TO
CLEMENTS R. MARKHAM, Esq.,
C.B., F.R.S., F.S.A.,
PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY,
This Book
IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
* * * * *
Very few words of preface are necessary for this book.
To three friends I owe hearty thanks for assistance toward the
successful accomplishment of my journey—namely, to Alexander
Peckover, Esq., D.C.L., F.L.S., F.R.G.S., &c.; James Mason, Esq.;
and R. G. Haliburton, Esq.
To the Proprietors of the ‘Illustrated London News’ I am gratefully
indebted for the use of the drawings made from my original sketches
and photographs, which have been most generously placed at the
disposal of my publishers and myself.
WALTER B. HARRIS.
_November_ 1895.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAP. PAGE
I. PREPARATIONS AND START 1
II. MARAKESH 27
III. THE ASCENT OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS 50
IV. THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE BERBERS 83
V. THE DESCENT FROM THE ATLAS 105
VI. GHRESAT TO DADS 129
VII. DADS 153
VIII. DADS TO UL TURUG 179
IX. OUR ARRIVAL AT TAFILET 213
X. WITH THE SULTAN AT TAFILET 231
XI. TAFILET OR TAFILELT 260
XII. THE RETURN JOURNEY 307
XIII. THE ACCESSION OF THE NEW SULTAN OF MOROCCO 330
INDEX 381
ILLUSTRATIONS
* * * * *
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
BERBER VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE GHADAT _Frontispiece_
A GENERAL VIEW OF MARAKESH _To face page_ 28
THE SÔK JUMAA-EL-FANAR, MARAKESH „ 42
AT THE BASE OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS „ 114
THE VALLEY OF DADS „ 140
A “KSAR” OF ASKURA „ 240
RUINED BRIDGE ON THE ROAD TO TAFILET „ 324
STREET LEADING TO THE SULTAN’S PALACE, MARAKESH „ 342
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
PAGE
LANDING IN SAFFI 8
A WELL AT SUNSET 12
BERBER TRIBESMEN 16
FROM SAFFI TO MOROCCO CITY: A WEEKLY MARKET 26
A STREET IN MARAKESH 32
INNER COURT OF SULTAN’S PALACE IN MARAKESH 35
THE KUTUBÍA IN MARAKESH 38
A JEWISH BANKER OF MARAKESH 45
A STREET SCENE IN MARAKESH 48
BERBERS 64
FORDING THE WAD GHADAT 69
A VIEW FROM ABOVE ZARKTEN 73
THE SHEIKH’S HOUSE AT ZARKTEN 76
THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS FROM THE SOUTH 85
APPROACHING MARAKESH FROM THE NORTH 91
A PASS ON THE ROAD 108
AGURZGA 124
A VILLAGE SCENE 139
A BERBER FAMILY AT DADS: WOMAN MEALING CORN 144
INSIDE THE VILLAGE OF AÏT BU HADDU, AT DADS 158
A WOMAN OF DADS 165
YOUNG JEW OF DADS 174
SAINT’S TOMB ON THE ROAD TO UL TURUG 200
UL TURUG 204
WAD GHERIS 222
IN TAFILET 277
A CORNER OF A SÔK—EARLY MORNING 282
YOUNG WOMEN OF TAFILET DRYING DATES 294
THE KAID OF GLAWA’S RESIDENCE 320
SHOPS AT BAB KHEMIS, MARAKESH 327
MAPS.
SKETCH MAP OF MOROCCO SHOWING AUTHOR’S ROUTE _To face page 1_
DETAIL MAP OF AUTHOR’S ROUTES BETWEEN MARAKESH
AND TAFILET _At end_
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF MOROCCO,
Showing Mr W. B. Harris’s Routes to and from Tafilet.
_Author’s route_ -----]
TAFILET.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
PREPARATIONS AND START.
It had long been my intention to make a journey of exploration into,
and if possible beyond, the Atlas Mountains; and though on several
occasions my plans had been already formulated, I had been obliged,
almost at the last moment, to abandon the idea.
However, the close of the year 1893 offered an opportunity which
could not be neglected; but before entering upon the description
of my journey, a few words must be said as to what not a little
helped it toward success.
Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan of Morocco, had been meditating for some
years an expedition into the southern regions of his dominions,
toward that indefinite frontier which divided his country from
the wastes of the Sahara desert. Until, however, the spring of
the year 1893 he had been so occupied with summer expeditions,
organised to crush petty rebellions and intertribal strife, that he
had found no favourable opportunity of making any protracted absence
from the seat of his Government; for so miserable are the means of
communication in Morocco, that, once across the Atlas Mountains, he
was practically as distant from his capital—and still more from
the residence of the European Ministers accredited to his Court,
who reside at Tangier—as Kamskatka is from London.
However, during the summer of 1892 the tribes had been so punished
for their many rebellious offences, and so heavily taxed in
consequence, that his Majesty felt but little anxiety in carrying
out his projected visit to his trans-Atlas dominions.
But there were other questions almost as serious to
be considered—first, his relations with foreign Powers; and,
secondly, the reception that might await him in those far-off
corners of his realm.
With regard to the former, while avoiding all political questions,
one or two words must be said. First, it must be understood that
Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan, was not only an autocratic
ruler, but his own Minister of Foreign Affairs; and a great
difficulty therefore arose as to who, in the case of sudden foreign
complications, should be directed to fill his place. No one knew the
temperament of his Ministers and Viziers better than the Sultan,
and probably no one could trust them less; for although their
patriotism might be all that was desired, it was very possible that
this same over-zeal might lead them into difficulties. For this
reason the relations of his country with the European Governments
were temporarily put into the hands of a council, in which the
acting Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sid Fadhul Gharnit, held but
only an equal voice with the rest; while the powers vested in Sid
el Haj Mohammed Torres, the Vizier-resident at Tangier, were more
fully specified and amplified, for alone of all the members of
the Sultan’s Government this man could be said to possess the
confidence both of the European Ministers and his master.
Having announced the manner in which all questions of foreign
affairs were to be regulated during his absence, there was to be
considered the second serious difficulty of the enterprise—the
reception he would receive. For the purpose of ensuring success
in this respect, long before his Majesty started from Fez for the
south, influential members of his family, already acquainted with the
tribes in question and their attitude toward the Sultan, were sent
out to bully and bribe. Of the two, the latter did the most toward
ensuring his Majesty’s safe passage through the Berber tribes,
and by March 1893 everything was prepared for a start to be made.
It is usual for the rulers of Morocco to change their residence from
year to year, spending the winters in one of the larger cities,
either Fez, Meknas, or Marakesh, and during the summer and autumn
to make the long marches from the north to the south of the empire,
or _vice versa_. The enormous retinue accompanying the Sultan,
the quantity of baggage to be transported, to say nothing of the
insufficiency of all commissariat arrangements and the entire
absence of roads, renders these royal progresses matters often of
several months’ duration.
None can have known better than the Sultan the difficulties—even
dangers—of the journey before him; for, although he possessed
no personal knowledge of the country to be traversed, he was well
informed as to the climatic changes that would have to be endured,
as to difficulty in finding food for his troops, and still greater
difficulty for his horses and mules, and as to the physical aspect
of the country, which presented, along the proposed routes, not only
the heat and cold of the desert, but the passage of mountain-passes,
one alone of which reaches an altitude of over 8000 feet above the
sea-level,—and this amongst subjects who, by birth a different
and a semi-conquered nation, would provide nothing or little for
his welfare, and whose reception, if hearty enough in words, would
lack any real enthusiasm.
There can be no doubt that influence was used to prevent Mulai
el Hassen starting out upon this journey, the expenses of which,
even to a European Government, would be enormous, while the dangers
were scarcely less; but so persistent was his Majesty in carrying
out his idea, that he showed little favour to those who tendered
him advice, and let it be clearly understood that the matter rested
with him alone.
In April a start was made from Fez, the direction being due south,
and a halt of a few days was called at Sufru, a small town some
sixteen miles away from the capital. Here the European officers
attached to the Sultan’s suite were informed that it had been
decided that they were not to accompany his Majesty, and they
forthwith returned to Fez. The sole exception made was in the case
of the French doctor, M. Linares, who was commanded to remain with
the army, and to make the journey with the Sultan.
After weary months of hard travel and equally hard delays, Mulai
el Hassen reached his goal, Tafilet, the home of his ancestors,
in the first week of November.
There is no need here to recount the march from Fez to that oasis;
suffice it to say that, in spite of the physical difficulties of the
country, the scarcity of provisions and fodder, and the half-hearted
reception of the Berber tribes, it was successfully accomplished.
It may be thought that I have already digressed too far from the
purpose of my book in making these introductory remarks; but as it
was owing to the Sultan’s presence in Tafilet that I was able to
undertake my journey at all, and happily bring it to a successful
end, I have felt constrained to briefly state the reasons that
had taken Mulai el Hassen to the far-away oasis in the desert from
which his dynasty originally sprung.
As to the motives of the Sultan, it is difficult to state anything
with certainty. No doubt religious zeal to pray at the reverenced
tomb of his ancestor, Mulai Ali Shereef, had much to do with the
desire to undertake so long and trying a journey, for it could have
been from no hope that by so doing any considerable sums of money
could be collected or extorted, as was generally believed to be the
case, for none could have been better aware than he of the poverty of
the country and its inhabitants. Probably it was solely the religious
point, touched with some anxious curiosity to see the home of his
ancestors, that led him to empty the treasury upon an expedition
from which no real, and but little moral, benefit could accrue.
I had meanwhile been carefully watching such glimpses of information
as from time to time reached England as to the whereabouts of the
Sultan and his army, and scanty and contradictory as they were,
I was able by the beginning of September 1893 to gather that his
Majesty’s journey, in spite of a general belief to the contrary,
would be successful, and that Tafilet would be reached.
I therefore left England in the middle of September, and collecting
the few necessaries for my journey at Tangier, reached Saffi, some
400 miles down the Atlantic coast of Morocco, in the second week
of October.
The journey from Tangier to Saffi was one that presented but little
of interest. The coast-steamer in which I travelled visited the
various ports,—Laraiche, Rabat, Casablanca (Dar el baida), and
Mazagan, all of which I knew well. The weather was rough, and we
had some difficulty in communicating at more than one of the ports,
lying for some twenty hours off Rabat before the lighters were
able to issue from the mouth of the river—the Bu Regreg—that
separates that town from Sallee, the home of the old rovers, whose
depredations upon English sailing-ships were at one time so well
known and so much dreaded.
However, on the fifth day after leaving, Saffi was reached, and
fortunately the sea was calm enough to allow of our landing in one
of the strangely built and decorated surf-boats in use at that port.
[Illustration: _Landing in Saffi._]
What a shouting and yelling there was of the boatmen, as my Riffi
servant Mohammed, of whom more anon, and I, perched on the top of
our little pile of baggage, were tossed to and fro by the curling
seas that one after another broke along the beach! In silence the
steersman watched his opportunity, and with a smooth gliding motion
we were borne between rugged rocks, and our boat lay high and dry
upon the beach.
Saffi has been too often described to need more than the merest
mention here. It is a strange, flat-roofed, white town, reaching
from the sea-beach high up the semicircle of hills by which it
is enclosed, the summit capped by the windowless walls and peaked
towers of the great castle, once a palace of the Sultans, now little
more than a deserted ruin.
Within the town the streets are narrow and dirty. In rainy seasons
the mud is almost knee-deep, and a torrent flows through the
main street. The native inhabitants are poor, and accordingly
but little signs of luxury or trade are to be found, with the
exceptions of the large stores of the few European merchants who
reside there. The town is walled, in parts of Moorish workmanship,
in others the remains of the old Portuguese occupation; for Saffi,
like most of the other towns of the Atlantic coast of Morocco,
once formed a small colony of the “King of the Algarves.”
The few days I spent at Saffi passed pleasantly enough, for I
was entertained by Mr Hunot, her Majesty’s Vice-Consul, whose
knowledge of Arabic and Morocco, gained from a residence of some
forty years in the country, is exceptional; and though I chafed at
the delays that always meet one in dealing with Moors, he did much
to render my time as agreeable as could be to a man who was intent
upon nothing but in making a start.
Small as my preparations were, they caused me several days’ more
delay than I liked; but before the week was out I found myself on
the eve of departure, with a couple of mules, an old man who was
to be my guide, philosopher, and friend, his son and his nephew,
a black slave-girl belonging to his establishment, a stray Sahara
pilgrim, and my Riffi servant.
Adopting the dress of the country on my departure, and mounting a
pack-mule on the top of the luggage, we set out one morning, not
at sunrise as I had hoped, for the old man forgot everything that
he could forget, and remembered an enormous quantity of things he
should have left behind, and it was near mid-day before we passed
out under the old gateway of the town and climbed the steep hill,
in the valley below which the only gardens that Saffi can boast
are situated.
The heat was intense and water scarce, and both we and our poor
animals suffered the entire road to Marakesh, or, as it is more
commonly called, Morocco City, a distance of about a hundred
miles. There had been no rain for some five months, and even the
_metafir_, as the natives call their underground cisterns, were
nearly dry, and many quite so.
The road from Saffi to Marakesh presents no aspect of peculiar
interest. The tribes of Abda and Beled Ahmar are passed through, the
latter boasting the dreary circular salt lake of Zima, near which is
a cluster of white buildings, a _mdarsa_ or sort of college, where
the late Sultan and many of his sons received their education. The
inhabitants are all Arabs, but their villages are few and far
between, or lie off the road. The country, at this time of year
a dreary stony waste, is in the spring one great field of waving
corn; and the horses of Beled Ahmar are famous. Owing to the heat,
we did not arrive at Morocco City until the fourth day, and did
not actually enter until the morning of the fifth, preferring to
spend the night just outside the walls.
There is one scene, however, that presents itself as one nears the
city that cannot be passed over without mention, though I myself,
amongst others, have described it before. Yet so strikingly grand
is it, and so unique, that it demands reference in any work that
deals with this portion of Morocco. I refer to the first view of
the wide valley of the Tensift, with its wonderful background of
the range of the Atlas Mountains.
We had been climbing the steep slopes of Jibeelet, the name given to
the range of hills that form the north boundary of the wide valley
of the Tensift, for some little time before the plain beneath came
into view. The ascent had been a hot and tiring one,
[Illustration: _A Well at Sunset_]
and we and our mules were thirsty indeed. Nor were there any means
of obtaining water, for during some hours we only passed one small
village belonging to a few shepherds of the Arab tribe of Ulad Dlim,
and their waterjars were empty. The well was a couple of miles away,
and not till sunset were they going to fill the jars again. Dirty
and poverty-stricken their little collection of thatched hovels
and grimy tents were, but picturesque all the same, with a group of
women in dark-blue cotton in the foreground, wearing necklaces of
large amber beads and coral, and with long plaits of untidy hair,
while dogs and naked children stood by and watched our little
caravan pass. Up we toiled until, passing through a narrow gorge,
the scene opened out before us in indescribable beauty. At our
feet lay the valley of the Tensift, far below us, stretching away
some thirty miles or so to where the great range of the Atlas rose
majestically from the plain. Green was the valley, green with crops
and groves of date-palms, while here, there, and everywhere sparkled
and glittered the river Tensift and the many canals that carry water
from its stream to irrigate the surrounding country. A haze hung over
the valley, that sufficed, without in any way hiding its beauties,
to soften the effect of the fierce sunlight; so that beyond the
river the plain appeared to shimmer in semi-unreality until there
arose from the level ground the great barrier of mountain beyond,
its summit white with snow, its base blue with distance.
Inexpressibly grand it was, yet not with the grandeur that rugged
cliffs and precipices can give, for beyond everything appealed to
one the richness of the scene. After the hot weary march across
waterless plains, the vegetation was surpassingly welcome; and the
dark forest of palm-trees, stretching for miles along the valley,
was as cheering to our eyes as are the lights of his village to
the storm-tossed mariner. There are few views in the world that
can equal the first sight one obtains of the Tensift valley and the
Atlas Mountains,—the strange mingling of tropical vegetation, of
fields green with crops, and of peaks 13,000 and 14,000 feet high,
one and all capped with snow, forming a unique scene. There, too,
was the city, its minarets, like little needles, peeping above the
level of the feathery heads of the palms, but still far away.
The glimpse of shade and water gave energy to our weary bodies,
and we pushed on as fast as was possible for the tired mules, who,
nevertheless, needed but little urging, for to them, too, the scene
must have appealed as much as, if not more than, to ourselves.
At a stream we drank; then entering the palm-groves, threaded our
way, here through a forest of tall straight stems, there through
fields of green maize, until within a mile or two of the city
we camped for the night at a small _nzala_, or resting-place for
caravans.
As often in these pages this word _nzala_ will be found, it may be
as well to explain its purport here. Owing to the lawlessness of the
tribes, small villages have been planted by the native Government
along all the tracks which in Morocco answer the purposes of
roads. Usually the inhabitants of these wayside caravanserais are
natives of some other tribe, brought there and given a small grant
of land. The villages consist merely of thatch huts and the brown
_ghiem_ or tents of the Arabs; but there is always a large _zareba_,
or open space enclosed with a high and thick thorn hedge, in which
travellers and their pack-animals spend the night. The village
community furnishes a guard at the only entrance to this _zareba_,
and in case of robbery the inhabitants are held responsible by
the Government. In return for this responsibility they collect a
small tax from any who make use of their protection. The system
is a good one, and theft is very uncommon, it being greatly to the
villagers’ benefit to carefully guard the traveller’s property
and exact the small fee, rather than by stealing call down upon
themselves the wrath of the native Government and the rapacity of
the local officials.
So at the last _nzala_ on the road from Saffi to Marakesh we spent
the night, pitching our one little tent in the _zareba_, and hiring
an elderly female, who possessed only one eye, to cook us some supper
in her hut of thatch; and, considering that her fire consisted only
of bunches of thistles, which had to be replaced almost as soon as
they were lit, she performed her task with skill and success.
[Illustration: _Berber Tribesmen._]
The next morning, at the tail of our little caravan, I entered
Marakesh on foot, grimy and travel-stained, and reached my
destination, the house of Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui, without
attracting any attention as a Christian in disguise.
Here comfort, even luxury, awaited me, and pleasant indeed were the
eight days I spent in the city before continuing my journey—this
time into unknown regions.
Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui is almost the best-known man in Morocco,
and probably the most disliked, a fact in which he takes particular
pride. Protected by the British Government, to all intents and
purposes a British subject, he has by these means been able to
amass a large fortune without the native Government having annexed
it and imprisoned the possessor. Whether this fortune has been
altogether collected by creditable means, according to European
ideas of business, I am unable to say, nor is it a matter of any
importance. Suffice it that his fortune has made him many enemies,
whose jealousy at seeing him easily and safely amassing wealth,
while they have been under the constant dread of confiscation by
officials, and continual taxation, has reached such a pitch that
they have not hesitated to spread all kinds of scandalous reports
about his goings on. These reports reached the ears, amongst others,
of British philanthropists in England; and while Sid Abu Bekr was
engaged in building fresh houses and buying new gardens in his native
city, the House of Commons was being harangued as to the perfidies
of the so-called “Government Agent” in Morocco City. It did
not stop there; newspapers, even foreign European Governments,
took the question up, and his name became of common mention in
official despatches. As long, however, as his personal liberty
was not affected, he merely laughed at these hazardous statements,
until one day it was brought to his ears that things looked serious,
and that the only English newspaper in Morocco was calling him a
slave-dealer, a brothel-keeper, and, if I remember right, a murderer.
Then Abu Bekr girt up his loins to fight, and for some ten days his
action for libel occupied the time of the High Court of Gibraltar. I
was present on the occasion, and shall never forget the scene when,
seated in the witness-box, Sid Abu Bekr, robed in silks and fine
linens, answered calmly and expressionlessly the extremely unpleasant
questions put to him by the defendant—unpleasant in that they
referred to that, to the Moor, most private of questions, his wives
and his daughters. Every atrocity, every crime, was stated to have
been committed by him; but with no result more than the fact that
Sid Abu Bekr won his action with costs, and 500 dollars damages,
and an injunction that the libel should not be repeated.
Thereupon, his character legally cleared, he returned once more to
Marakesh, where, surrounded by his little daughters, to whom he is
devotedly attached, he lives in luxury and wealth.
In the house of this man my days were spent, just as I lived another
three weeks with him on my return journey, and I received from
him then, just as I have always done, every mark of kindness and
hospitality. Even the interior of his house was open to me, and
many a pleasant hour I passed playing with his little daughters,
whose dresses of silks and brocades sparkled with jewels.
By this time I had found opportunity to take stock of my travelling
companions, who, as they played a by no means unimportant part in
the success of my journey, deserve some notice.
The chief of our party, by position, age, and, he himself would
probably add, acquirements, was the elderly Shereef. In person
he was dark, of a sort of coffee-colour, with a grey beard and
moustache; a short figure inclined to stoutness, and a bad habit of
trying to sing. Himself a native of the Sahara, it was on him that
I principally relied for success in my undertaking, my personality
and disguise being concealed under the bushel of his reputation and
accomplishments. Principal amongst the latter was his knowledge of
medicine, a hereditary knowledge it must be understood, part of the
_baraka_, or blessing, of his august family, for he was a descendant
of the Prophet Mohammed. I unfortunately had no opportunity of
seeing the result of his skill, for when in his company I was never
in one place sufficiently long to obtain any information as to the
potency of the draughts he administered out of one of the three empty
soda-water-bottles he had with him. It was entirely my own fault,
though, that I did not see him perform the operation he was most
skilled in—namely, cataract—for before leaving Tangier I had
received a letter from him asking me to bring a large bottle of
chloroform and a knife suitable for the purpose. This I steadily
refused to do, and I think that the old man felt the slight I
had unintentionally offered him, and fancied that I doubted his
skill. At least he was always holding forth upon the subject, and
continually repeating the story that when in Algeria he had been
offered a fabulous salary—the sum varied each time the tale was
told—to remain in charge of the military hospital at Algiers, an
honour which he had declined. He never tired of narrating the facts
and details of his most successful operation. There is a sect in
Morocco called “Hamacha,” who are followers of a certain saint
by name Sidi Ali ben Hamduch, who lies buried near Meknas. These
devotees amuse their audience—and themselves too, let us hope—by
throwing into the air heavy cannon-balls, which they allow to fall
upon their shaven crowns. On the occasion in question a Hamdushi
had unfortunately evidently been wanting in religious power, for the
cannon-ball crushed his skull. My old Shereef friend had been called
to the rescue, and according to his account, which, let us hope, for
the sake of science as well as his own reputation, is a true one,
he removed the broken patch of skull, replacing it with the rind
of a green pumpkin, and closing the skin over it. In a month’s
time the patient was not only convalescent but was once more hard
at work practising his religio-acrobatic feats, with not only a
remodelled and renovated skull, but even a new crop of hair! Such,
then, was the skill of the leader of our caravan.
But there was another member who aspired to play the chief part
in our little camp—the black slave-girl. Of all the mischievous
impertinent hussies that ever saw the light of day she was the
worst. Alternately shrieking with laughter at her practical jokes,
and howling with rage because she couldn’t get what she wanted
for supper, she was equally annoying in either capacity. At the
same time, one could not help laughing at her strange antics. Why
she had come at all was at first a mystery to me, until it leaked
out that she had insisted upon doing so, and had pulled the old
man’s beard until, with tears in his eyes, he had promised to
take her—anyhow, come she did. Her mother was a slave of the
Shereef’s wife—the wife who lived at Saffi, for there were a
couple more at Dads, where he had formerly resided, and where his
home really was—who had been bought with her little daughter, our
fellow-traveller, some ten years before. The girl was fearfully ugly,
as black as jet, with all the typical features of the negro. However,
one readily forgave her this, and all her sins as well, for many a
laugh her antics caused us when hunger and cold made a laugh worth
double its ordinary value. When she was riding she wanted to walk;
as soon as she commenced to walk she wanted some one to mount her
again on the mule, from which, if she did not purposely alight,
she would invariably tumble off. Such was the lady of our party,
and she accompanied us as far as Dads, leaving there with the
old Shereef some four days before I arrived at Tafilet. She stood
the cold and fatigue of the journey well, and ought to be made a
Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, for she had a wonderfully
retentive memory of the road and all the places we had stayed at,
though as often as not she managed to forget the sternly delivered
command that she was not to eat our complete store of dates while
our backs were turned. Enough of Embarka, for such was her name.
The next individual in our caravan was of a very different kind and
class,—a long, tall, delicate, thin man of some four-and-twenty
years of age, with one of the most beautiful voices in speaking I
ever heard. He was himself a Shereef, a nephew of the old doctor’s;
and a man of absolute fearlessness in danger, and equal gentleness
and sweetness of manner in time of peace. He never complained of
cold or hunger, though we suffered much from both, but bore all the
hardships of the journey, and they were many indeed, not only with
every fortitude, but also without ever losing an opportunity to
attempt to add to my comfort. As we trudged along the weary desert
roads he would for hours together, with a voice that would be the
fortune of a Member of Parliament, and gestures that an actor might
spend years and never acquire, relate to me strange stories of the
past, page after page of Moorish history and tradition, in Arabic
as pure and as poetical as any that can exist.
The very opposite was the old Shereef’s son, a boy of some twelve
or thirteen years of age. Heavy in body and mind, he had neither
the intellect to be amusing nor the inclination to be useful, and
served no other purpose of advantage than to be the object of the
black girl’s practical jokes instead of any other of us.
There was, too, in our party the returning pilgrim, a devotee of the
sect of Mulai Ali el Derkaui, as was apparent from his green turban
and the string of large wooden beads he wore suspended round his
neck. A strange quiet man he was, always ready to help us load our
animals or pitch our one little tent, but seldom speaking; never
missing the hour of prayer, and often himself bearing part of the
load of his little donkey, on which he was carrying to his native
village a few bars of rough iron to be forged into ploughshares. We
saw but little of him: he was always a hundred yards ahead or behind,
counting his beads as he came along; and often when we missed him
altogether we could see away back along the road his figure, or its
shadow, for his colour and that of his clothes corresponded too
truly with the yellow sand, as he rose and fell in prayer. I was
much struck by his quiet, patient, uncomplaining way. He didn’t
belong to us, but travelling in the same direction, he joined
our little caravan, and we made the journey together. I of all
our party had some conversation with him, for kind as were they
all to the solitary stranger, he was timid and retired. However,
we often talked together as I trudged beside him, and he seemed
to be a man of no little power of reasoning and thought. Often in
discussing theological questions, and he would talk of nothing else,
it became apparent that a battle was raging in his heart, a battle
of common-sense against prejudice and fanaticism. He had travelled
to Mecca and back, and his eyes had been opened, and he seemed to
realise the narrow-mindedness of the school in which he had been
brought up. He spoke openly to me, for to the day he left us at
Dads to turn aside to his home, he never knew I was a Christian
and a European, and often we prayed together by the roadside.
There remains but one more man to mention, my servant Mohammed
er-Rifi, who followed me faithfully throughout the long journey,
and returned with me to Tangier to commence again the humdrum
existence of waiting at table and sweeping floors. An excellent
youth he is, all good nature and smiles, strong and trustworthy,
but preferring the luxuries and warmth of my kitchen to sharing
the hardships of a desert tramp of several hundred miles. However,
he never complained until the end of the journey, and then, arrived
once more in Marakesh, he cursed the desert, and all that in it is,
with all the curses he could muster—a very tolerable lot, on the
whole. However, I cannot speak too highly of his fidelity and of
the patience with which he bore what must have been to him a most
terrible journey—nor forget to say that at times he hints that
he and I should set out afresh for pastures new.
I have entered somewhat at length into the characters and description
of my men, but some word of praise is only due to them; for had
I not been surrounded by a faithful and uncomplaining band, my
success in reaching Tafilet would never have come about.
The usual delays occurred in Marakesh before we got started once
more, this time again the fault of the old Shereef, who wanted to buy
presents to take to his relations at Dads,—the existence of whom,
although he had two wives and quite a number of children there,
he had apparently forgotten for several years,—and could not
decide what to purchase.
So having found quarters for my men and my mules, I determined to
enjoy the last few days of rest and plenty that I was destined to
know for several months.
[Illustration: _From Saffi, to Morocco City: a weekly Market._]