THE ASCENT OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS.
On the afternoon of November 1 a start was eventually made for our
journey of exploration. My party consisted of the same men as had
accompanied me from Saffi, with the addition of a dull and lazy
negro, whom I had taken into my employ on the recommendation of a
native of Tafilet to whom I had confided my plan. He turned out to
be worse than useless, complained the entire route of the hardships
of the journey, and insisted upon riding the whole distance, while
I had to go most of the way on foot, gaining his point by constant
veiled threats of exposing my identity. I had to humour him as long
as we were upon the road, for fear of his making known the fact
that I was a European in disguise; but on my return to Marakesh he
paid the price of his impertinence and perfidy in a manner more
in use in Morocco than in England—for on my making a statement
to his master of his conduct, which was amply corroborated by all
my men, he received, without my knowledge, though I do not think I
should have objected, the flogging he deserved. His presence was
a constant cause of anxiety and danger during the whole journey;
and his coarse impertinent manner, his threats, his treatment
of my other men and myself, so exasperated me, that on one or two
occasions I felt that I could have ordered him to be flogged myself,
and enjoyed the sight of it. While every one else was making light of
the cold and our hunger, he would be cursing at me for having brought
him, and stealing, if he could get it by no other means, the share
of food belonging to the rest of the men. The least remonstrance
brought a threat that he would inform the natives of my disguise,
and thereby ensure my death. On one occasion it was only by an
effort that I succeeded in restraining my men from murdering him,
which was their intention during some night. Fear of discovery there
was none, and their moral code certainly would allow of the taking
the life of a man whose presence caused danger to every other soul
in camp, and who used this power to obtain everything procurable
that he set his heart on, caring little whether the rest of us fell
by the wayside from fatigue so long as he could ride, or died of
starvation so long as he could obtain his fill of food. I have no
pity even now when I think of the salutary hiding he got when he
returned to Marakesh, for a worse villain never, I believe, existed.
We split up our little party and left Morocco City by different
gates, so that in case any information had reached the ears of the
native officials there would be less chance of their being able
to arrest our progress; but nothing occurred, and an hour after
bidding adieu to my host, Sid Abu Bekr, our united caravan of men,
three mules, and a couple of donkeys, had entered the palm-groves
and was threading its way toward the open plain.
Before us lay the Atlas, blue and white in the sunshine, and
seeming to bar all farther progress in that direction, of so
equal an altitude are the snow-peaks. The scene was a charming
one—the constant peep of the glistening snow seen through groves
of palms. But the forest, which to the west and north of Marakesh
extends to a great distance, does not to the east protrude far
into the plain; and in an hour or so we had left the last palm-tree
behind and entered the open level country, which stretched away to
where the unbroken line of mountains rises from the plain.
At a small _nzala_, the merest collection of thatch huts with the
usual _zareba_ of thorn hedge, we spent the night, crowding into
the little tent, before which our animals were hobbled; and soon
our tin kettle was boiling, while the black slave-girl unpacked
the tiny glass tumblers that take the place of tea-cups, and the
old Shereef made a brew of the favourite beverage of Morocco,
green tea with piles of sugar and mint.
Every one was in the best of humours. At length all delays were over,
and we were started upon our adventurous journey, in the success of
which all, with the exception of the negro, felt a common interest;
and as we squatted round the tent we talked and laughed together,
as cheery a little band of men as could be found anywhere.
Before dawn on November 2 a start was made. Impatient as I was to
reach country where I should be safe from the interference of the
Moorish Government, it was decided that our pace must be very slow,
for a long and weary road lay before our pack-animals, and their
strength must be husbanded for the climb over the mountains. So it
was that we pushed on quietly, seldom travelling over three miles
an hour at this part of the road, although the soil was good and
the country level.
Our course took us in an east-by-south direction across the plain of
Misfiwa, which forms one of the large _bashaliks_, or governorships,
of Southern Morocco. There were many signs of cultivation on both
sides of the road; but the dry summer had turned the soil to a
light yellow hue, which rendered it no easy matter to see how much
was agricultural land and how much merely used for grazing. That
crops are largely raised in this part is a well-known fact, yet
judging from the appearance of the soil at this season of the year
it looks poor enough. The villages are few and far between, and
although mostly inhabited by the Berbers, the original inhabitants
of Morocco before the Arab invasion, their dwellings had not as yet
begun to show the neater and superior style of building we were so
soon to notice. However, as we proceeded and forded the Wad Urika,
placing a longer distance between us and the city, the improvement in
the habitations became visible, and instead of the thatch _nuail_, or
huts, of the villages that we had been passing, we found houses built
of _tabia_ with flat roofs, which, though possessing no particular
appearance of comfort or size, were greatly superior to the others.
Two rivers were passed before we left the plain to enter one of the
valleys of the Atlas Mountains, at Imin Zat. These were, namely, the
Wad Urika, which I have already mentioned, and the Wad el Melha, or
salt river, which owes its name to its brackish waters. Both rise in
the Atlas Mountains,—the Urika in the valley above Akhliz, which I
had visited some five years previously; and the Wad el Melha farther
to the east, issuing from the hills by a narrow valley a few miles to
the east of that of the Urika. Although such of the last winter’s
snow as disappears in summer had already melted, and the fresh fall
had not as yet taken place, there was a considerable body of water
in both streams, a sure sign that while we had been parching in the
sun-dried plains heavy rains had fallen amongst the mountains. The
water of both is largely used for purposes of irrigation, although
that of the Wad el Melha is salt, and a considerable amount of
labour and time has been expended in banking up the small canals
which carry the precious liquid to the fields far removed from
the actual course. After flowing some ten miles into the plain
from the Atlas foot-hills, these two rivers unite in the province
of “Uidan”—“the rivers”—and finally empty themselves
into the Wad Tensift some six or seven miles to the north-east of
Morocco City, near the _zauia_ and tomb of Sidi Abdullah ben Sessi.
The plain at this point presents the appearance of an almost dead
level, though, in fact, it ascends to the east, until the termination
of the Tensift valley is reached, some thirty-five miles higher up,
where a concourse of smaller streams flowing from the north-east
and south unite to form the main river, which supplies with water
the entire country round Marakesh, and the city itself, finally to
reach the sea between Mogador and Saffi on the Atlantic coast.
The district of Misfiwa, through which we were passing, is bounded
by three powerful _bashaliks_: on the north Rahamna, the hills
of which, a continuation of the range of Jibeelet, which we had
crossed between Saffi and the capital, are clearly visible; on
the east Zemran, with its capital and seat of government at Sidi
Rehal; on the south Urika, including the country of Beled Ersdigi,
famous for its mulberry-trees and silkworms. All of these districts
are governed by powerful Bashas, who may be reckoned amongst the
richest and most important of Southern Morocco.
Nearly all the population of Misfiwa, although Berbers, speak Arabic
in addition to their own language, Shelha,—a fact that is due,
no doubt, to their constant communication with the city of Morocco,
which forms their market and source of supply. Yet, in spite of
the fact that Arabic is spoken amongst them almost as freely as
Shelha, they are true to their traditions in their intense dislike
to the Arabs. Aware previously of this trait in the character of
the Berbers, I had carefully chosen the men who accompanied me,
of whom one and all were by extraction Berbers, and who all spoke
Shelha with the exception of my Riffi servant, whose native tongue,
“Riffía,” is so much allied to it that he could gather the gist
of every conversation and make himself tolerably well understood
in turn. This fact, that the language of the natives was equally
the language of our party, helped us not a little in obtaining the
welcome everywhere extended to us by the Berber people.
A word or two must be said as to the system of cultivation and
raising crops extant in this portion of Morocco. The ground is
ploughed with the primitive native implement as soon as the first
rains of autumn fall, and the grain, especially the barley, sown
early. By May the harvest is in full swing, and the reaping and
gathering of the crops takes place. The ear is merely severed from
the stalk close to the top, so that long straw is left standing. The
ears are carried in nets upon the backs of mules, mares, and donkeys
to the _nuadder_, where the threshing takes place. A clear hard
space of ground, puddled with clay if necessary, is left bare,
and upon this the grain, still in the ear, is thrown, and over
the whole are driven round in circles the mares, horses, mules,
and often donkeys of the farmer, until the grain is thoroughly
separated. Pitchforks of wood are then made use of, and by raising
the straw and grain into the air the chaff is carried off by the
wind, the seed alone remaining. This is then stored in subterranean
granaries—_metammer_—sunk in the soil, the outlet to which
is a small hole at the top closed with stones and clay. The whole
is lined with a coating of stiff clay, which prevents the ingress
of water. Grain remains in a good state of preservation for long
periods when housed in this manner. On to the reaped fields the
cattle and sheep are now turned out to graze, finding means of
subsistence through the dry summer by cropping the standing straw,
and at the same time manuring the soil for the next season’s crops.
It was still comparatively early morning when we reached the
termination of the level ground at a spot where the Wad Misfiwa
leaves the Atlas foot-hills. The Berber name for this spot is Imin
Zat, the mouth of the Zat, the latter being the local title of the
river. The word _imin_, “a mouth,” is of very common occurrence
in geographical names amongst the Berbers, and corresponds exactly to
the Arabic _fûm_, both in meaning and the term implied. It does not,
as our word “mouth” geographically does, imply the estuary of a
river, but any gorge or outlet by which a river or a track enters a
different district or a different kind of country. In the following
pages the word will be found more than once in its latter meaning.
We found the ford of the Wad Misfiwa at Imin Zat by no means an easy
one. The river was not very deep, it is true, but so fast was its
current and so stone-strewn its bed that the footing was insecure,
and we were fortunate in crossing without any mishap, more than a
wetting to two or three of our men, and a partial soaking of the
pack of a donkey, which fortunately contained nothing that could
be damaged. Not so, however, a party of mountain Jews who crossed
at the same time, one of whom was washed completely off his legs,
and both he and his donkey carried some little way down the stream
before they were able to regain their footing. The water was very
cold, and the sudden immersion, no doubt a rare occurrence, which
the Jew obtained caused him to become a pitiful object, and he shed
liberal tears of annoyance at getting wet.
Nothing prettier than the entrance to the valley of Imin Zat can
be imagined. The hills slope gently down to the river’s edge,
clothed in groves of olives, under which the stream flows crystal
clear, leaping and dancing over the rocks and stones, and adding
to the charm of the scene its sweet music. For a background rose
the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas, standing out clear and defined
against a sky of azure blue. The village of Imin Zat stands on
the west bank of the river some little way up the hillside, and a
delightful site it possesses, clinging to the slope and rising tier
above tier, its deep yellow houses contrasting well with the dull
green of the olive-trees and the cobalt of the mountains and sky.
As from this point of our journey to its very conclusion the
buildings—whether the great _ksor_, or walled fortresses, of
Tafilet or the humble cottage of the Berber of the northern slopes of
the Atlas—are all constructed of the same material, _tabia_, it may
render more clear the constant use of the word in the descriptions of
scenery and villages if I describe here the manner in which _tabia_
is used, and of what it consists. Roughly it may be said to be
cement without lime—in other words, the soil, of sand, gravel,
and pebbles, beaten into a consolidated mass. The manner in which it
is employed is the following. The foundations of a building are sunk
and the ditch filled in; then from the level of the ground to the
height of usually some 2 to 3 feet stakes are driven into the earth
at each side of the ditch, and on the inside planks are arranged
parallel with the soil. Quantities of loose gravel and pebbles are
now brought, and the space intervening between the planks is filled
up with the material, which, by means of being constantly beaten
down with heavy blocks of wood at the end of poles—_mrakas_,
the Moors call them—becomes a solid mass. Upon its drying the
planks are removed and replaced above the first stratum of wall,
the gravel being treated in the same manner. In this way a solid and
tolerably durable material is obtained, subject to but one destroying
action, that of water. On the northern slopes of the Atlas, where
the rains are heavy, the walls of the houses are protected almost
always by overhanging roofs, constructed on beams which project 2
feet or more over the wall. Across the beams and at right angles to
them is laid a flooring of dried canes, which again is covered with
brushwood. Beaten into the brushwood is a flat roof of adhesive clay,
which is held firmly in its place by the twigs which intersect it in
every direction. On the southern side of the Atlas range, however,
the rainfall is exceptionally small, and there is no necessity for
the overlapping roofs, the material being of sufficient durability
and strength to withstand the rare showers that fall there.
It is a curious fact that as one proceeds south from Marakesh, while
the dwellings of the natives improve, their welfare decreases; for
as soon as the fertile plains are left behind one leaves the farmer
class altogether and enters amongst a population dependent for its
livelihood upon the scanty stock of olives and vegetables they can
raise in their small gardens, and more generally upon the firewood
and charcoal that they carry, often two or three days’ journey,
to the capital. Many of the richest farmers of the most fertile
districts of Morocco have no roof to cover them but their brown
goat-hair tents or thatch huts, while almost the poorest peasant
amongst the Berbers possesses a cottage of _tabia_, which nearly
always presents an appearance of cleanliness and order. While the
rich Arab of the plains is content to spend his days seated on the
manure-heap in front of his hovel, the hardy and poor Berber of
the mountains builds himself a little verandah on the roof of his
house, where he can pass his time shaded from the sun or rain in
peace and quiet.
It is almost as soon as one enters amongst the Berber people that one
begins to find out how infinitely superior they are in morals and
character to the Arab. Their every word and look speak of greater
honesty and truth than one finds in a month amongst the Arabs. But
of the Berber character I shall have more to say anon.
As soon as we had passed over the ford of the Wad Misfiwa, our
road took a turn to the south, following the course of the river,
a little way up the side of the hills on its east bank. Gradually
ascending as we proceeded, we camped early at a miserable _nzala_ on
the summit of a steep incline, from which a fine view was obtainable
both up and down the river—up, to the snow-peaks of the Atlas;
down, to the plains we had now left behind and the hills of Rahamna
far away beyond. Very different was the thatched _nzala_ from the
neat and trim villages that dotted the valley below, surrounded by
their carefully terraced gardens of olives and vines, walnuts and
almonds; but the people where we camped were evidently very poor,
and eked a miserable pittance out of the small fees they collected
from passers-by—for the road over the Atlas is one not often
travelled, even by natives.
The change in the costume of the natives made it clear that we
had left the people of the plains and entered into the country of
mountaineers, for the length of their garments was much curtailed
about the legs, and instead of the draggling and mud-stained skirts
of the Arab there appeared the sinewy limbs of the children of
the mountains. But peculiar to the Atlas we noticed here for the
first time in general use the _khanif_ or _haidus_, the strange
black-hooded cloak with its eye-shaped pattern in yellow or red
in the centre of the back, the object of which no tradition seems
to make mention, and no history to hint at. All that we know for
certain of this strange garment is, that while it is not found
throughout Algeria, it crops up again in the mountains near
Tripoli. Putting aside all speculation as to the origin of the
design, it must be added that the material of which these cloaks
are made is an excellent one, the closely woven black goat-hair
being impenetrable to cold and rain, and therefore excellently
suited to the mountaineers of the bleak heights of the Atlas range.
A few words must be said as to the general difference of costume
between the Berbers and the Arabs. While the former wear the _jelab_,
a hooded garment closed down the front, it is never found amongst the
[Illustration: _Berbers._]
Berbers, whose one desire as to clothing seems to be absolute freedom
of limb. The _haik_, or toga-like garment of the Arabs, is used
amongst the better-class Berbers, but merely as a luxury. Their
typical costume consists of the _chamira_, or long loose shirt
reaching from the neck to below the knees, and the _haidus_ above,
the open hooded cloak called by the Arabs _s’lham_. This in the
case of the mountaineers takes the form of the black goat’s-hair
article, and in that of the Berbers of the plains of a thick but
finely woven garment of white wool. The one distinguishing mark
in the costume of the two races, however, is the following: while
the Arab loves to gird his waist with a sash or leather belt, the
Berbers have the greatest objection to anything of the sort, and
seldom, if ever, wear either. Some exception to these customs can
always be found in the case of Berbers who have left their native
lands to work in the Moorish cities, and here they can often be
found in dress absolutely resembling in every detail that of the
poorer class of townspeople; but this is owing far more to necessity
than option, for the local Berber materials cannot be found, except
rarely, in the Moorish towns.
In appearance, too, besides the difference of feature of which
I shall have opportunity to refer anon, there is considerable
variance of fashion and custom. While the Arabs leave unshaven their
beards and only trim their moustaches, the Berbers of the Atlas and
the country beyond shave the entire face with the exception of a
small pointed beard on the chin, which is connected with the ears
by a fine closely cropped line of hair. This shaving of the head
is general throughout both people, the only class who fail to do
so being devotees, the sects of “Ulad bu Sba,” who leave the
entire skull covered with hair; the followers of Sid ben Aissa,
or “Aissaua,” who leave crown alone unshaven; and the Riffis
and mountaineers of the north, who wear the _gitaya_ and _kron_
respectively, the former a long lock on the centre of the back of
the head, the latter grown on one side above the ear. It would be
interesting to discover the origin of these various but unvaried
customs of locks of hair, for the common explanation that they are
to be pulled up to heaven by is not only absurd but altogether an
insult to the high system of theology possessed by many who wear
them. So systematically are these customs preserved that there can
be little doubt, especially in the case of the Berbers, that they
date from a period long anterior to the introduction of Islam.
Leaving the valley of the Wad Misfiwa on the morning of November 3,
we turned directly to the east and crossed the spur of the Atlas that
lies between the valley of the former river and the Wad Ghadat. This
slope of the lower Atlas takes the form of a plateau, with an average
altitude above the level of the sea of some 3000 feet, and is known
as Tugana, a district under the jurisdiction of the Kaid of Misfiwa.
But very few villages or habitations were to be seen, and the greater
part of the soil seemed capable of but little cultivation, being
here torn into deep water-courses, there covered with brushwood. One
stream alone is crossed, the Wad Masin, a small clear river of no
size, but which, from the appearance of its banks, floods in the
rainy season. Near the ford were a few gardens, and dense bushes
of oleanders lined its course. A very short distance beyond,
one of the customary weekly _sôks_ or markets is held; but not
being market-day, the place was deserted and left to a mangy dog
or two, and a few ravens which sought for food amongst the offal
and dirt. There are no buildings at the market, for the native
shopkeepers bring their little tents—_gaiaton_—in which they
expose their wares for sale, packing up the same in the afternoon and
pushing on, probably to be in time to visit another _sôk_ elsewhere
the following day. The usual custom is for the consecutive _sôks_
along the main roads to be held on following days, so as to allow
all the travelling vendors of goods to visit one after the other in
succession. I have sometimes travelled for a week and found each day
some market by the roadside in full swing, by having hit off the
right day at the first _sôk_ and followed them up in succession,
though it is far more common to miss the entire number, and never
see a full market-place at all upon a long journey. These _sôks_
are always known by the name of the day on which they are held,
with the name of the place added as a distinctive mark. Thus one
finds “Had el Gharbiya,” “Sunday of the Gharbiya,” and
“Arbaa of Sid Aissa,” “the Wednesday of Sid Aissa,” so
called from its proximity to the tomb of that saint. Near this
_sôk_ of Tugana is a small semi-deserted village of stone-built
huts, a dreary poverty-stricken-looking place. From this spot we
had a choice of roads to the summit of the Atlas—namely, either
to pursue the one we eventually followed, _viâ_ the Wad Ghadat and
Zarkten, or to turn to the south, and skirting the side of the steep
mountains on our right, strike as straight a line across country as
the nature of the land would allow. The latter, a mere track, often
passing along the face of precipices and at all parts difficult,
leads _viâ_ Gadaruz and Tizi Aït Imiger to Zarkten, where the
two unite. However, we chose the longer but more practicable, and
even that was bad enough. What the other must have been like it is
impossible even to guess; but the fact that it is only pursued by
the native mountaineers and sturdy mountain mules would probably
have meant that for us it would have been impassable.
Ten miles after leaving the _nzala_ in the valley of the Wad Misfiwa,
we descended by an execrable path to the level of the Wad Ghadat,
close to
[Illustration: _Fording the Wad Ghadat._]
where a ruined or incompleted bridge raises its broken arches from
the stony river-bed. The ford was bad enough, even though the river
was not high, and it was only by piling the loads bit by bit on to
the top of the pack-saddle of the highest mule that we succeeded
in getting our baggage across at all, for the stream was strong
and wide and swift.
No history or tradition seems to contain any record of the bridge,
which, if ever completed, must have been a fine work with its
five high arches; but it is easily apparent that it is of Moorish
workmanship, and was no doubt erected by one of the early Sultans
of the present dynasty, probably in the seventeenth century,
for previous to that period the communication between Morocco
and Tafilet was almost _nil_, the two countries forming as a rule
separate kingdoms, though now and then falling under the jurisdiction
of one Sultan, as in the case of three successive rulers of the
Beni Merín dynasty. After the seizure of the thrones of Morocco
and Fez by the Filelis, who still govern Morocco, it would be only
more than probable that one of their first acts would be to keep
communication open with the desert, whence their armies were drawn;
and even to-day the river Ghadat at the time of the melting snows
prevents all farther progress up or down the road over which we
were travelling, which would not be the case were the bridge in
repair, though the snows in the heights above would as often as
not effectually bar all farther progress beyond.
The distance from the bridge over the Ghadat to Zarkten, the
principal village and residence of the deputy governor of the
district, cannot be more than about ten miles as the crow flies; but
the river was too full to allow us to follow its bed, the shortest
route, and we were obliged to climb by a precipitous path high up
the mountain-side on the east bank of the river. Keeping parallel
with the Wad Ghadat, except that we had necessarily to follow the
escarpment of the range, we toiled on over a stony and rock-strewn
track for some four hours. Tiring as the rough walking was—and it
required, too, all our energies to prevent our mules and donkeys
slipping on the smooth rock—the scenery amply repaid us for the
disadvantages we had to suffer.
Perhaps the valley of the Ghadat was not so wild as some of the
Atlas scenery we were yet to see; but it certainly possessed one
feature that all the others lacked—namely, vegetation; for here on
the cool north slopes of the range rain falls in plentiful supplies
in winter and spring.
Away above us the mountains towered—here clothed to their summits
with pine, arbutus, gum cistus, and evergreen oak; there rearing
precipice upon precipice of bare forbidding rock to where the
eternal snows formed a line of white against the sky. Below us,
for our road ascended high up the mountain-side, lay the valley,
clothed in verdure, through the centre of which, now in a wide
stone-strewn bed, now dashing between high walls of rock, flowed
the river, the roar of which was the only sound that broke the
silence. Here and there we looked down on to the flat roofs of the
Berber villages, where a small patch of land would be reclaimed,
and walnut and other trees planted, through the branches of which
peeps of narrow terraces, green with vegetables, appeared. Strange
beautiful shapes the mountains take, at places rolling in sweeping
curves, at others broken into rock projections and precipices,
but everywhere presenting some point of grandeur and beauty.
At length towards sunset Zarkten came into sight, ahead and far below
us, and we hurried on, hoping to reach the Sheikh’s house before
dark, and thus obtain provisions for the night and our next day’s
journey; but when, in fast falling twilight, we reached the rocky bed
of the river, we found all hope of fording it to be impossible, and
reluctantly retraced our steps to a few stone hovels we had passed
a quarter of a mile back, near which we found space to pitch our
tent. The cold was extreme, and it was only by untiring efforts that
we were able to persuade the inhabitants to sell us a fowl, which,
of its kind the very poorest, was no meal for eight people. Bread
[Illustration: _A View from above Zarkten._]
and the native _kuskus_ were neither to be obtained, and a few
dried figs was all that our stock consisted of.
At daylight we descended once more by a precipitous path, and,
after a weary hour and a half of labour, succeeded in getting our
animals and our baggage across the river. So tired were the poor
mules and donkeys with their struggle of perhaps 100 yards against
the swift current, that we were obliged to call an hour’s rest
on the farther bank, where we lay down under the shade of the grove
of trees that surround the residence of the Sheikh.
A picturesque castle it is that the deputy governor of the district
has built himself at Zarkten, though probably he gave more thought
to its defence than to its appearance in designing it. The main
body of the castle, for such it is, is a large square block,
with a high tower at each corner, the latter gradually tapering as
they ascend. The whole is built of _tabia_ of dull yellow colour,
but the summits of the towers are decorated with a coating of
white-wash. Surrounding the whole building is a wall, parts of which
form outhouses and rooms for retainers and guests. Standing in its
groves of trees underneath a peaked mountain wooded with pines,
it presents not only an effect of great picturesqueness, but also
appears to possess the undoubted advantage in such a lawless country
of being impregnable.
We had passed but few caravans or travellers on the road
hither—merely a mountaineer or two singing cheerily as he came
along driving his little mule before him, probably laden with
the dates of Tafilet, which change hands many times before they
reach Marakesh. A few of the mountain Jews, too, we met now and
again—long gaunt figures, many carrying arms, and one and all
a finer type of man than their co-religionists of the plains;
for they have a hard existence these Israelites of the Atlas, and
though not persecuted, find it difficult enough to scrape a living
from their trades, for, as a rule, they are gunsmiths, workers in
silver, or dealers in hides. As soon as our animals were rested,
we lifted our scanty baggage once more on to their backs, and set
out afresh upon our journey.
At Zarkten the valley splits into two parts, one continuing the
general direction—north and south—that we had been following,
while the other turns away to the west. It is from the latter that
the Wad Ghadat flows, rising in the snows of Jibel Tidili, or Glawi,
while the other is drained by the Wad Tetula, so called from a small
settlement of Berbers, higher up its course, but locally known as
the Asif Adrar n’Iri, “the stream of Mount Iri.” Just above the
Sheikh’s house, and within 100 yards of it, the two rivers unite.
Turning a little to the west, we ascended an incline amongst gardens
and fields and pine-trees, above the
[Illustration: _The Sheikh’s House at Zarkten._]
river Ghadat, until we reached the main portion of the village of
Zarkten, a mile farther on. The place is poor enough, a few stone
and _tabia_ houses of mean appearance lying on a dreary level of
bare soil at the foot of the great mountains beyond, and we did not
turn aside to examine it more closely, for the view we obtained of
the place from the distance of a few hundred yards was depressing
enough. There is a considerable settlement of Jews at Zarkten,
from whom we had hoped to obtain provisions; but it being Saturday,
they would not sell, and the man we sent to the _mellah_, or Jews’
quarter, returned empty-handed.
Our road turned once more to the south, and we commenced a steep
ascent by a sandy track up the side of a well-wooded mountain,
at the summit of which I found that we had reached an altitude
of 5600 feet above the sea-level, and nearly 2000 feet above the
Sheikh’s house at Zarkten, the elevation of which I made out to
be 3710 feet above the sea.
An adventure, which happily ended only in laughter, happened
to us at this part of the road. The track, never of any width,
was here extremely narrow, and our impatient donkey, desirous
of being the first to cross the Atlas, tried to push his way
past the mules. There being no room, however, to perform this
manoeuvre, he nearly put an end to his existence by falling over
the precipice. Happily he alighted some 40 feet down, legs up,
in the branch of a pine-tree. The difficulty was how to rescue him
from this perilous position, for the poor little fellow carried on
his back all my personal belongings—small though their quantity
was. We were obliged, accordingly, to unpack the mules, and by tying
together the ropes which held the tent, &c., in its place on their
backs, I managed to descend, and, cutting the pack-saddle loose,
had the happiness of seeing my luggage rescued. Then letting the
rope down again, I made it fast to the four legs of the donkey,
which I bound together to prevent its struggling, and the others
hauled him up, I eventually reaching the track by being pulled up in
much the same manner. The donkey was none the worse, and as soon as
he had recovered his equilibrium, and found, to his satisfaction,
that he was unhurt, issued a prolonged series of cries, and kicked
violently at everything his heels could reach.
Every step we took the scenery increased in grandeur, and from one
spot we could obtain views of the three valleys. To the west lay that
of the upper stream of the Ghadat, through which the river twisted
and turned, a thin thread of silver 2000 feet below us. The lower
slopes of the valley were mostly wooded, but towering far above them
on the west and south rose the central peaks of the Atlas range,
Jibel Glawi, or Tidili, a dome of pure white snow dominating the
whole, which presented a panorama of exquisite beauty. To the north
we could see the gorge of Zarkten, and far down the valley formed
by the united streams of the Ghadat and the Tetula; even the plains
beyond and the distant hills of Rahamna were visible in the clear
atmosphere. Less pleasing, but offering features quite distinct,
was the scene directly to the south of us, where the smaller river,
the Tetula, dashed between walls of rock that seemed in places
almost to meet over its stream. Here were no signs of vegetation,
except in the immediate foreground, and all was bare limestone and
snow above and shales below, a dreary but impressive scene.
We were leaving all vegetation behind us, and already I missed the
_azif_—palmeto—so common all over Morocco, and in its place
there appeared the _arar_—calitris—and juniper and pines,
while scattered about rose the twisted trunks of evergreen oaks.
Proceeding for a time along a level track over a mountain the name
of which is Telettin Nugelid, and at an average elevation of about
5000 feet, we descended once more and forded the Tetula, or Asif
Adrar n’Iri, near the pretty village of Agurgar, the name of
which—walnuts—is due to the existence of a fine clump of these
trees. Here the district of Aït Robaa, which extends along the west
bank of the Tetula as far as this point, was left behind, and we
entered the small and bleak tribe-land of Aït Akherait. Agurgar,
from its sheltered position, is pleasant enough, and the village
seemed clean and well built. A few of the natives, wild mountaineers,
met us and brought us a welcome meal of boiled turnips. The bed of
the Tetula is very narrow at this spot, the river rushing between
enormous boulders, which bear every appearance of having been heaped
up in their present positions by the action of glaciers, which
have long since ceased to exist in the Atlas,—for throughout the
whole range, as far as it has been at present explored, and that,
it must be confessed, is very little of it, no extant glacier has
been discovered.
Ascending again, this time on the right (east) side of the river,
we quickly left all vegetation behind, except for an occasional
wind-bent stump of an evergreen oak, and entered a wild dismal
country, the soil of which consisted for the most part of black and
grey shales, and above peaks of limestone, and they again capped
with snow. Not a sign of life, either animal or vegetable, was to
be seen; yet every now and then the cliffs gave back the echo of
some strange Berber song which told us that although no human being
was to be seen, even these dreary wastes of rock were inhabited.
At a tumble-down hovel of loose stones, where the natives had
scratched an acre of soil, poor enough but sufficient to grow a
few turnips, we spent the night of November 4, finding protection
from the cold in a dirty stable—for, with the exception of the
cultivated patch, there was not an inch of soil into which one could
drive a tent-peg. However, the dozen or so inhabitants of this
dismal abode asked the old Shereef and myself into a grimy room,
windowless and without a chimney, and filled with dense smoke,
where we were able to sit for an hour or two in warm discomfort
over the fire of half-burned charcoal, the fumes of which were
stifling. Poverty seemed in possession of the little place, for
not a blanket did they appear to possess; but they were cheery
good people, and spoke a little Arabic, so that conversation was
possible. In winter, when the entire district is under snow, they
drive their one or two cows into the house and hibernate,—only
the men, and they very seldom, ever leaving the house at all during
the two or three months of bitter cold.
They told me the name of the place was Afuden Nugelid, and I found
the elevation to be 5800 feet above the sea-level.
A few miles above this spot is a little oasis, the tiny district of
Tetula, sheltered from the bleak winds by a semicircle of mountains,
amongst which the few acres of gardens and trees nestle. The
village is a large one, compared with most that we had passed,
and the natives seemed better to do than our friends of the night
before. It is from this spot that the last steep ascent to the
pass over the Atlas commences, and after an hour and a half’s
scramble up slippery paths and amongst enormous boulders, we found
ourselves by ten o’clock A.M. on November 5 on the summit of
the Tizi n’Glawi, or Glawi Pass, at an elevation of 8150 feet
above the sea-level, where, weary with the steep ascent, we threw
ourselves down to rest in the warm sunlight, sheltered from biting
wind by a huge rock.