FROM TANGIER TO DJEDIDA
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
* * * * *
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
_The Canterbury Tales._
We have rounded the north-west corner of Africa, exchanged farewell
signals with our friend on Lloyd's station,--who must now return to his
Spanish and Arabic or live a silent life,--and I have taken a last look
through field-glasses at the plateau that held our little camp. Since then
we have raced the light for a glimpse of El Araish, where the Gardens of
the Hesperides were set by people of old time. The sun was too swift in
its decline; one caught little more than an outline of the white city,
with the minarets of its mosques that seemed to pierce the sky, and flags
flying in the breeze on the flat roofs of its Consuls' houses. The river
Lekkus showed up whitely on the eastern side, a rising wind having whipped
its waters into foam, and driven the light coasting vessels out to sea. So
much I saw from the good ship _Zweena's_ upper deck, and then evening
fell, as though to hide from me the secret of the gardens where the
Golden Apples grew.
Alas, that modern knowledge should have destroyed all faith in old legend!
The fabled fruits of the Hesperides turn to oranges in the hands of our
wise men, the death-dealing dragon becomes Wad Lekkus itself, so ready
even to-day to snarl and roar at the bidding of the wind that comes up out
of the south-west, and the dusky maidens of surpassing loveliness are no
more than simple Berber girls, who, whilst doubtless dusky, and possibly
maidenly as ever, have not inherited much of the storied beauty of their
forbears. In spite of this modern perversion of the old tale I find that
the oranges of the dining-table have a quite rare charm for me
to-night,--such an attraction as they have had hitherto only when I have
picked them in the gardens of Andalusia, or in the groves that perfume the
ancient town of Jaffa at the far eastern end of the Mediterranean. Now I
have one more impression to cherish, and the scent of a blossoming orange
tree will recall for me El Araish as I saw it at the moment when the
shroud of evening made the mosques and the kasbah of Mulai al Yazeed melt,
with the great white spaces between them, into a blurred pearly mass
without salient feature.
[Illustration: MOORISH HOUSE, CAPE SPARTEL]
You shall still enjoy the sense of being in touch with past times and
forgotten people, if you will walk the deck of a ship late at night. Your
fellow-passengers are abed, the watch, if watch there be, is invisible,
the steady throbbing movement of the screw resolves itself into a
pleasing rhythmic melody. So far as the senses can tell, the world is your
closet, a silent pleasaunce for your waking dreams. The coast-line has no
lights, nor is any other vessel passing over the waters within range of
eye or glass. The hosts of heaven beam down upon a silent universe in
which you are the only waking soul. On a sudden eight bells rings out
sharply from the forecastle head, and you spring back from your world of
fancy as hurriedly as Cinderella returned to her rags when long-shore
midnight chimed. The officer of the middle watch and a hand for the wheel
come aft to relieve their companions, the illusion has passed, and you go
below to turn in, feeling uncomfortably sure that your pretty thoughts
will appear foolish and commonplace enough when regarded in the
matter-of-fact light of the coming day.
Dár el Baida, most Moorish of seaports, received us in the early morning.
The wind had fallen, and the heavy surf-boats of the port could land us
easily. We went on shore past the water-gate and the custom-house that
stands on the site of the stores erected by the society of the Gremios
Majores when Charles V. ruled Spain. Dár el Baida seemed to have straggled
over as much ground as Tangier, but the ground itself was flat and full of
refuse. The streets were muddy and unpaved, cobble stones strove
ineffectually to disguise drains, and one felt that the sea breezes alone
stood between the city and some such virulent epidemic as that which smote
Tangier less than ten years ago. But withal there was a certain
picturesque quality about Dár el Baida that atoned for more obvious
faults, and the market-place afforded a picture as Eastern in its main
features as the tired Western eye could seek. Camel caravans had come in
from the interior for the Monday market. They had tramped from the
villages of the Zair and the Beni Hassan tribes, bringing ripe barley for
sale, though the spring months had not yet passed. From places near at
hand the husbandmen had brought all the vegetables that flourish after the
March rains,--peas and beans and lettuces; pumpkins, carrots and turnips,
and the tender leaves of the date-palm. The first fruits of the year and
the dried roses of a forgotten season were sold by weight, and charcoal
was set in tiny piles at prices within the reach of the poorest customers.
Wealthy merchants had brought their horses within the shadow of the
sok's[6] high walls and loosened the many-clothed saddles. Slaves walked
behind their masters or trafficked on their behalf. The snake-charmer, the
story-teller, the beggar, the water-carrier, the incense seller, whose
task in life is to fumigate True Believers, all who go to make the typical
Moorish crowd, were to be seen indolently plying their trade. But
inquiries for mules, horses, and servants for the inland journey met with
no ready response. Dár el Baida, I was assured, had nothing to offer;
Djedida, lower down along the coast, might serve, or Saffi, if Allah
should send weather of a sort that would permit the boat to land.
[Illustration: A PATRIARCH]
As it happened, Djedida was the steamer's next port of call, so we made
haste to return to her hospitable decks. I carried with me a vivid
impression of Dár el Baida, of the market-place with its varied goods, and
yet more varied people, the white Arabs, the darker Berbers, the black
slaves from the Soudan and the Draa. Noticeable in the market were the
sweet stores, where every man sat behind his goods armed with a feather
brush, and waged ceaseless war with the flies, while a corner of his eye
was kept for small boys, who were well nigh as dangerous. I remember the
gardens, one particularly well. It belongs to the French Consul, and has
bananas growing on the trees that face the road; from beyond the hedge one
caught delightful glimpses of colour and faint breaths of exquisite
perfume.
I remember, too, the covered shed containing the mill that grinds the
flour for the town, and the curious little bakehouse to which Dár el Baida
takes its flat loaves, giving the master of the establishment one loaf in
ten by way of payment. I recall the sale of horses, at which a fine raking
mare with her foal at foot fetched fifty-four dollars in Moorish silver, a
sum less than nine English pounds.
And I seem to see, even now as I write, the Spanish woman with cruel
painted face, sitting at the open casement of an old house near the
Spanish church, thrumming her guitar, and beneath her, by the roadside, a
beggar clad, like the patriarch of old, in a garment of many colours, that
made his black face seem blacker than any I have seen in Africa. Then Dár
el Baida sinks behind the water-port gate, the strong Moorish rowers bend
to their oars, their boat laps through the dark-blue water, and we are
back aboard the ship again, in another atmosphere, another world.
Passengers are talking as it might be they had just returned from their
first visit to a Zoological Garden. Most of them have seen no more than
the dirt and ugliness--their vision noted no other aspect--of the
old-world port. The life that has not altered for centuries, the things
that make it worth living to all the folk we leave behind,--these are
matters in which casual visitors to Morocco have no concern. They resent
suggestion that the affairs of "niggers" can call for serious
consideration, far less for appreciation or interest of any sort.
Happily Djedida is not far away. At daybreak we are securely anchored
before the town whose possession by the Portuguese is recorded to this
hour by the fine fortifications and walls round the port. We slip over the
smooth water in haste, that we may land before the sun is too high in the
heavens. It is not without a thrill of pleasure that I hear the ship's
shrill summons and see the rest of the passengers returning.
[Illustration: PILGRIMS ON A STEAMER]
By this time it is afternoon, but the intervening hours have not been
wasted. I have found the Maalem, master of a bakehouse, a short,
olive-skinned, wild, and wiry little man, whose yellowed eyes and
contracting pupils tell a tale of haschisch and kief that his twitching
fingers confirm. But he knows the great track stretching some hundred and
twenty miles into the interior up to Red Marrakesh; he is "the father
and mother" of mules and horses, animals that brighten the face of man by
reason of their superlative qualities, and he is prepared to undertake the
charge of all matters pertaining to a journey over this roadless country.
His beasts are fit to journey to Tindouf in the country of the Draa, so
fine is their condition; their saddles and accoutrements would delight the
Sultan's own ministers. By Allah, the inland journey will be a picnic!
Quite gravely, I have professed to believe all he says, and my
reservations, though many, are all mental.
In the days that precede departure--and in Morocco they are always apt to
be numerous--I seek to enter into the life of Djedida. Sometimes we stroll
to the custom-house, where grave and dignified Moors sit in the bare,
barnlike office that opens upon the waste ground beyond the port. There
they deliver my shot guns after long and dubious scrutiny of the order
from the British Consulate at Tangier. They also pass certain boxes of
stores upon production of a certificate testifying that they paid duty on
arrival at the Diplomatic Capital. These matters, trivial enough to the
Western mind, are of weight and moment here, not to be settled lightly or
without much consultation.
Rotting in the stores of this same custom-house are two grand pianos and
an electric omnibus. The Sultan ordered them, the country paid for
them,--so much was achieved by the commercial energy of the infidel,--and
native energy sufficed to land them; it was exhausted by the effort. If
Mulai Abd-el-Aziz wants his dearly purchased treasure, the ordering and
existence of which he has probably forgotten, he must come to Mazagan for
it, I am afraid, and unless he makes haste it will not be worth much. But
there are many more such shipments in other ports, not to mention the
unopened and forgotten packing cases at Court.
[Illustration: THE HOUR OF SALE]
The Basha of Djedida is a little old man, very rich indeed, and the terror
of the entire Dukala province. I like to watch him as he sits day by day
under the wall of the Kasbah by the side of his own palace, administering
what he is pleased to call justice. Soldiers and slaves stand by to
enforce his decree if need be, plaintiff and defendant lie like tombstones
or advertisements of patent medicines, or telegrams from the seat of war,
but no sign of an emotion lights the old man's face. He tempers justice
with--let us say, diplomacy. The other afternoon a French-protected
subject was charged with sheep-stealing, and I went to the trial. Salam
acted as interpreter for me. The case was simple enough. The defendant had
received some hundred sheep from plaintiff to feed and tend at an agreed
price. From time to time he sent plaintiff the sad news of the death of
certain rams, always among the finest in the flock. Plaintiff, a farmer in
good circumstances, testified to the Unity of Allah and was content to
pray for better luck, until news was brought to him that most of the sheep
reported dead were to be seen in the Friday market fetching good prices.
The news proved true, the report of their death was no more than the
defendant's intelligent anticipation of events, and the action arose
out of it. To be sure, the plaintiff had presented a fine sheep to the
Basha, but the defendant was a French subject by protection, and the
Vice-Consul of his adopted nation was there to see fair play. Under these
circumstances the defendant lied with an assurance that must have helped
to convince himself; his friends arrived in the full number required by
the law, and testified with cheerful mendacity in their companion's
favour. The Basha listened with attention while the litigants swore
strange oaths and abused each other very thoroughly. Then he silenced both
parties with a word, and gave judgment for the defendant. There was no
appeal, though, had the defendant been an unprotected subject, the
plaintiff's knife had assuredly entered into the final settlement of this
little matter. But the plaintiff knew that an attack upon a French protégé
would lead to his own indefinite imprisonment and occasional torture, to
the confiscation of his goods, and to sundry other penalties that may be
left unrecorded, as they would not look well in cold print. He knew,
moreover, that everything is predestined, that no man may avoid Allah's
decree. These matters of faith are real, not pale abstractions, in
Morocco. So he was less discontented with the decision than one of his
European brethren would have been in similar case--and far more
philosophic regarding it.
[Illustration: EVENING, MAZAGAN]
Quite slowly we completed our outfit for the inland journey. Heaven aid
the misguided Nazarene who seeks to accomplish such matters swiftly in
this land of eternal afternoon. I bought an extraordinary assortment of
what our American friends call "dry-goods" in the Jewish stores, from the
very business-like gentlemen in charge of them. These all wore black
gaberdines, black slippers, stockings that were once white, and black
skull-caps over suspiciously shining love-locks. Most of the Jewish men
seemed to have had smallpox; in their speech they relied upon a very base
Arabic, together with worse Spanish or quite barbarous French. Djedida
having no Mellah, as the Moorish ghetto is called, they were free to trade
all over the town, and for rather less than a pound sterling I bought
quite an imposing collection of cutlery, plate, and dishes for use on the
road. It is true, as I discovered subsequently, that the spoons and forks
might be crushed out of shape with one hand, that the knives would cut
nothing rougher than Danish butter, and were imported from Germany with a
Sheffield mark on them to deceive the natives, and that the plates and
dishes were not too good to go with the cutlery. But nothing had been
bought without bargaining of a more or less exciting and interesting sort,
and for the bargaining no extra charge whatever was made. The little
boxlike shops, with flaps that served as shutters, were ill-adapted for
private purchase; there was no room for more than the owner inside, and
before we had been at one for five minutes the roadway became impassable.
All the idlers and beggars in that district gathered to watch the
strangers, and the Maalem was the only one who could keep them at bay.
Salam would merely threaten to cuff an importunate rogue who pestered
us, but the Maalem would curse him so fluently and comprehensively, and
extend the anathema so far in either direction, from forgotten ancestors
to unborn descendants, that no native could stand up for long against the
flashing eye, the quivering forefinger, the foul and bitter tongue of him.
There were times, then and later on, when the Maalem seemed to be some
Moorish connection of Captain Kettle's family, and after reflecting upon
my experience among hard-swearing men of many nations, seafarers,
land-sharks, beach-combers and the rest, I award the Maalem pride of
place. You will find him to-day in Djedida, baking his bread with the aid
of the small apprentice who looks after the shop when he goes abroad, or
enjoying the dreams of the haschisch eater when his work is done. He is no
man's enemy, and the penalty of his shortcomings will probably fall upon
no body or soul save his own. A picturesque figure, passionate yet a
philosopher, patiently tolerant of blinding heat, bad roads, uncomfortable
sleeping quarters and short commons, the Maalem will remain alive and real
in my memory long after the kaids and wazeers and other high dignitaries
of his country are no more than dimly splendid shadows, lacking altogether
in individuality.
I learned to enjoy Djedida by night. Then the town was almost as silent as
our camp below Mediunah had been. The ramparts left by the Portuguese and
the white walls of the city itself became all of a piece, indistinct and
mysterious as the darkness blended them. Late camels coming into the town
to seek the security of some fandak would pad noiselessly past me; weird
creatures from the under-world they seemed, on whom the ghostlike Arabs in
their white djellabas were ordered to attend. Children would flit to and
fro like shadows, strangely quiet, as though held in thrall even in the
season of their play by the solemn aspect of the surroundings. The
market-place and road to the landing-stage would be deserted, the gates of
the city barred, and there was never a light to be seen save where some
wealthy Moor attended by lantern-bearing slaves passed to and from his
house. One night by the Kasbah the voice of a watchman broke upon the
city's silence, at a time when the mueddin was at rest, and it was not
incumbent upon the faithful to pray. "Be vigilant, O guardians," he
cried,--"be vigilant and do not sleep." Below, by my side, on the ground,
the guardians, wrapped warm in their djellabas, dreamed on, all
undisturbed.
By night, too, the pariah dogs, scavengers of all Mohammedan cities,
roamed at their ease and leisure through Djedida, so hungry and so free
from daintiness that no garbage would be left on the morrow. Moorish
houses have no windows fronting the road--decency forbids, and though
there might have been ample light within, the bare walls helped to darken
the pathway, and it was wise to walk warily lest one should tumble over
some beggar asleep on the ground.
[Illustration: SUNSET OFF THE COAST]
On nights like these and through streets not greatly different, Harun
al Raschid fared abroad in Baghdad and lighted upon the wonderful folk who
live for all time in the pages of the _Arabian Nights_. Doubtless I passed
some twentieth-century descendants of the fisher-folk, the Calendars, the
slaves, and the merchants who move in their wonderful pageantry along the
glittering road of the "Thousand Nights and a Night,"--the type is
marvellously unchanging in Al Moghreb; but, alas, they spoke, if at all,
to deaf ears, and Salam was ever more anxious to see me safely home than
to set out in search of adventure. By day I knew that Djedida had little
of the charm associated even in this year of grace with the famous city on
the Tigris, but, all over the world that proclaims the inspiration of
Mohammed, the old times come back by night, and then "a thousand years are
but as yesterday."
Happily we were right below the area of rebellion. In the north, round Fez
and Taza, there was severe fighting, spreading thence to the Riff country.
Here, people did no more than curse the Pretender in public or the Sultan
in private, according to the state of their personal feelings.
Communication with the south, said the Maalem, was uninterrupted; only in
the north were the sons of the Illegitimate, the rebels against Allah,
troubling Our Lord the Sultan. From Djedida down to the Atlas the tribes
were peaceful, and would remain at rest unless Our Master should attempt
to collect his taxes, in which case, without doubt, there would be
trouble.
[Illustration: A VERANDAH AT MAZAGAN]
He was a busy man in these days, was the Maalem. When he was not baking
bread or smoking kief he was securing mules and bringing them for our
inspection. To Mr. T. Spinney, son of the British Vice-Consul in Mazagan,
we owed our salvation. A master of Moghrebbin Arabic, on intimate terms
with the Moors, and thoroughly conversant with the road and its
requirements, he stood between me and the fiery-tongued Maalem. This mule
was rejected, that saddle was returned, stirrups tied with string were
disqualified, the little man's claim to have all "the money in the hand"
was overruled, and the Maalem, red-hot sputtering iron in my hands, was as
wax in Mr. Spinney's. My good friend and host also found Kaid M'Barak,[7]
the soldier, a tall, scorched, imperturbable warrior, who rode a brave
horse, and carried a gun done up in a very tattered, old, flannel case
tied with half a dozen pieces of string. The kaid's business was to strike
terror into the hearts of evil men in return for a Moorish dollar a day,
and to help with tent setting and striking, or anything else that might be
required, in return for his food. He was a lean, gaunt, taciturn man, to
whom twelve hours in the saddle brought no discomfort, and though he
strove earnestly to rob me, it was only at the journey's end, when he had
done his work faithfully and well. His gun seemed to be a constant source
of danger to somebody, for he carried it at right angles to his horse
across the saddle, and often on the road I would start to consciousness
that the kaid was covering me with his be-frocked weapon. After a time
one grew accustomed and indifferent to the danger, but when I went
shooting in the Argan forest I left the blessed one in camp. He was
convinced that he carried his gun in proper fashion, and that his duty was
well done. And really he may have been right, for upon a day, when a hint
of possible danger threatened, I learned to my amusement and relief that
the valiant man carried no ammunition of any sort, and that the barrel of
his gun was stuffed full of red calico.
Our inland tramp over, he took one day's rest at Mogador, then gathered
the well-earned store of dollars into his belt and started off to follow
the coast road back to Djedida. Perhaps by now the Basha has had his
dollars, or the Sultan has summoned him to help fight Bu Hamara. In any
case I like to think that his few weeks with us will rank among the
pleasant times of his life, for he proved a patient, enduring man, and
though silent, a not unedifying companion.
Among the strange stories I heard in Djedida while preparing for the
journey was one relating to the then War Minister, Kaid Mahedi el Menebhi,
some-time envoy to the Court of St. James's. In his early days Menebhi,
though a member of the great Atlas Kabyle of that name, had been a poor
lad running about Djedida's streets, ready and willing to earn a handful
of _floos_[8] by hard work of any description. Then he set up in business
as a mender of old shoes and became notorious, not because of his skill as
a cobbler, but on account of his quick wit and clever ideas. In all
Mohammedan countries a Believer may rise without any handicap on account
of lowly origin, and so it fell out that the late Grand Wazeer, Ba Ahmad,
during a visit to Djedida heard of the young cobbler's gifts, and
straightway gave him a place in his household. Thereafter promotion was
rapid and easy for Menebhi, and the lad who had loafed about the streets
with the outcasts of the city became, under the Sultan, the first man in
Morocco. "To-day," concluded my informant, "he has palaces and slaves and
a great hareem, he is a Chief Wazeer and head of the Sultan's forces, but
he still owes a merchant in Djedida some few dollars on account of leather
he had bought and forgot to pay for when Ba Ahmad took him to
Marrakesh."[9]
[Illustration: A BLACKSMITH'S SHOP]
In the R'hamna country, on the way to the southern capital, we pitched our
tents one night in a Government n'zala, or guarded camping-ground, one of
many that are spread about the country for the safety of travellers. The
price of corn, eggs, and chickens was amazingly high, and the Maalem
explained that the n'zala was kept by some of the immediate family of
Mahedi el Menebhi, who had put them there, presumably to make what profit
they could. I looked very carefully at our greedy hosts. They were a rough
unprepossessing crowd, but their wealth in sheep and goats alone was
remarkable, and their stock was safe from molestation, for they were
known to be relatives of the Sultan's chief minister, a man whose arm is
long and hard-hitting. Since last autumn Menebhi has resigned his high
office, reduced his household, manumitted many slaves, and gone on the
great pilgrimage to Mecca, so it may be presumed that his relatives in the
forsaken R'hamna country have lowered their prices. Yet, 'tis something to
have a great wazeer for relative even though, for the time being, loss of
favour has given him leisure for pious observances.
At length the evening came, when the last mule was selected, the last
package made up, and nothing lay between us and the open road. Sleep was
hard to woo. I woke before daylight, and was in the patio before the first
animal arrived, or the sleepy porter had fumbled at the door of the
warehouse where the luggage was stacked.
Morn in the white wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold,
and gave to the tops of walls and battlements a momentary tinge of rose
colour, a sight well worth the effort demanded by early rising.
Sparrow-hawks and pigeons were fluttering over their nests on the deserted
battlements, a stork eyed me with solemn curiosity from the minaret of a
near mosque, and only the earliest wayfarers were astir. How slowly the
men seemed to do their work, and how rapidly the morning wore on. Ropes
and palmetto baskets refused to fit at the last moment, two mules were
restive until their "father," the Maalem, very wide awake and energetic,
cursed their religion, and reminded them that they were the children of
asses renowned throughout the Moghreb for baseness and immorality. One
animal was found at the last moment to be saddle-galled, and was rejected
summarily, despite its "father's" frenzied assurances. Though I had been
astir shortly before three, and at work soon after four, it was nearly
seven o'clock when the last crooked way had been made straight, the last
shwarri[10] balanced, and the luggage mules were moving to the Dukala
gate.
The crowd of curious onlookers then gave way, some few wishing us well on
the journey. I daresay there were many among them, tied by their daily
toil to the town, who thought with longing of the pleasant road before us,
through fertile lands where all the orchards were aflower and the peasants
were gathering the ripe barley, though April had yet some days to revel
in. Small boys waved their hands to us, the water-carrier carrying his
tight goat-skin from the wells set his cups a-tinkling, as though by way
of a God-speed, and then M'Barak touched his horse with the spur to induce
the bravery of a caracole, and led us away from Djedida. I drew a long
breath of pleasure and relief; we were upon the road.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] The sok is the market-place.
[7] Kaid is a complimentary title--he was a common soldier. M'Barak means
"the blessed one," and is one of the names usually set apart for slaves.
[8] Base copper coins, of which a penny will purchase a score.
[9] It is fair to say that this is no more than one of many stories
relating to the great Wazeer's early days. Another says that he started
life as a soldier. There is no doubt that he is a man of extraordinary
talent.
[10] A pannier made of palmetto.
ON THE MOORISH ROAD
[Illustration: A SAINT'S TOMB]