DADS TO UL TURUG.
Although we left the Zauia Aït bu Haddu on November 12, we spent
that night in the province of Dads, our road having merely taken
us some twelve miles up the river’s course, as far as a _ksar_
in the district of Aït Iunir, which I had promised to visit _en
route_, as it was from near this point that the main road to Tafilet
leaves the valley to cross the plain of Anbed. The path, for it
is no more, winds about amongst the gardens and _ksor_, every few
minutes crossing one of the small canals that irrigate the fields,
&c. These, where not too deep, are forded, but in many places are
crossed with little bridges—merely the trunks of trees laid across
from bank to bank, and covered with stones and soil. Only two places
of any note are passed on the way, the tomb and sacred groves of Sid
bu Yahia, and close to it the _sôk_, or market, of the Khamis, or
Thursday. The tomb of the saint is built of _tabia_, and consists
of two rooms, in one of which the remains of Sid bu Yahia lie,
while the other serves as a mosque. A pointed dome of green tiles
covers the former. Near by is the grove of trees, so common an
adjunct to sanctuaries in Morocco. They are silver poplars, and
of great size. The market-place is only an open space, and the day
not being Thursday, it was deserted. There is a second large _sôk_
at Dads—the Arbaa, or Wednesday—a little to the south of Zauia
Aït bu Haddu: we had passed through it when nearing Dads on the
day of our arrival.
Close to the Sôk el Khamis are the remains of seven villages of
Aït Atta, which were destroyed when that tribe made an unsuccessful
attempt to wrest the valuable strategical position along the river
from its present holders. Up to that date the Attauis had possessed
these seven villages; here they were allowed to live in peace,
but on the breaking out of open hostilities their _ksor_ were razed.
Sometimes our road led us close to the river’s banks, at others
almost under the cliffs that rise to the level of the plain. The
water in the river is clear, and of a brilliant blue colour. Fish
abound; but although the natives speak of three varieties, I was
able to see only one—the barbel. Nor do they keep to the main
stream; for the canals, even where only a few feet wide, often
contain large shoals of them.
At a large _ksar_, with frowning towers and battlements, the very
picture of the dwelling of a Berber chief, we stopped for the
night. Our host met us at the gate and welcomed us, taking our
donkeys to a stable, where barley was given them to eat, and then
leading us within. We ascended innumerable steps until a small
suite of rooms, opening on to a piece of flat roof, was reached;
here we were installed. It was a charming spot, for far more care
and art had been expended upon the building than in any other _ksar_
we had seen; and the walls were clean with whitewash, while the
ceiling consisted of a layer of canes, stained red and black,
in strange designs, the whole supported on neatly cut beams of
unpolished walnut wood. A few rough rugs lay strewn over the floor,
and a semblance of comfort was given to the place by some shelves
containing a teapot, some bright little cups and saucers, and a
brass tray and kettle. Food was soon brought us, the usual _kuskusu_
and boiled turnips, with the extra luxury of a chicken—no small
honour in these parts—then tea and dates.
The view from the flat roof on to which the window of the room opened
was a very charming one. The vegetation in Aït Iunir is far better
than that of the lower districts, and big trees, especially cherry,
pear, and walnut, abound. From the summits of the trees rose the
surrounding _ksor_, one and all crowned with towers, and of very
considerable size. The house in which we were must have covered a
couple of acres of land. Yet even here were apparent the signs of
the constant state of warfare in which the people of Dads exist,
for the walls of the _minzah_ were perforated with bullet-holes,
shots from the next-door neighbour, whose castle stood only a couple
of hundred yards away. It was on this account, that the feud was
still proceeding, that our host made us sit down under the parapet
of the wall to eat our meal, lest our appearance might bring down
upon us a volley from the people over the way.
In this house I again noticed what I had already seen at the Zauia
Aït bu Haddu—namely, the manner in which bees are hived amongst
the Berbers. A hollow space is left in the wall of the house, opening
into a cupboard within, from which the honey can be removed. A
small hole, often only a hollow cane, on the outside of the wall,
allows a means of ingress and egress for the bees.
Altogether, the _ksar_ in Aït Iunir where we spent the night of
November 12 showed far more signs of prosperity than any we had as
yet visited. Not only was it very extensive, but the women wore far
more jewellery, their necks being hung with large silver necklaces
and coral and amber beads, while the clothes of the men were newer
and of better material than usual. Added to this, the presence of
such little luxuries as tea-trays and cups spoke of better living
than the usual hard fare of the people.
In spite of the long march before us we sat up late, our host
insisting on not leaving us until past midnight, and I was only
able to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before we were told that
it was time to be off.
Miserably cold it was when we girded up our loins and packed our
little donkeys for the start, and at such moments as these I almost
felt inclined to abandon my risky journey and turn back. The thought
that all these hardships would have to be gone through on the return
journey, and in far colder weather, was no pleasant one; but I felt
I could face them rather than fail to accomplish my object, and so
I persisted—until at length my efforts were crowned with success.
In the cold grey dawn we forded the river and ascended the steep
slope on its eastern bank, reaching at the summit the commencement
of the plain of Anbed, which forms the watershed between the rivers
flowing east and west—that is to say, between the basin of the
Wad Todghrá, which joins the Gheris near Ul Turug, some ninety
miles to the east, and the Wad Dads, the chief tributary of the
Wad Draa. Not a vestige of vegetation was to be seen beyond the few
dried-up tufts of wild thyme, but a distant view of gazelle and a
flock of _muflon_ show that there must be some pasture, probably a
little rank grass in the hollows where water lies in the wet season.
The tramp across the dreary desert of Anbed is some fifteen miles in
length. The whole way one proceeds almost due east, parallel with
the range of Jibel Saghru, and distant from it some eight or ten
miles. The same dreary outlook presents itself as did in crossing
the strips of desert before arriving at Dads—stone-strewn barren
plain and verdureless mountain-ranges on either hand. The peep we
obtained of gazelle and _muflon_—Barbary wild sheep—was the
only time that, beyond domestic animals, we saw any mammal, with
the exception of a striped jerboa, and of these only one or two,
during the whole journey from the foot of the Atlas to Tafilet. Hyena
I heard of, however, and several of the graveyards we passed were
heaped with large stones to prevent their scratching up the bodies.
About twelve miles east of Dads a valley opens up in the plain
of Anbed, descending by which one reaches the Wad Imiteghr,
which crosses the end of the valley at right angles. There were
appearances that the torrent in the gorge must be large in the
rainy season, or rather after heavy rainfall—for there is no
regular wet season, rain being very scarce, but at this period it
was quite dry. A few caves on the north side are used for housing
sheep in, at such times as moisture allows of a little grass to
grow. The road was very rough, and the bleaching bones of animals
showed clearly enough that the boulder-strewn path had proved
fatal to many a beast of burden. The descent from Anbed by this
valley brings one to a continuation of the plain at a lower level,
which extends, falling the while, as far as the valley of the Wad
Gheris. On the farther (east) bank of the Wad Imiteghr are a few
_ksor_, with an attempt here and there to raise a garden amongst
the boulders. The most prosperous of the castles, and that a poor
enough place, was pointed out to me as Ighir.
My road from this spot onwards diverged from that usually pursued by
caravans between Dads and Todghrá, for while the principal track
takes a slightly more northerly direction, we turned a little to
the south and followed the course of the Wad Imiteghr, about half
a mile from its north bank. The river was at this period tolerably
well supplied with water, though the rains had been very scarce and
not a drop had fallen since we had left Marakesh three weeks before.
During a long way we only passed two sets of habitations—the
settlement of Imiteghr already mentioned, and a few miles further on
the still poorer village of Timatruin. In this name, as in so many
others amongst the Berbers, the prefix _T_ is only a contraction of
the Shelha word _Aït_—“sons of”—and therefore the literal
spelling of the name of the place should be Aït Imatruin. The same
fact exists in the word Tafilet, which, derived from the Arabic
Filàl, a district in Arabia, has received from the Berbers the
initial _T_—the contraction of _Aït_; while in this case the final
_lt_, or _lat_ as it should be spelt, is a feminine termination.
Ten miles after fording the Wad Imiteghr near Ighir, we reached
a group of _ksor_ lying under a spur of Jibel Saghru, which here
juts out into the plain, although the river has worn a passage
through it by a narrow gorge which divides it from the main range
of the Anti-Atlas. The district is inhabited by Aït Mulai Brahim,
descendants of the famous Shereef Mulai Brahim, whose tomb is a
place of pilgrimage, and is situated above Agregoreh on the northern
slope of the Atlas. The same family has given another great saint
to Southern Morocco, Mulai Abdullah ben Hoseyn, who lies buried at
Tamslot, a few miles south of Marakesh. These tombs, with their
large offerings made by pious pilgrims, have much enriched this
branch of the Shereefian family, and the present representative,
living at Tamslot, Mulai El Haj ben Said, is perhaps the wealthiest
man in Southern Morocco.
We were kindly received by the Shereefs, and shown into the mosque,
a large building for so small a collection of _ksor_, with a tank
for ablutions, and a domed _mihrab_ or niche toward the east.
A few of the Shereefs spoke Arabic, and what with half a dozen
other travellers who had sought the mosque of the _zauia_ for a
night’s rest, we were a pleasant little party. Sunset prayers
over, we sat down on the clean matting and passed the evening in
conversation. The topic turned more than once on Christians—for
such the natives call all the European peoples, though amongst
the Berber the term _Rumin_, or Romans, is more common than
_Nazarani_. The ignorance of the Shereefs on all questions out of
their own particular sphere was astonishing. They seemed to lack all
the brightness and rapidity of thought that I had noticed at Dads,
and to have sunk into a sort of sleepy indifference to everything
beyond their own immediate surroundings. They asked if Christians
were like men and women, and I think doubted my men and myself when
we told them they were. I could not venture to point myself out as
an example, as not only would I have run a risk of getting my throat
cut anywhere in the country, but here in the sacred precincts of
the mosque death would have been a certainty, so I satisfied their
curiosity by telling them that I had often seen Christians, and
that they much resembled “true believers” to look at, but that
their language was not the same, but sounded like the gibberings of
apes. The conversation took many directions, and I was not greatly
surprised to find these far-away Shereefs as ignorant of their own
religion as they were of the Christians. I took the opportunity of
giving a little discourse on Islam, a by no means difficult task,
filling in the gaps with romances as to the doings of Moorish saints,
whose histories, or rather, I should say, the traditions relating
to whom, are nearly all known to me. Such a good reputation did
I obtain for theological knowledge and religious devotion that
the Shereefs felt bound to bring me supper from their _ksar_,
and my men and I feasted merrily on boiled turnips, while several
“true believers” went to bed supperless,—and the infidel and
his wicked associates filled themselves with the offerings of the
pious. This was by no means the first time on the journey that my
knowledge—slight though it is—of Islam and its traditions stood
me in good stead, and I am proud to say that wherever I spent a night
I left behind me an impression of extreme religious fervour—which
must have been sadly upset on my return journey, when, protected
by a strong guard against insult or attack, I made my nationality
and my disguise known. But of this I shall have more to say anon.
Leaving the _ksor_ of Aït Mulai Brahim before dawn on November 14,
we entered, close by, the gorge through which the Wad Imiteghr
flows. It is only a mile and a half in length, and ends just
as abruptly as it commences. No doubt its formation is owing to
the river having forced its way through the projecting spur of
Jibel Saghru, which is now separated by this valley from the main
chain. The gorge is known by the name of Imin Erkilim—_imin_
(Arabic _fûm_) meaning “a mouth,” while Erkilim may or may not
be Hercules, for on my inquiries as to who Erkilim was, I was told
that Erkili was a great man, a sort of god, who did something no
one quite knew when. From the name given me being Erkili, I presume
the final _m_ to distinguish the genitive case; but this is merely
a surmise.
One emerges from the narrow valley, with its cliffs of rock on either
hand, close to the village of Aït bu Kanifen, the inhabitants of
which are celebrated robbers, often attacking any caravan that may
chance to use this route in the valley the end of which their _ksor_
commands. A few hundred yards of desert beyond and we entered the
luxuriant palm-groves of Tiluin, or Aït Iluin, where is a large
and flourishing _ksar_. These were the first palm-trees we had come
across since Askura, for at Dads and the other oasis we had passed
through they were entirely absent. Issuing from the pleasant shade
of the groves, we crossed again a couple of miles of desert, at
the termination of which we entered the southern extremity of the
oasis of Todghrá, the immense palm-groves of which were clearly
visible winding for many miles up the river of the same name. It
is close to this spot that the Wad Imiteghr empties itself into
the Todghrá at an elevation of 4250 feet above the sea-level.
We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an
hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our
night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district
of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on
we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand,
black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in
sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern
slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the
river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises
the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known
as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen
of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more
suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible,
but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way.
The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east,
but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say
some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north,
continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of
Ferkla is reached.
Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on
foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too
hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens
over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and
jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused
as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every
direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief,
for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been
very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in
a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst,
there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary
and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in
fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to
render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all
level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of
the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe
being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of
the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the
natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting
only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes
with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot,
nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally
painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened
by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to
abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused
me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it
became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.
We wandered on for what seemed to me an interminable distance amongst
the palm-groves, passing many _ksor_, at each of which I hoped in
turn we were about to take up our quarters for the night, and each
of which we passed by without entering. I had placed myself and my
plans entirely in the hands of the _zitat_—our guarantee—from
Dads, and left everything to him. He was an excellent fellow,
and his opinion of myself seemed to increase when he found I could
trudge my forty miles or so a-day with an appearance—though by
no means a true one—of little inconvenience. He was a typical
Berber this latest addition to our party, some 6 feet in height,
with a fair white skin and dark eyes and eyebrows. His face was clean
shaven except for the small pointed beard on the end of his chin,
and a remarkably handsome face it was. But his heart was better even
than his looks, and more than once, as we tried to sleep of a night,
our teeth chattering with the frost, he would cover me with his warm
cloak, sharing it with me until I slept, when he would give up his
half so that I might be warmer—and in the morning tell a dozen
lies, saying that he had been so hot he had kicked it off, and it
was only by accident that I had found myself warm and comfortable,
and him half frozen.
I think the only qualms of conscience I felt at being in disguise
were with this good fellow, for as yet he had not the faintest idea
of my identity. So much did this trouble me that I took advantage
of our lying huddled together under his warm cloak that night to
tell him the whole story of my journey, whispered, lest we should
be overheard. He said but little, but I knew full well that I could
trust him, and in the morning I was warm, wrapped up in his _haidus_,
and he, only in his _chamira_, shivered with the frost. If anything
his attention to my comforts increased after I had confided to him
the fact of my disguise; and every now and then he would burst
out into the merriest of laughs as we trudged along, thinking
the whole affair a tremendous joke, and reiterating his approval
of my venturing where none had ever trod, and where my life if
discovered was worth probably about half-an-hour’s purchase. Nor
was his astonishment at my knowledge of Arabic—imperfect though
it is—a small one; for, himself a Berber, he too spoke it as a
foreign tongue, and if anything not so fluently as myself.
At length after dark we reached the principal _ksar_ of
Ferkla—Asrir by name—where we put up for the night. It was the
largest village we had as yet come across in the Sahara, enclosed
in high _tabia_ walls, and boasting a number of well-built houses,
and even a few shops. It lacked, however, the picturesque appearance
of many _ksor_ that we had seen upon our road; for the tall towers
with their decorations and battlements and turrets were absent, the
style of architecture resembling far more that found in the towns
of Morocco. In fact, Asrir may be more fitly described as a town
than a _ksar_, for within its walls it is divided up into streets,
many of them of the same tunnel-like formation as one is so used to
in Fez, for instance, the houses meeting overhead. In a large square
near the gateway—for there is only one entrance to Asrir—were
collected a number of soldiers on horseback and mules and camels,
almost the first signs we had as yet come across of the proximity
of the Sultan’s army, which had a few days previously reached
Tafilet. These soldiers consisted for the most part of mounted
messengers returning to Morocco, and it was piteous to hear them
asking questions as to the length of the road before them, and the
state of the pass over the Atlas; for after their weary wandering of
some eight months in the fastnesses of the mountains and the desert
beyond, both they and their poor horses were well-nigh starved. I
came across one little party of five or six men, all of whom were
well known to me, servants of one of the Kaids, or governors, of a
district in North Morocco. The recognition gave me at first a start;
but I quickly realised that it was scarcely likely to be mutual,
and that it was by no means probable they would discover under
the dirt and rags of a donkey-driver the man whom they had known
travelling with a large camp in European costume. None the less I
gave them a wide berth, and was glad to hide myself away in the
darkest corner of a caravanserai, where we took up our quarters
for the night. The place consisted of an open yard surrounded on
all sides by a covered arcade, the roof of which was supported on
pillars of _tabia_. Quite a crowd was collected here for the night,
for not only were there a number of soldiers from the Sultan’s
camp, but also camp-followers returning homewards, and Jews bound
for Tafilet to see what they could pick up in the oasis, where
Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan, was, accompanied by some 40,000 people.
Several tribes hold districts of Ferkla, a state of affairs that
leads to constant warfare. The principal divisions are members of
the (i.) Aït Merghad, (ii.) Aït Isdeg, (iii.) Aït Yafalman, and
(iv.) the Arab tribe of Alh Ferkla. There are also several _mellahs_
of Jews.
The oasis, which is very extensive, is watered from the Wad
Todghrá, which flows through its midst, supplying innumerable
canals. Altogether it is said to contain upwards of forty large
_ksor_, one or two of which, I was informed, can put as many as
from 300 to 400 men into the field in time of war. I found the
elevation of Asrir to be 3260 feet above the sea-level.
Stowed away in the corner of the _fondak_, or caravanserai, I ran no
risk of detection, and was able to watch the scene around me from a
point of vantage offering not only safety from detection, but also
some shelter from the frosty night-air. The crowd, illumined by the
lanterns that many of them bore, passed and repassed, struggling for
barley for their animals and food for themselves. Near us was a rough
extemporised oven of earth, at which a number of half-nude Haratin,
natives of the banks of the Wad Draa, were cooking _shua_—boiled
mutton—in tiny, and none too clean, wooden bowls. We procured
a couple of these for a small price, and enjoyed the luxury of
real meat.
One fact that I had been noticing all along the road here thrust
itself before me more than ever—namely, the entire absence of
the camel. One would naturally expect to find him in this portion
of trans-Atlas Morocco, but except for a few coming from the
camp at Tafilet, I saw absolutely none. The fact is, the Berbers
have never taken to the camel, and for some reason or other highly
disapprove of him—why, I was unable to discover. However, on more
than one occasion I have heard the Berber in chaff call an Arab a
camel-driver—no doubt a term of reproach in his eyes. For beasts
of burden the small mules of the district seem to have taken their
place, and no doubt they are more economical with food. The camel,
it is true, is easily fed where there is grazing to be found;
but in these dry districts where all its fodder would have to be
grown for the purpose, his keep would be far more heavy than that
of the tiny mules in use, which scarcely eat more than a donkey,
and subsist largely on dates.
We left Asrir at dawn on November 15, passing out of the _ksar_ as
soon as the gate was open, for it is kept closed during the night,
a custom in practice all through these districts.
Our road lay for an hour through the palm-groves, ever crossing
the little canals of clear water. We picked up a good supply of
dates from beneath the trees for one day’s provisions for the
march, and a handful or two were given us now and again by the
natives, many of whom were engaged in harvesting the fruit, and who,
evidently attracted by the string of big wooden beads round my neck,
mistook us for a party of wandering devotees of the sect of the
Derkauiya. Whatever may have been their object in bestowing upon
us charity, it was welcome enough, and for once we set out on our
day’s tramp with the certainty of a mid-day meal.
We forded the Wad Todghrá, first, at a spot where it flows over
its wide bed amongst the palm-groves, and then again near where
it issues from the oasis to pursue its course to the east. Then
desert again, only here a scrubby bush covered the arid waste,
thorny mimosas for the most part, called by the Arabs _sidra_, with
spikes all over it that tear one’s clothes as one proceeds. To the
north-east the horizon was bounded by a low line of yellow cliffs,
close beneath which we could distinguish the oasis of Gheris,
to which De Foucauld, after leaving Ferkla, pursued his journey
of exploration. Our roads had been parallel, and in some places
identical, from Dads to this spot, but from here on to Tafilet I had
an untrodden and unmapped way before me. To the east again of Gheris
the palm-trees of Tiluin—Aït Iluin—were to be descried. This
oasis is said to be the original home of the tribe, which we had
already come across near the southern end of Todghrá, and through
another territory of which we were to pass the following day.
A few miles outside the limit of the palm-groves of Ferkla the
road passes between two conical hills, of no great altitude, that
on the right (south) being, however, the larger of the two. On
the slope of the smaller one a ruined saint’s tomb stands; but
I was unable to find out the name of the man whose bones lie in
this desolate spot. On my return journey from Tafilet we followed
another road more to the south, which passes to the farther side
of the southernmost of these two hills, near the small settlement
of Islef, a division of the tribe of Aït Merghad.
Half a mile to the east of these two hills is a ruined _kasba_,
or residence of a governor, who is said to have shared the same
fate as his castle—to have been pulled to pieces.
[Illustration: _Saint’s Tomb on the Road to Ul Turug._]
Ten miles from Ferkla the road takes a turn to the south, and enters
a valley of Jibel Saghru, to which range, since leaving Dads, we had
been travelling parallel. Through this valley the Wad Todghrá flows,
dividing the range into two parts, that on the east being known as
Jibel el Kebir, “the great mountain,” though why it is difficult
to say, as both in extent and altitude it is considerably smaller
than the hills of Saghru on the west and south. It was with no little
pleasure that we entered the valley, barren though it was in most
parts, for any relief was acceptable after the interminable arid
desert we had been crossing for the last six or seven days of our
journey. Two villages lie near the northern end, Igli and Maroksha,
both inhabited by the Berber tribe of Aït Khalifa, representatives
of whom we had not as yet come across. Igli is a most picturesque
spot, crowning a knoll in the very centre of the valley, the summit
surmounted by a huge tower. With this exception the village is not
fortified, though its position above the level of the surrounding
land renders it easy of defence. Maroksha lies on the level ground,
half-hidden amongst groves of palms, irrigated from the stream of
the Wad Todghrá. From Ferkla this river flows slightly to the north
of east, the road being some miles on its south side, until almost
due north of Igli the stream takes a directly southerly course to
enter the valley between Saghru and Jibel el Kebir, half a mile
perhaps to the east of the village.
A mile to the south of Igli we crossed the dry bed of a
tributary of the Todghrá, flowing from Jibel Saghru, and,
fording the main stream a few hundred yards farther on, entered
the groves of Milaab, which are protected on the west by a tower
perched on a rocky projection. The road at the ford resumes
its former easterly direction, the river flowing a little more
to the south. Although Milaab is but a small place, I think I
saw nowhere else such attention paid to the cultivation of the
soil and the date-palm. The road for the mile and a half that it
threaded the groves was delightful. On either side of the straight
level track ran little canals of fresh clear water, beyond which
stretched away a forest of feathery palm-trees. The whole scene
resembled more a botanical garden than a desert oasis, so evenly
were the trees planted and so well tilled the soil, which, green
with _fsa_—lucerne—resembled a level lawn. The exact distance
between each palm seems to have been carefully measured, so that,
look which way one would, one’s sight wandered down long avenues
of the straight stems and luxuriant leaves.
However, pleasant as was the half hour or so of cool and shade, it
was soon over, and once more we issued into the barren glare of the
stone-strewn valley, not without many regrets for the fertile tract
we were leaving behind us, and much admiration for the people who
had raised so luxuriant a grove in so dreary a spot. The inhabitants
of Milaab belong to the Berber tribe of Aït Iazzer.
The valley of the Todghrá here takes an almost circular form,
being shut in on all sides by dreary black peaks, torn and scarped
apparently by volcanic action. Away a mile or two to the south-east
was visible the narrow gorge by which the river issues to the valley
of the Gheris. The road does not follow the course of the Todghrá,
but, maintaining its easterly direction, crosses by a weary track
over the brow of a range of black hills, descending again into the
wide open valley beyond near the immense fortified _ksar_ of Ul
Turug, the principal stronghold of the Aït Atta tribe of Berbers.
It had been a shorter march than usual, and though nearly some
thirty miles had been accomplished, we were able to rest under the
shade of some trees near a small stream before entering the _ksar_,
which we did not desire to do until dusk, so as to run less risk of
discovery; for we knew well that so near had we now come to Tafilet
that the place was likely to contain a large number of Arab tribesmen
from the Sultan’s camp, to some of whom I might be known.
We feasted that afternoon, for we had dates in plenty, and our
Berber who accompanied us fetched us a few grains of green tea and
a little sugar from the _ksar_, with a kettle to brew it in and a
tiny glass to drink it out of, and we made merry in the shade of
the tree, enjoying our rest and the pleasant coolness
[Illustration: _Ul Turug._]
that precedes the bitter cold of the winter nights in the Sahara. Our
journey was nearly accomplished now: this one night in Ul Turug, a
long march on the morrow, and we would sleep on the soil of Tafilet,
if not actually in the Sultan’s camp—and all our weary adventures
would be over.
But there was yet another reason that made me desire to push on,
and rejoice that the termination of our journey was so near. The
bitter cold at night, want of food and clothing at all times, the
scorching rays of the sun by day, and the long marches made barefoot
over the hot sand, had sorely taxed my strength, and I already
felt in my throat the sure signs of a coming illness, with which
I had a couple of years previously lain long prostrate. Already,
to swallow had become an exertion attended with pain, and I knew
well what to expect. Yet I could not allow my spirits to sink,
ill and weary though I felt, for there was so little now between me
and success, and retreat was out of the question. So I laughed and
talked as gaily as I could with my men, sipping the weak solution of
hot green tea by turns, and promising ourselves no end of luxuries
when once the great camp of the Sultan should be reached, and a
day and a half of travelling at the most lay between us and it.
Between the spot which we had fixed upon to rest at for a while and
the large _ksar_ was the cemetery, a flat piece of ground covered
with the low mounds which the Berbers raise over their graves,
with here and there a high-domed building, or _kubba_, marking the
last resting-place of some Shereef,—for Ul Turug is a _zauia_, or
sanctuary, and many of its inhabitants Shereefs. The _ksar_ itself
is situated partly on the steep slopes of Jibel el Kebir and partly
on the plain, where the palm-groves commence, the whole settlement
being surrounded by a wall of considerable defensive powers. Every
50 or 60 feet along the wall is a large tower, of the same height
as the wall itself, but projecting slightly from it. One gate alone
gives entrance to the _ksar_, situated under a heavy buttress in
the centre of the east side of the stronghold. Seen from where we
stayed for an hour or two before entering, the place presents an
appearance of great solidity and strength, which is by no means
belied by its interior.
Shortly before sunset we passed in, being scrutinised closely by
a group of guards at the gate; but a word from our Dadsi sufficed,
and we entered unmolested.
The gate, like so many others in Morocco, takes a turn half-way,
this form being the easiest in case of defence being necessary. From
the outside, as well as from the interior, a dead wall meets the
eye when looking in or out as the case may be. Within we entered
a large square, surrounded on two sides by buildings, while the
two others were faced with the outside wall, along which a covered
arcade had been built where animals and goods, as well as human
beings, could find shelter from rain—whenever that rare event
happens—or sun. From this square streets lead between the houses
to the different parts of the _ksar_. Many of the dwellings are
extremely well and solidly built, one and all of _tabia_, but with
arched windows of wood, and doors of the same material,—not the
rough planks we had seen at Dads, but showing considerable signs of
skilful carpentry. We found provisions obtainable, even eggs, a fowl,
and some bread, and in every respect Ul Turug resembles more a little
town than a desert _ksar_. We took up our position under the high
wall of a house, and, tying our donkeys to a couple of tent-pegs,
lit a small fire of wood we had collected outside and supped.
Quite a number of people were passing the night at Ul Turug. Not
only were groups of Berbers to be seen hurrying to and fro, but
Arab soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, many of them with their
horses, and Jews and negroes, all either coming from or going
to Tafilet, a sudden impetus having been given to trade by the
presence of the Sultan and the vast multitude that follows him
in his marches. Camels and mules laden with grain from Marakesh
there were too, all horribly lean and sore-backed after the long
march over the Atlas and the desert. In the crowd our little band
escaped observation altogether, and very few took any notice of us:
one or two Berbers, more friendly than the rest, shared our little
blaze of sticks, bringing us in return thin strips of flabby native
bread, which when toasted became quite crisp and good.
A few words must be said as to the powerful Berber tribe of Aït
Atta, a stronghold of which Ul Turug is. Probably no division of the
Shloh people south of the Atlas is so well known as this tribe, and
deservedly so, for by their bravery and warfare, by their constant
extension of territory, and the fear in which their name is held,
they have become a byword for all that is fierce or strong.
Professing an Arab origin—for they claim descent from the
famous tribe of the Koreish, that gave to the world the Prophet
Mohammed—they have lapsed by time into essentially a Berber people,
speaking the Shelha tongue, and adopting the Berber manners and
customs, and to a great extent dress and appearance. Almost the
sole reminder of their Arab origin to-day is the fact that they
are great horsemen, and still greater robbers and plunderers. As
a rule, the Berbers seem to be constantly at war without the
idea of plunder, their feuds being far more often matters of
revenge. With the Aït Atta, however, this is different, and they
seem to retain from the time of their Eastern ancestors the love
of going afield for conquest and booty, with the result that there
is little land of the eastern portion of trans-Atlas Morocco which
has not at one time or another been overrun, or at least attacked,
by their hordes. Not only to-day do they hold sway over the immense
wastes of Jibel Saghru, but even a large portion of the Wad Draa
has fallen into their hands, the natives, Haratin, paying to their
conquerors an annual tribute, in return for which they are protected
against attack from other quarters. On the banks of the Wad Ziz,
the principal river of Tafilet, they hold the districts of Ertib
(Reteb) and Medaghra, and it is members of their tribe who plough
the banks of the Dayet ed Daura, far to the south of Tafilet, the
great marsh formed by the rivers Ziz and Gheris. To the north their
influence extends as far as the southern slopes of Jibel Ayashi,
near where the caravan road from Fez to Tafilet passes, and to the
east they hold much territory in the desert.
In appearance they differ much from the Berbers of Dads, for
instance, being, as a rule, men of short build, thin and very wiry,
with sunburnt complexions, and lacking the handsome features and
bearing of many of the other Berber tribes. Although, like the
other Berbers, they shave their moustaches off, and leave only
the pointed beard on the extremity of the chin, they resemble
far more the Saharan Arab tribes than the kinsmen with whom they
claim relationship. Their costume much resembles that of Dads,
though generally far dirtier, and modified to suit horsemen. In
addition to the _chamira_ and _haidus_, they often wear the _haik_,
the toga-like garment found through-out Morocco. Curiously enough,
while the dress of the men has no particular points different from
the other tribes, that of the women is unique in this portion of
the desert, for they cover their shoulders with a shawl of red,
black, and white stripes, closely woven of native wool and imported
cotton. These shawls are longer than they are wide, and are held
in their place by two short strings near the centre of one of the
longer sides, the shorter ends being fringed in the same colours
as the material is made of. With this exception, the rule is to
find the rest of the costume of _khent_. The hair, too, is quite
differently worn to the usual mode in vogue in these regions, being
parted in the middle and drawn back under the ear in heavy plaits,
held in position by a head-dress of _khent_. A few I noticed wearing
silver ornaments on the front of their dark-blue head-dresses. The
women offer none of the attractive features of those of Dads,
being heavily built and clumsy, dirty and slovenly.
I had more than once been interested upon the road at watching the
various games practised by the boys of the different oases. At Dads
_kora_, or football, was the general favourite, apparently identical
with the game so common amongst the _tolba_, or “scholars,” of
Morocco. At Ferkla it had been a kind of hockey, one boy armed with a
stick endeavouring to keep out of a hole in the ground a hard small
ball which some half-dozen others were trying to hit in. For clubs
they used the centre stem of the palm leaf, from which the fronds
had been cut. Held by the thin end with the knob at the bottom,
they formed an excellent weapon. Here, however, at Ul Turug we saw
neither _kora_ nor hockey, the whole youth of the place having taken
to stilts, on which some were very skilful in getting about. The
stilts resembled exactly the kind in use amongst boys in England, and
one could not help feeling a sort of brotherly love with these desert
urchins when one found them playing games identical with our own.
However, the tranquil state of affairs in Great Britain has not yet
necessitated one practice, common amongst the youths of the Aït
Atta tribe, which we saw going on outside the _ksar_. This consisted
in practising escape from an enemy by holding on to the tail of a
galloping horse, the rider urging his steed meanwhile to its full
pace. It is marvellous what speed can be made in this manner, and
it was a sight well worth seeing to watch an old ruffian of the
tribe galloping about on his handsome desert horse, with a youth
holding on to each stirrup, and another to the tail, and scudding
over the ground beside and behind him respectively. This means
of retreat is in common practice amongst the tribe of Aït Atta,
and soon puts their foot-soldiers, no match against many of the
Berber tribes in running, out of distance of their pursuers.
We spent the night of November 15 at Ul Turug, and though I found
the elevation of the place to be only some 2850 feet above the
sea-level, we experienced a sharp frost, and suffered not a little
from the cold. In the grey dawn we rose, and, packing our little
donkeys with their light burdens, left the _ksar_ as soon as the
gates were opened; nor was I sorry to get safely out of a spot
that has the reputation of being one of the most fanatical in this
portion of the Sahara.