DAY BY DAY ON THE DROWSY NILE. WITH SOMETHING ABOUT THE WONDERFUL
HASSIM
While we were in London we dined one evening at a gorgeous hotel with a
Mr. Brewster, of Connecticut. After dinner, Mr. Peasley told the
waiter to bring some "good cigars." Mr. Peasley resides in Iowa, where
it is customary to stroll down to the drug store after supper and buy a
couple of Lottie Lees, which are so good that the druggist cannot
afford to give six for a quarter. Not being familiar with the
favourite brands of London, he called on Mr. Brewster to name the cigar
of his choice, and Mr. Brewster said he was very fond of the Corona del
Matadora, or something like that, because the entire crop in Cuba was
taken over by a London dealer, and they could not be obtained in New
York for love or money. The waiter brought what appeared to be a very
superior article of stogie, and after they had been passed around, Mr.
Peasley put several into his pockets, as we were going to a music hall,
and Mr. Peasley had learned that tobacco acted as a sedative and helped
one to remain calm while listening to British jokes.
"How much?" he asked.
"Three and six," replied the waiter.
Mr. Peasley handed him three and six.
"Each," said the waiter.
[Illustration: _"Each," said the waiter_]
Mr. Peasley swallowed something and his eyes leaned from their sockets,
but he said nothing. He handed over two sovereigns, and the change
that came back to him was almost sufficient for the waiter's tip.
There was a brief silence and then Mr. Peasley said:--"Three shillings
is seventy-five cents--seventy-five and twelve make eighty-seven."
Another silence.
"Eighty-seven cents," sighed Mr. Peasley. "Three bushels of oats for a
cigar!"
When Mr. Brewster crossed our trail in Egypt and became our fellow
passenger on a Nile steamer Mr. Peasley remembered him and longed for a
chance to get even.
Our friend from Connecticut was wearing a large canopy helmet--the kind
that makes a short man look like a walking piano-stool. We were
wearing the same outlandish style of headgear and for some reason or
other, no person being responsible for what he does when he is away
from home, Mr. Peasley had his name boldly marked in Arabic on the
front of his helmet. It didn't look like anything, but it was real
Arabic and said his name was Peasley and that he came from Iowa and he
was very proud of it. He urged Mr. Brewster to have his helmet marked
in a similar way.
"I hardly like the idea of wearing my name on my hat," said the man
from Connecticut.
"But when you get home and hang the thing up in your den with the
Navajo blankets and swords and other curios, think what a fine souvenir
it will be," urged Mr. Peasley.
Mr. Brewster finally consented and Mr. Peasley took the helmet to the
head steward, who was a native, and in a few minutes he brought it back
magnificently lettered all over the front. It surely did look Oriental
and decorative and Mr. Brewster was grateful when he saw how
beautifully his name and New England address showed up in Arabic.
That afternoon we landed at Assiut, which is headquarters for a most
wolfish assortment of guides, street peddlers, and hold-up men who work
in the bazaars. Most of them are Copts and claim to be good
Christians, but we did not feel impelled to throw up our hats on that
account. When they bore down upon us and started to wrestle with us we
could hardly distinguish any difference between them and the ordinary
heathen.
From the moment that we landed, Mr. Brewster of Connecticut attracted
more attention than any other person in the party. Four guides laid
hold of him at the same moment and declined to let go. Later on, in
the bazaar, every dealer who sighted him gave a glad guttural cry and
tried to drag him into one of the stuffy little shops. The arrival of
an ordinary tourist is calculated to agitate a bazaar, but when Mr.
Brewster appeared the general effect was the same as when the raw meat
is carried into the zoo. He was pulled and hauled and for the whole
length of the winding bazaar his way was blocked by frantic villains in
white gowns and huge turbans, who dangled tawdry merchandise in front
of him and begged him to make an offer. Mr. Brewster was a good deal
amazed, and we were more or less puzzled until we came back to the boat
and Mr. Peasley confessed that the Arabic characters boldly displayed
on Mr. Brewster's helmet did not stand for his name and address at all,
but meant, as nearly as could be translated, "Rich American--Easy Mark."
[Illustration: "_Rich American--Easy Mark._"]
Poor Mr. Brewster! At the present writing he is still wearing that
bold label, wandering in and out of shops and around hotels, inviting
the attacks of guides, donkey boys, servants, and peddlers. It seemed
a rather low-down trick, but Mr. Peasley said that probably it would
flatter Mr. Brewster to learn that anyone from Connecticut could
attract so much attention in a foreign country.
Arabic is surely a weird excuse for a language. In its written form it
looks like the bird-track illustrations in one of Thompson Seton
Thompson's books, and instead of reading it from left to right you
begin at the tail end of a sentence and back up all the way. In
reading an Arabic novel you turn to the end of the book and read the
last chapter first, and if it develops that the fellow marries the
girl, naturally that saves a lot of trouble. In its right to left
character the Arabic is somewhat like the Hebrew or Lower Broadway
language, which also begins at the leaving-off place. This fact
reminded a New York man of a story. He said that in one of the east
side Assembly districts of New York city a large body of Yiddish
voters, recently arrived in the land of the somewhat free and the home
of the more or less brave, had been rounded up very carefully by the
Tammany workers. The voters were not familiar with the workings of the
Australian ballot system, and had to be instructed by the Tammany ward
heelers, who said:--"All you have to do is to put a cross mark in the
circle at the top of the first column, see?" That seemed simple
enough, so the voters went into the booths and marked the first--that
is, the right hand--column, and elected the Prohibition candidate.
The Arabic language, when spoken, sounds very much like an agitated
person trying to dislodge a fish bone. It is one of the most unmusical
tongues in the world and offers no tempting inducements to the student,
yet Mr. Peasley actually bought one of those "Arabic at a Glance" books
and started to learn some of the more useful sentences. He said that
if he could get Arabic down pat he would pass as a native and be
enabled to buy things at about half price. After two days of hard
study he attempted a conversation with a military policeman standing on
the river bank at Dendera. Mr. Peasley strolled up to him, careless
like, and said, "Ana awez arabiyet kwayesset min shan arookh el balad."
That was supposed to mean, "I want a first-class carriage for driving
in the town." The stalwart soldier gazed at Mr. Peasley with a most
bewildered look in his jet black eyes and then began to edge away.
"Hold on," said Mr. Peasley. "How about hal yel zamna ghafar yerafegua
bill tareeg?"
[Illustration: "_How about hal yel zamna ghafar yerafegua bill
tareeg?_"]
Mr. Peasley thought he was asking, "Shall we require a guide or an
escort in this town?"
The soldier beckoned to us to come over and help him out.
"Tell him, please, that I am educate at the Presbyterian Mission," said
he. "I speak only English and Arabic."
We questioned him later and learned that he took Mr. Peasley to be a
Russian. This one little experience rather discouraged our travelling
companion. He said it was foolish to waste important dialogue on a lot
of benighted ignorami who did not know their own language.
As a matter of fact, English carries the tourist everywhere in Egypt.
The American Mission School, supported by the Presbyterians, is a proud
local institution in each good-sized town. At every landing along the
river small boys from the mission schools would come down to the boat
to ask for English books. These requests were such a welcome variation
from the everlasting howl for "baksheesh" that the over-generous
passengers soon gave away all the reading matter on board and had
nothing left for themselves except Baedekers and time tables. I saw a
silver-haired old lady from Philadelphia give to a coal-black and
half-naked child of eight a volume of Browning's poems in paper cover.
The dusky infant clasped the book to his bare bosom and shouted his
thanks as the boat headed up stream, and the old lady was so gratified
and happy that she stood looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes and never
gave a thought as to what might happen to his intellect. At one town,
just as we were casting off, I threw an American magazine to a handsome
little tike who had been asking for English literature. It fell on the
dock, and twenty small boys began fighting for it and tearing it to
pieces. I never saw such a thirst for advertising matter.
Our voyage from Cairo to Luxor was punctuated with so many new
experiences that possibly it would be better to take them in order.
Egypt is the land of leisurely travel. If you look at the map the
distance from Cairo to Luxor seems only a good hop, skip, and jump. It
is 458 miles by rail and the lightning express does it in fifteen
hours, the same being considered a record performance. Our boat left
Cairo one Friday afternoon and arrived at Luxor the following Thursday
morning. We chugged slowly against the current all the way, tying up
every night and getting away before daybreak next morning. Several
times we changed pilots. The Nile pilot is usually a grizzled old
sheikh with the doubtful combination of a department store spring
overcoat and a red fez. He stands at the wheel bossing the crew while
the ostensible captain or manager, who is a budding European in a neat
uniform, has nothing much to do except circulate on the upper deck and
pour tea for a little cluster of intellectual giantesses from England.
Two sailors stand well forward on the lower deck, one on each side,
jabbing at the river with poles in order to get the depth of the
channel. If the boat runs into water less than six inches deep they
become alarmed and start to yelp. Occasionally the gallant craft
strikes a bar and comes to a tired pause, whereupon all the passengers
say "Mgh!" and lurch out of their camp stools. Then there is a little
welcome excitement and the natives of the crew run around in circles
and call upon Allah for temporary assistance. With much grunting, both
by the boat and the men at the poles, the good Hatasoo backs out of the
mud and takes a fresh start, zigzagging through the shallows until deep
water is found--that is, a depth of anywhere from three to four feet.
The Nile is just as finical and unreliable as a Missouri or
Mississippi, the tortuous channel constantly shifting, and the pilot
needs to be an expert with a memory like an encyclopaedia. Fortunately
there are no snags. Wood is about the most precious commodity in
Egypt, and all the snags were fished out and utilised some two thousand
years before we happened along. Although our voyage lasted five full
days we went ashore only three times. As I have already explained, the
traveller need not leave the Nile steamer in order to see nearly
everything that is happening in Egypt. Leaving Cairo late on Friday
afternoon, we made two stops on Saturday to discharge freight and take
on natives. Many of the women came aboard closely veiled and were at
once secreted in a canvas compartment on the lower deck. These
precautions seemed to be needless. Two adjectives will best describe
the pride of the harem--shabby and flabby. Unless you wish to lose all
enthusiasm for the Arabian Nights, keep away from Egypt.
Sunday.--Arriving at Beni Hassan at ten o'clock we went ashore and
climbed on midget donkeys and rode away to explore the rock tombs.
Beni Hassan has been for several centuries the home of an obstreperous
breed of cutthroats. Repeated attempts have been made to exterminate
or scatter the tribe, but it is still in existence, although somewhat
subdued. The government keeps a guard of soldiers at the town, and
when we landed we found ourselves surrounded by the military, while the
natives stood back of the dead-line and gazed at us hungrily. There we
began to get close glimpses of the domestic life of the plain people.
A mud wall enclosure with a hut at one end. Within this squalid pen,
women in bedraggled black gowns, children in semi-attire and closely
attended by swarms of flies, two or three emaciated goats, a few
chickens, and a somnolent burro. At present the live stock and the
Egyptians live on terms of democratic equality, but since the English
have introduced the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals it
is hoped that the situation will be remedied.
On Monday, at two o'clock, we landed at Assiut, after passing through
the locks of the first big barrage or dam built under British direction
and intended to regulate the water level of the lower Nile and the
delta during the dry season. Assiut is a big town with some showy
buildings, an attractive bazaar, and a guide who represents the
thirty-third degree of scoundrelism. His name is Hassim. If you
should visit Assiut and wish to become acquainted with the very pink
and flower of villainy, hunt up Hassim. Perhaps it will be unnecessary
to hunt him up. He will be waiting for you, just as he was waiting for
us. When we went ashore we were attacked by a flying wedge of donkey
boys and carriage drivers, all shrieking like demons and kicking up
such clouds of dust as can be found only in a country where the showers
are a century apart. By striking out right and left we held off our
assailants and succeeded in boarding a rickety victoria. When we
escaped from the clamour and the clouds of dust and took our bearings
Hassim was on the box alongside of the driver. He had attached himself
to us on his own invitation and we are glad that he did so, for he
proved to be a rascal of such inventive fancy and such unusual methods
of attack that our natural resentment was fairly lost in admiration.
He was tall and lean, with a stern and military countenance and one eye
set at an angle. His manner was imperious and from the moment when he
fastened himself upon us he was in absolute charge of the expedition.
"Fear not," he said, holding up his hand impressively, "I shall protect
you. You shall see the rock tombs and the grand view of the valley and
the great bazaar of Assiut and no one shall do you harm, for I am
Hassim, son of Abdalla."
This had a most assuring sound, so we made no resistance. For several
hours he marched ahead of us, proclaiming our social importance and
ordering people out of the way, and every ten minutes he led us into
some carefully concealed trap and tried to separate us from our
piasters. All the time he went through the motions of defending our
interests and fighting back those who would defraud us. For instance,
in the bazaar. In a thoughtless moment I had said that I wished to
purchase an ebony walking-stick. He led us to a dealer in
walking-sticks, and here the following drama was played for our
benefit:--
Hassim (to dealer)--This distinguished gentleman wishes to buy an ebony
walking-stick. Show him your best goods and let the price be fair or
never more shall I bring customers to your vile shop. (To the crowd
jostling in upon us)--Stand back! Do not crowd upon the honourable
gentlemen from America.
Dealer (showing an ebony stick with a badly carved handle of bone,
supposed to be ivory)--Ah, see! Yes! Verra good stick! Is it not?
Verra cheap.
I (looking at it coldly and shaking my head as if in disapproval)--How
much?
Dealer--Verra cheap--only twenty shilling.
Hassim--Wha-a-t! (He rushes upon the dealer, smites him on the chest
with his open hand and then tries to choke him). Oh, dog! Oh, unclean
animal! Twenty shilling! (To us) Come! Let us go away. He is bad
man. Come!
Dealer (entreatingly)--You make me offer. How much you give?
Hassim--Oh, child of darkness! Oh, crawling crocodile! You are trying
to cheat the high-born visitors.
Dealer (cringingly)--How much you give?
Hassim (to me)--Come, I will speak with you alone. (He leads me away
from the crowd and talks to me in a husky whisper.) This man is bad
man. Do not pay him twenty bob. No one is looking. You slip the
money to me and I will buy it for fifteen.
Now, fifteen shillings is $3.75 in real money, and the stick is worth a
dollar at the most extravagant valuation, so I say to Hassim, "Are you
in on this?"
He does not understand, but he looks at me as if hurt or disappointed,
and then says, "I try to get it for ten. Wait here."
Then I catch him by the slack of the blue gown and say that I will not
give ten. I authorise him to offer fifteen piasters--seventy-five
cents. He says it will be useless to offer such a small sum, as the
ivory comes from the elephant and hunters must search many days to find
the elephant and then carry the tusk forty-seven thousand miles across
the burning desert to sell it to the dealer in Assiut. So I tell him
to stand back and I will negotiate in my own behalf. So I break
through the crowd and offer three shillings. Derisive laughter by the
dealer, the crowd assisting. I offer four shillings. The dealer says,
"I am a ruined man, but no matter--take it along for eight." Then
Hassim elbows his way back to the scene of trouble and helps to
complicate matters. He curses the dealer in Arabic and says to me in a
side whisper that he has succeeded in buying the stick for seven
shillings. I offer five. To make a long story short, after using up
$8 worth of time and $52 worth of vocal energy, I buy the stick for six
shillings, and when I return to the boat the head steward exhibits one
just like it which he bought for two.
This farcical "grand stand" play was repeated every time we stopped to
purchase some trifling specimen of native junk. One of the best
performances of the afternoon involved a mysterious trip up a narrow
alley and into a tumbledown house, where Hassim exhibited to us four
squalling infants, attended by many flies and richly encrusted with the
soil of their native land. Although all four of the children seemed to
be of about the same age, he assured us that they belonged to him, and
we, being unfamiliar with the customs of Egypt, were not prepared to
contradict him. He said it was customary for visitors to give a small
present to each of the children, or, better still, we could give the
money to him and he would hand it to them later.
We shall remember Hassim. He surrounded his cheap trickeries with such
a glamour of Oriental ceremony and played his part with such a terrific
show of earnestness that he made the afternoon wholly enjoyable. When
we arrived at the landing he and the driver had a verbal war, and then
he took me aside for another heart to heart talk.
"The driver is a child of evil," said he. "I tremble with rage! He is
demanding fifty piasters. Do not pay him fifty. Give the money to me
and I will say to him, 'Take forty or nothing'!"
The driver's legal fare was twenty piasters. Finally we paid him
twenty-five. Everybody was satisfied. Then we paid Hassim for his
services and sent presents to his four simultaneous children, and the
last we saw of him he was making a bee-line for the bazaar to collect
his commissions.
The decorative tail piece to this chapter is my name in Arabic.
[Illustration: _My name in Arabic_]
IN LUXOR