DHAMAR TO SANAA.
Although the city of Dhamar boasts of a considerable antiquity, it
displays none of the more remarkable points of the interest of age, and
except that a large portion of the place is in bad repair, it might have
been built but a few years ago. There are no walls to the city, and
necessarily no gates. The absence of this has led the inhabitants to
extend the town in many directions, with the result that it occupies a
much larger space than would be necessary for the population it contains.
This, however, has not prevented the streets from occupying the narrow
limits the Oriental loves to give to the passer-by, and in the bazaars
especially only two or three people could possibly walk abreast.
Ibn Khaldun, in his geography of the Yemen, makes no mention of Dhamar,
but this can scarcely be looked upon as meaning that the town did not
exist in his day—in fact, it is more probable that his failing to notice
the place was due to an omission, as the neighbouring fortress of Hirran
is also left without mention, though from the remains existing there it
is very probable that it was a site and fortress of no little importance
in far earlier times than that of the native geographer; and El-Janadi,
in his account of “The Karmathians,” speaks of the capture of Hirran
by Ibn Fadl about the year 293 A.H., and as the fall of the fortress
was only one item of the leaders successful march to Sanaa, it is very
probable that the event was considered one of no little importance.
Several of the other early Arab historians make direct mention of Dhamar
itself.
[Illustration: ROUTE MAP—DHAMAR TO SANAA
BY W. B. HARRIS
W. & A. K. Johnston. Edinburgh & London.]
A few hours after my arrival in the city I sauntered out with Saïd to the
bazaars, to purchase a few little luxuries in the way of food and fruit,
for so far we had lived during our journey upon the bare necessities of
life. Although at times a considerable crowd thronged us, we found the
people extremely polite, and what little inconvenience we were put to was
owing entirely to the curiosity of the inhabitants. The bazaars boast
but little beyond their natural picturesqueness, which in many places is
most noticeable. The shops are the usual little one-storeyed box-like
dens of the Eastern world, and the trades are divided up into separate
streets and quarters. Here, as elsewhere, the Jews have an entirely
separate town, situated to the east of the city, from which it is divided
by a large open space. Near this great square is the principal mosque
of the town, a walled enclosure, with three large gates facing the city,
and a handsome, though damaged, minaret. In one respect, however, it
is in better order than that of another of the mosques, for it still
maintains its upright position, whereas the other is sadly out of the
perpendicular, owing to its having been struck by a cannon-ball. A third
mosque of considerable size is within the bazaars, but none of them
possess much claim to architectural beauty, being built in the simple and
undecorative Arab style, native cement and mud-bricks being the principal
materials used in their construction. Prettier, certainly, are one or two
of the Shereefian tombs, with their white domes and arcades of arches.
One of these, lying on the extreme south of the city, near where we had
entered the town, is realty charming, with a small garden in front of it
and a huge shady tree for the pilgrims to the sanctuary to rest under.
Near here, but standing separate from the town, we saw the ruins of the
Turkish barracks, which had been destroyed by the Arabs on their capture
of Dhamar from the Turks a few months before.
At sunset we returned to Saïd’s house to spend the evening in a family
party, the members of which varied between the ages of seventy or eighty
and grimy babies of a few months old. However, it was an insight into
Arab life, and was rendered by no means unamusing by Saïd’s wonderful
lies about Aden, his earthly paradise. He fairly took the breath away
from his relations with the startling untruths he told, but I scarcely
believe that they gave him credence; and probably had he kept to
the strict truth, and only told about the forts and troops and good
government there, they would equally have taken it for exaggeration.
Perhaps after all he pursued the best course, and possibly by knocking
off some ninety-nine per cent for the native love of story-telling, they
arrived at about the right result.
We were up with the sunrise, and enjoyed the luxuries of a Turkish bath.
Fortunately the windows to admit the light were very small, otherwise
we should, I think, have seen much that was not tempting; but one
forgot any possible disadvantages in the luxury of soap and hot water.
From the “hummum” we proceeded to a _café_ in the principal square,
and perching ourselves cross-legged under an awning in front of the
coffee-shop, joined in the swim of conversation over “hubble-bubble”
pipes. A handful of troops were drilling before us in the square, poor
dishevelled creatures, many without even a boot on their feet. There
were perhaps a hundred and fifty in all, and I was told that of the four
hundred who had been sent to garrison the place after Ahmed Feizi Pasha’s
successful relief of Sanaa two or three months before, these were all
that remained, sickness having carried off the rest—starvation probably.
The officers seemed as disheartened as the men, and appeared to lack all
interest in the drill. Many of the soldiers were smoking cigarettes,
but no one seemed to take any notice of it; and after an hour or so the
soldiers wandered off in different directions, without apparently being
dismissed. It was sad to see their poor wan faces, thinned and paled with
sickness and hunger.
Although crowds now and again collected round me, it was surprising how
polite every class of native was to me, and I do not once remember,
during all the time I was in the Yemen, except on one or two occasions
from the guards of my prison at Sanaa, a word of abuse. The Yemenis are
the aristocracy of Islam. Wild in appearance, their manners are perfect,
and though their nature now and again leads them to violence, they are as
a rule gentle and hospitable, and as my travels proceeded, the more I saw
of them, especially the inhabitants of the mountains and the plateau, the
more I liked them. Nor did I find any difference with the townspeople,
and many a kind word of welcome was said to me now and again.
Much as I wanted to push on to Sanaa, I had promised Saïd to stay three
days at his house at Dhamar, and to tell the truth, I was by no means
sorry of a pretext to rest in such comfortable quarters. Many a visit I
received there. I think that there could not have been a single Turkish
official in the town who did not at some time or another come and see
me, and although they seemed always to be suspicious as to the objects
of my travels, they were charmingly polite. Nor were the Turks my only
visitors, for many an Arab merchant in long robes of silk came and spent
an hour or so over coffee and tobacco, and on one occasion I was honoured
by the visit of a local Shereef, first cousin to Ahmed ed-Din, leader of
the late rebellion, but who, wisely, had not taken part on either side,
preferring before entering into the affair to see who was going to win.
Saïd’s people thought a great deal of the visit of this Shereef, and
personally I found him charming. He was a man of perhaps some thirty
years of age, extremely handsome and beautifully dressed. He seemed well
educated, and had travelled a little, and the hour he spent with me I
shall always remember with pleasure.
But of all the insights that I obtained into Arab life during my time
in the Yemen, the most interesting was the dinner-party given by Saïd
in my honour. About seven o’clock our guests commenced to arrive—and
what guests! The first to come were half-a-dozen Arab tribesmen, with
long wavy black hair and a scarcity of clothing—in fact, their entire
costume consisted of a turban and a dark loin-cloth, from the latter
of which appeared the handles of their silver daggers. Strange lithe
beautiful creatures they were, with limbs that would have been worth a
mint of money to an artist to paint from. A couple of merchants followed
a few minutes later, their servants carrying their silver hookahs.
Natives of the same country, it is extraordinary what a difference is
apparent between the townspeople and the tribesmen; and our merchant
friends were fat and heavy, boasting little of the grace of their wilder
countrymen, and in place of the scanty clothing, wrapped in long silk
garments of gaudy hues, and wearing white turbans on their heads. More
of the tribesmen followed, each as he entered placing his long spear
against the walls in the corners of the room, till the place wore quite
the appearance of an armoury. Then came the musicians, natives of the
Hadramaut, wilder and longer-haired than the Yemenis present, and
bearing, in place of spears, strange richly painted instruments. More and
more guests, until our room, big as it was, was filled.
What a night it was! One of those nights in a lifetime which can never
be forgotten. The cool dim light of the swinging alabaster lamps, the
flashing spears heaped together in the corners, the wonderful dark crowd
of swarthy men, the steam of the brewing coffee issuing from strange
jars, the rich dark carpets and gaudy cushions, the murmur and the
blue curling smoke of the pipes—ay, a dinner-party in Dhamar is worth
seeing! And then the soft music and singing of the musicians, whose tall
beautiful figures moved slowly here and there as they played strange
melodies! It seemed like some dream:—no wild African feast, merely the
echo of the long-past glories of Arabia!
Then they brought us great dishes heaped with food, for the most part our
old friend the antiquated goat, and we dipped our fingers into copper
bowls of rose-water and ate together. Then coffee and pipes, and the
bitter herb _kat_, and music and dancing. And the cool night air blew in
through the windows and sent the filmy smoke circling here and there, and
now and again ruffled the raven locks of one or other of our guests, who
lay recumbent and silent, expressionless and beautiful, listening to the
tales of love that our musicians, with strange monotonous dancing, sang
to the strains of their painted guitars. We were back again in the days
of Haroun el-Rashid, and all the hurry and scurry of modern life seemed
lost and gone.
At length I brought out my electric machine, and, the guests joining
hands, felt, for the first time in their lives, a shock. They smiled,
and asked for more. Then one was brave enough to hold the handles by
himself. I turned it on full, and fairly whizzed the wheels round. With
a scream the man jumped into the air, and then apologised. Silently, one
by one, our guests arose, and shaking me by the hand with the compliments
the Arab knows so well how to bestow, bade me good-night. Then, taking
their spears in their hands, they walked slowly to the door, until
fairly outside, when they flew down the stairs at a pace that was
positively dangerous, and from the window I could see them tearing down
the street at a break-neck run. Such was the effect of a small electric
machine at a Dhamar dinner-party. The following morning we paid a visit
to the tombs of the family of a Turkish general, Ahmed Rushti Pasha, who
had himself fallen near Lohaya in the beginning of the rebellion. The
enclosed garden, with its mosque and tombs, tells of a sad story, for
the family of Ahmed Rushti were assassinated by their house being blown
up with gunpowder some few years since. However, as the story is to be
found in the chapter on the Yemen rebellion, I shall not refer to it
more particularly here. The tombs are situated without the city, on the
west side. An acre or two of land are enclosed with high walls, in which
stands a summer-house, where the bereaved Pasha was wont to come and sit;
but this, like the tombs themselves, was sacked by the Arabs during the
rebellion, and little but the outside walls and the graves remain to-day.
Passing back through the town we visited the Jews’ quarter, which, unlike
the Moslem city, is walled, the gates being locked every night from the
outside. Miserable squalor and dirt existed on all sides, although the
Jews themselves seemed well to do, and their houses airy and large. They
are built almost entirely of mud-bricks, plastered inside and out. This
material forms a hard surface, and seems to be very durable.
[Illustration: _Hirran._]
Our last day was spent in visiting the old fortress of Hirran, lying a
mile or two to the north of Dhamar; and well worth the trouble and heat I
found the expedition, for Hirran boasts many antiquities. Passing through
the north quarter of Dhamar, one emerges into the dusty plateau, across
which the road continues for a couple of miles or so. Hirran is clearly
visible from Dhamar itself, the dark rocky hill standing out black
against the light soil. One reaches the place near the south-west point
of the jagged rock, where are some old tanks sunk in the solid stone, and
of very considerable size. Keeping still to the west side of the hill,
we shortly reached the scene of an old cemetery, the flat rock being
honeycombed with graves. These were often sunk to the depth of twenty
feet and more, and generally measured some seven feet in length, and two
to three in breadth, but one or two were circular. They did not point in
any direction, but lay scattered about the little elevated rocky flat in
which they were sunk, some east and west, some north and south. Besides
the empty ones, there were a great many visible which had apparently
escaped the hands of man, nor could I find out why or when those that had
been dug out had been spoiled. An old goatherd, the sole inhabitant of
Hirran, told me that he had always remembered them thus, and during his
lifetime had never seen any one digging in the graves, though lately
some of the larger cave-tombs further up the rock had been searched for
treasure, but only a few coins and beads, he said, had been found with
the bones.
[Illustration: _Cave-Tombs, Hirran._]
The hill of Hirran is double-peaked, each point rising to some hundreds
of feet above the level of the surrounding plain. These peaks lie almost
due north and south, the rock taking a curving form between them, so that
the whole forms a sort of crescent, which was formerly defended by a huge
wall, still remaining, joining the lower slopes of the two extremities on
the eastern side.
Like the graveyard, the cave-tombs are situated on the west side of the
hill, at a spot where the steep precipice, which rises to the summit, is
joined by the lower boulder-strewn slopes. Although we entered all of the
caves that are to-day open, there were signs of numerous others which the
collection of falling material from the precipice had so blocked that
considerable digging would be necessary to procure an entrance.
The first cave-tomb which I visited consisted of a circular chamber with
a domed roof; the room measured some twelve feet in diameter, and the
highest point of the roof was five feet eight inches from the floor.
To the left of the entrance was an alcove three feet deep, three high,
and four in length. The door was three feet wide and over five feet in
height, but the walls were lower in the chamber.
[Illustration: _Ground plan of Tomb III._]
A little higher up the side of the precipice we were able to gain
entrance to a second cave, which I call Cave II. This excavation formed
two oval chambers, partly divided from one another by a buttress running
out from the solid rock. On both sides of this partition, and on the main
walls facing it, were ledges cut in the rock three feet above the ground;
in the dust of one of which I found a few bones and an engraved bead.
[Illustration: _Interior of Tomb III., Hait Hirran._]
Cave No. III. was perhaps the most important I visited, and showed signs
of more careful excavation than any of the others. A doorway led one
into a circular chamber, off which to right and left two small rooms
opened out. This circular entrance-hall led, opposite the door, into a
still larger chamber, into which in turn opened two alcoves and a room,
all of them four-sided. On the left and immediately in front the doors
were raised above the ground and nearly square, the floor of the alcoves
being level with the lower part of the openings. On the right, however,
was a chamber level with the floor, entered through an archway. The two
alcoves showed evident signs of having at one time been closed up, for in
the lintels of rock were visible holes which may either have held a door
or been used for joists to strengthen any masonry which may have been
arranged to fill up the opening.
[Illustration: _Entrance to Tomb IV., Hait Hirran._]
Cave IV., again, to the south of the others, presented quite a new
feature, the face of the precipice being cut to form a large square
chamber, in the back wall of which a doorway opened into the tomb. Below
this window, a foot or two above the ground, ran a series of five holes
drilled a short way into the rock, and which seems at some time to have
held the supports of a platform or seat. Apparently the whole outer
chamber was lined with plaster, and may have been once separated from the
face of the precipice by masonry. The window or aperture opening into the
tomb was situated three feet from the ground, and was two and a half feet
in height and two feet three inches in breadth. The interior consisted of
an alcove six feet in length, two feet wide, and three in height. Here,
as in Cave No. III., I found bones amongst the accumulation of dust, but
nothing else.
The fifth cave consisted of one large room, some sixteen feet by eight,
at each end of which were ledges in the rock eight feet long by eighteen
inches wide. The door leading into this cave-tomb was three feet six
inches wide, and the roof inside five feet in height. The rock here was
strewn with small chips of rock, and I found no signs of bones.
All these caves showed signs of having been opened, and my old guide the
goatherd said that such was the case. Asking him how Moslems reconciled
themselves to breaking open tombs, he replied that they were the tombs of
“unbelievers,” and that had they been Mahammedan graves no one would have
dared to have touched them. This he exemplified to me by pointing out
some tombs on the summit of the rock, in which Moslems are supposed to be
buried, and it was quite apparent they had been left untouched.
Following the hill to its southernmost extremity, I climbed by a
difficult ascent to a tank cut in the rock where water was formerly
collected. To reach this spot, so difficult and slippery was the path, I
had to go barefooted, a by no means pleasant task, as the stones were so
hot as to blister my feet. Descending again, we proceeded to the site of
the former “fortress,” formed by the two eastern points of the hill being
joined by a great wall. This, however, showed signs of early Arab work,
being built of the peculiar cement which is typical of Arab construction.
This wall is of enormous height and width, being some hundred and fifty
yards long and twenty feet high, and one could drive a carriage and pair
anywhere on its summit. The only one dating from Arab times that I have
seen to equal it in size is the great wall attributed to Mulai Ismail at
Mequinez in Morocco. Within the wall is a deep well, the upper portion
of which is built, the lower part sunk into the solid rock. Above the
northern end of the great wall are a series of three tanks, reached by a
roughly cut stairway. Still ascending, one arrives at the summit, where
are the five Moslem tombs I alluded to, enclosed in low stone walls, and
the remains of much old building, of which it is difficult to gather any
distinct idea, to such a state of ruin has it fallen. At all events,
the enormous amount of broken pottery, some of gorgeous colour and fine
design, speaks to the size of the place.
From the summit one gains a fine view of the surrounding country,—a great
flat plain broken by ridges of dark volcanic rock, like that on which we
were standing, until in the far east a tall range of mountains appeared
on the horizon. Below us to the south lay Dhamar, almost as yellow as
the plain itself, for there is but little green in its neighbourhood,
although it is said that in the rainy season the whole country entirely
changes its aspect. To the east of Hirran, and immediately below it,
lie the remains of an old city, the loose stone walls of the houses
still standing to the height of a few feet above the ground. Altogether
the place must have been one of great importance in early times, and
I regretted much that I was unable in my hasty visit to find any
inscriptions. However, I was able to take the notes given above before a
mounted Turkish soldier appeared on the scene, sent by the Kaimakam to
watch my movements, and who begged me politely to return. Fearing that
any suspicion on the part of the Governor toward myself might prevent my
continuing my journey to Sanaa, I stated my readiness to comply with his
request, and bidding adieu to the old goatherd, once more mounted my mule
and returned to the town.
I was able to learn but little about Hirran in Dhamar, or in fact
anywhere, except that it was once the centre of a great trade, a sort of
caravanserai for the goods of Sanaa and the north, the kingdom of Saba
or Sheba, and Aden. This is the only early tradition the natives seem to
have concerning its former wealth and its being a centre of trade in very
early times, and this tradition has led me to a conjecture—it is nothing
more—that Hirran may be the site of the Haran of the Old Testament.
The places mentioned in the same verse are, I believe, all in Southern
Arabia, and have all been recognised, Haran alone remaining undiscovered.
It is more than possible, judging from the similarity of names and the
report of its former importance in trade, that they may be one and the
same place.[40]
During the afternoon I paid a farewell visit to the Kaimakam, which was
returned an hour later, when he promised me a couple of soldiers to see
me safely to Sanaa.
The following morning we left Dhamar. There was, of course, a great
leave-taking of Saïd, and just as they had done on our arrival, a long
string of relations, illustrating all the seven ages of man, with many
of the intermediary gaps filled in, streamed out of the house to bid him
farewell. Good simple people they were, though the younger members of the
family, when away from their parents’ eyes, were importunate in their
demands for _bakshish_. The road led us to the west of Hirran, close to
the large tanks I mentioned as having seen on my ride to that place, and
then on over the dreary plain. Leaving the large-walled village of Jaffa
to our left for a time, we saw but little signs of life.
The early morning effect upon the flat plateau was one of great beauty,
in spite of its dry arid appearance. A dull warm haze hung over the
more distant desert, for such it really was at this period of the
year, through which the far-away mountains shimmered in the heat,
turquoise-blue in colour. As we proceeded the cultivated land became very
sparse, the soil for the most part consisting of sand and stones, until,
passing through a narrow gorge of rock, we entered a great circular plain
enclosed by low rocky hills on all sides, no doubt the crater of some
long-extinct volcano. From this point one catches a glimpse of Jibel
Doran, a range of mountains of great elevation, which terminate in a
strange sugar-loaf peak, unequalled in curious form by any I have seen
elsewhere in the world, with the exception perhaps of “The Needle of
Heaven” in the I-chang gorge of the Yangtze-Kiang, some eleven hundred
miles up that river.
[Illustration: JIBEL DORAN—EARLY MORNING.]
At a small _café_—half a cave, and half built of rough stones—we spent an
hour or two during the hottest part of the day. Quite a number of men and
camels had arrived before us, and in spite of the fact that scarcely a
blade of anything green was to be seen, the surroundings were by no means
unpicturesque. Joining in with the caravan-men, a cool corner was found
for me in the cave, and our mid-day rest passed quickly and pleasantly
enough. Far above us, perched on the summit of a hill, was the large
village of Athaik, its tall towers dominating the surrounding plain and
giving the place the appearance of some old feudal castle. A descent led
us to a slightly lower portion of the plain. The soil here was richer,
but I noticed that there was no cultivation, a fact that was explained
to me to be owing to the rebellion, which had deterred any investment in
crops that were bound to fall a prey either to the Turks or independent
robbers. To our left we could see the walled town of Resaaba, but wishing
to push on to Sanaa, and as it did not lie in our road, I did not visit
it. There is but little of interest, I was told, to be seen within its
walls. It is, in fact, rather a very large village than a town, and
bears all the characteristics of the villages of the Yemen plateau.
Again, another reason deterred me from penetrating there; that I felt it
advisable to give as wide a berth as possible to any places where I might
be likely to run up against Turks and Turkish authorities. To have so
nearly reached Sanaa, and then be turned back, would indeed have been a
disappointment.
Several times along the road we passed the deep rock-cut tanks that even
to-day form the water-supply of the passing caravans. One that we stopped
to drink at as evening was approaching bore rough designs of men on
horseback, and inscriptions in the Himyaric language cut in the plaster
that lined the rock walls. Like so many of these tanks, a flight of steps
led to the water’s edge, at the summit of which was a smaller pool, to be
filled by hand for the beasts of burden to drink from, and, like the main
reservoir, circular in form. The mountains we had seen all the afternoon
far ahead of us were now growing nearer, and as evening drew on we found
ourselves in a large open valley, semicircular in form, and closed at the
far end by steep broken crags. The soil here was well cultivated, though,
as we were still nearly nine thousand feet above the sea-level, the
young crops had not yet begun to show, and the place looked dreary and
burnt up. That the soil must repay cultivation is evident from the great
number of wells distributed over the country. At many of these, men,
women, and camels were engaged in drawing water. A couple of tree-trunks
form uprights to a beam laid across their tops, over which the rope
that supports the skins in which the water is raised passes. At the
other end of the rope, men, women, or some beast of burden is harnessed.
Owing to the great depth of these wells, and the size of the skins used
as buckets, the weight to be raised is very great, and the labour of
raising it proportionately so. But the natives have discovered a means by
which the work is lessened, while at the same time their irrigation is
rendered more practicable—namely, by building the wells upon the summits
of mounds. A long sloping path leads from the high mouth of the well to
the level of the surrounding fields, so that the drawer, harnessed to
the end of the rope, is assisted by the centre of gravity, instead of
being dependent upon his, her, or its personal strength. This raising of
the wells above the fields also renders easy the carrying of the water
in little dikes to whatever spot it is needed. The skin, on reaching the
well’s mouth, empties itself into a trough from which the water pours
into the irrigating channels. The fact that these channels consist of
only small ditches adds much to the toil and labour, as the thirsty soil
sucks up a large quantity of the fluid before it reaches its destination.
However, labour is cheap, and a man, so long as he possesses a donkey, a
camel, or a wife to work his well, can sit and smoke and look on himself.
At length we drew up at the village khan of Maaber, our resting-place,
and climbing a rough outside staircase, found ourselves in a clean
whitewashed room, cool and airy, where our carpets were quickly spread
and coffee on the boil. The people were very inquisitive, and at last I
was obliged to give peremptory orders that no one was to be allowed to
enter my room. But this did not seem to be of much avail, and eventually
I posted a guard outside the door, armed with a long stick. The village
is a poor enough place, built of mud-bricks, with a little stone masonry
showing here and there. The people seemed poor and dirty, and there
was little or nothing of interest to be seen. Very different are these
villages of the plateau to the well-built and fortified towers of the
country we had passed through to the south of Yerim, nor were the people
of this part half so clean or genial or handsome as the wild mountaineers.
Early the next morning we were on our way again, the road continuing over
the dusty plain. A mile or two from Maaber we witnessed some skirmishing
between the Turkish troops and the hillmen of Jibel Anis, one of the
last tribes to hold out, and one that probably will never surrender to
the Turkish Government. The country inhabited by this tribe consists of
wild inaccessible country, into which the Osmanli troops are powerless
to penetrate. The battle we witnessed was not apparently a very bloody
affair, for it consisted principally in a small field-battery of the
Turks firing into a few hill villages, from which a desultory and
ill-aimed fire was kept up by the Arabs. This was the first active sign
we had as yet seen of the rebellion; for although Turkish garrisons were
to be found in Dhamar and Yerim, their reconquest of these cities from
the Arabs had been accomplished almost without bloodshed. For a time we
stayed and watched the little battle, listening to the sharp cracking
of the rifles and the louder tones of the field-guns, until, as it was
apparent that the Turks had no idea of trying to climb to the villages
or the Arabs of descending to the level, we continued our journey. The
plain ends in an abrupt line of high rocky mountains, over which we
could see our path twisting and turning in serpentine coils. Entering
a narrow gorge, we passed close under the grandly situated village of
Kariat en-Negil, its every rock crowned by stone towers—a striking and
wild-looking place. Here it is that the old pilgrim-road from Aden and
the Hadramaut probably joins the track I had travelled on. We had left
the old road at Lahej, whence it continues _viâ_ Ibb, our route lying
more to the east. I have mentioned elsewhere this great pilgrim-track,
founded by Huseyn ibn Salaamah in the fifth century A.H., and there is no
further need of description here. Suffice it to say that at every night’s
_nzala_, or resting-place, was built a mosque, while tanks refreshed the
weary with water by the way.
[Illustration: KHADAR.]
A tremendous climb takes one to the summit of the pass, where there is
an old round tower, now used as a watch-house by the Turks. The path is
extremely steep, and, though roughly paved, so slippery that all riding
up was impossible, while the rarefied air made the climb by no means an
easy or a pleasant one. The summit I found by observation to lie nine
thousand one hundred feet above the sea-level, about eleven hundred feet
above the city of Dhamar.
A steep descent and an hour’s ride along a broken valley brought us to
the large village of Khadar, where we rested for an hour over pipes
and coffee. The place is a picturesque one, though greatly lacking in
vegetation. The upper portion of the village is situated on the summit of
a precipitous hill, and is walled, while every available peak holds the
usual tower-house. The few buildings that stand near the road are for the
most part caravanserais and _cafés_. The inhabitants are almost entirely
Jews, who, like certain tribes of their co-religionists that I have seen
in the Atlas Mountains, are cultivators of the soil and agriculturists. A
small mosque, the only whitewashed building in the place, shows, however,
that there must be some Moslem inhabitants in Khadar.
A wild group were seated at the door of one of the _cafés_, Arabs and
camels from Mareb, whence they were bringing salt. Our mutual curiosity
in each other led to conversation, and I found them good fellows on the
whole, though rougher in manners than the Yemenis I had as yet come in
contact with.
Two hours after leaving Khadar we reached our night’s resting-place,
Waalan, the best-built village we had as yet come across. The size and
solidity of the houses was astonishing; and when, on being led up a
staircase and along a wide passage into a beautifully clean room in
a handsome khan, the change from the quarters we had as yet found on
our journey in the other villages, almost took one’s breath away. Our
chamber, which commanded a fine view of several surrounding villages
through large windows opening down to the ground, was well whitewashed,
the doors and window-shutters being handsomely carved of polished dark
wood, and with a ceiling of the same material overhead. The change from
what we had been accustomed to was a most pleasant one, and we soon made
ourselves comfortable. A dear old lady, and a very tolerably clean one,
waited upon us, and insisted on cooking our dinner, a task usually shared
by Abdurrahman and Saïd—and very well she did it too.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM WAALAN.]
This appearance of cleanliness and civilisation was a sure sign that
we were nearing the capital, and I turned in to rest that night with a
feeling of satisfaction, for only a few hours’ ride lay between us and
Sanaa.
Four hours of heat along the valley of the Beni Matar, and we reached the
large village of Estaz, where we rested for an hour or two in a large but
dirty _café_. There is certainly but little to see in the place, though
Turkish soldiers were more common here than elsewhere, and the curiosity
of their officers would not allow of my being left undisturbed even for
the brief space of the hour or so we stayed there. They must needs come
and call and ask all sorts of absurd questions. Estaz, however, boasts
one superiority over much of the Yemen plateau, a river of running water
that flows by many channels through gardens, the greenness of which was
most pleasant after days of travelling over yellow plains.
Before mid-day we were off again, and turning a corner could see far away
across the level ground, shimmering white and yellow in the steaming
heat, the city of Sanaa.
With a thrill of satisfaction I urged my mule on to its quickest
paces, and a couple of hours later found us entering the city by an
old broken-down gateway, near which a company or two of troops were
drilling. Signs of the fighting were common enough. Some of the little
towers erected as forts by the Turks outside the walls were in ruins,
and half an hour earlier we had passed all that remained of the village
of Dar es-Salaam, the “house of peace”—ill-fitting name!—where the Arabs
had made their last strong stand against their Turkish enemy, and which
they only left when driven forth by the Turkish artillery playing upon
the houses of the village. Little remains to-day but broken walls and
tumble-down towers. In many places one could see exactly where the shot
had hit, and one tower was drilled through, the torn-up flooring and
rafters showing what havoc the ball had accomplished.
At length we were in Sanaa. The road had been a difficult and a
dangerous one, but this was all forgotten now. In spite of warnings and
repeated efforts to dissuade us from so rash an undertaking, we had been
successful, and it was with the keenest satisfaction, though not without
some doubts as to how I should be received, that I watched my little
caravan enter the city.
Passing through a narrow street with high houses on either hand, we drew
up at the door of a great caravanserai, a four-storeyed building of which
the rooms all looked out on to balconies overhanging a large _patio_. The
place was in wretched condition, and the ground-floor, which served as a
stable for camels, horses, mules, and donkeys, looked as though it had
never been cleaned out. Here I paid off my men, with the exception, of
course, of Abdurrahman and Saïd. I had made a bargain with a caravan-man
in Aden to send me through to Sanaa, and this bargain he had carried out
in every particular, in spite of all manner of dangers and difficulties;
and it was with much satisfaction that I paid the worthy fellows the
remaining half of the sum agreed upon at Aden, and sent them on their
way with more _bakshish_ than had probably ever been in their possession
before. Our parting was almost a sad one: from the day they had joined me
we had shared the same food and the same room at the khans, and though it
was under three weeks that they had been with me, I felt as though I had
known them ages, and shall always remember with pleasure the trustworthy
way in which they saw me through the country, and how, weary as they must
at times have been with the long marches, they maintained their tempers
throughout, and were always ready to do me some little service, however
far removed it might chance to be from the routine of their work.
A saunter through the bazaars brought us to the quarter in which
the Government buildings are situated, and in a few minutes more I
found myself in the residence of his Excellency Ahmed Feizi Pasha,
Governor-General of the Yemen and Commander of the Seventh Army Corps. I
was almost immediately ushered into the generals presence. He was seated
on a divan at the end of a handsome room, surrounded by quite a number
of his staff. His Excellency received me pleasantly, and after exchange
of salaams, a chair being fetched for me, he began to ask me what had
brought me there. I thereupon presented him with my passport, vizéd by
the Turkish Consul-General in London, and made out for the “Ottoman
Empire,” which had been issued to me by H.M. Foreign Office the day
before I left London to visit the Yemen. Being unable to read English,
Ahmed Feizi Pasha sent for an Armenian who spoke and read French, and the
wording of my passport was explained to him. Suddenly his Excellency’s
manner quite changed, and he became very red and irascible, asking all
sorts of absurd questions, which he did not give me time to answer.
First, I was not an Englishman at all; then I was an officer sent from
Aden to map out the country, and assist the Arabs in the rebellion;
until at last I almost became bewildered as to what I was, or rather
what the Pasha imagined me to be. Abdurrahman, good Moslem that he is,
was an Englishman in disguise. No Arab, the Pasha said, ever spoke Arabic
with such a foreign accent; and as to Morocco there was no such country,
and no such person as Mulai el-Hassan, its Sultan, for he knew well
enough that all North Africa was under the French. At length he insisted
on his saying the Mahammedan belief, to assure himself that he was in
truth a co-religionist. Abdurrahman’s indignation was intense, especially
as Saïd happened to be present; for with a true oriental love of
exaggeration the Moor had been telling the Yemeni wonderful tales of the
greatness and power of his country and its Sultan, and it pained him to
find that the Turkish Pasha had never heard of either, and Saïd’s smile
and look were anything but reassuring to his pride in his fatherland.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR BEING EXAMINED AND HIS PASSPORT READ IN THE
PRESENCE OF AHMED FEIZI PASHA, GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF THE YEMEN.]
At length, in a burst of anger, Ahmed Feizi called to a couple of
officers, and his remarks being translated to me by the Armenian, I
learned that I was to be kept in security for the present. A hand was
laid on my shoulder, and I was gently led away, leaving the handsome old
Pasha as scarlet as a tomato. In the large anteroom I was handed over
to a guard of four soldiers, who conducted me through the streets to a
guard-room, situated above the prison yard, where I was soon ensconced,
the door banged and locked, and a sentry posted on the outside. My
baggage, which I had left at the khan, was sent to me a little later.
Meanwhile, Abdurrahman and Saïd were strictly cross-examined by the
Governor-General, and as the account the first had to give of himself did
not seem satisfactory, he quickly followed me to jail. That Saïd was a
Yemeni there could be no doubt, but he suffered a like fate—I suppose for
keeping such bad company.
I spent five days in prison at Sanaa. The room was clean, and I was
decently treated, being only once roughly handled. Wishing to speak to an
officer in the courtyard, I proceeded to leave my room, the door of which
was kept open by day, when I was rudely pushed back by the sentry.
The first night I was allowed to sleep alone and in peace; but on the
succeeding three, two non-commissioned officers shared the chamber, dirty
things in uniforms, which wore the look of never having been taken off.
However, they were good-hearted fellows, and both spoke Arabic well.
[Illustration: _The Author in prison at Sanaa._]
My meals I was sent out to get for the first day; but after that, all
leaving the place was forbidden to me, except to take exercise in charge
of a guard of soldiers. On the whole I had little to complain of, except
that the water and sanitary arrangements were both very bad—so bad, in
fact, that on the last night I was taken with violent fever, as also
were Saïd and Abdurrahman, who by no means shared such good quarters
as I did, being housed in a large dirty room, where chained prisoners
were their companions. This, however, was changed on my representing
that both were suffering from fever to the Governor-General on my second
interview. On this occasion I found his Excellency more reasonable, and
once or twice he even laughed, being apparently much amused when I told
him how I had got over the frontier in the disguise of a Greek. But
the Pasha’s merriment did not bring about any change in my condition,
and I was taken back from his presence to the same prison as before.
I told him at this interview that one of my reasons for visiting the
country was to correspond for the ‘Times,’ and he thereupon entered into
a long political statement as to the rebellion and its reasons. His
Excellency asked me what we should do in India in a like circumstance,
and I replied that I thought the matter could be best solved by a total
disarmament of the Arabs. While agreeing with me, he acknowledged such a
task an impossibility with the troops under his command, and said he was
earnestly hoping for further reinforcements from Constantinople. From his
manner, and what I could gather about Ahmed Feizi Pasha, he seems to be
a man of great personal courage and perseverance, besides possessing an
extraordinary amount of diplomacy and skill in dealing with the Arabs,
learned, no doubt, during the time that he was Governor of Mecca; and
in spite of the fact that he saw right to put me in prison, I cannot
but admire the thorough character which the general seems to possess.
His surroundings showed that here, at least, some regard was shown for
the common soldiers, and all wore boots, not to say fezzes. Here, too,
their uniforms were not in rags, nor did they seem to be on the eve of
starvation. There seemed, too, in Sanaa, more organisation than I had
seen elsewhere. I asked the Pasha why I was kept in prison, and he
replied that my presence was not entirely satisfactory, and that he had
ordered me to be lodged in the guard-room lest the Arab population might
do me harm.
I can quite imagine that to the jealous Turk the unexpected arrival of
an Englishman was by no means a pleasant surprise. Up to this time all
truth concerning the rebellion had been withheld, and the sole matter
that the press had been able to obtain was from official sources at
Constantinople. Therefore any chance of the truth leaking out, and the
general public being made aware how very nearly the Osmanli Government
had lost the southernmost of its Arabian possessions, would prove far
from acceptable to the authorities. On this account Ahmed Feizi’s bearing
toward myself is explicable, nor do I complain very much of it. Not so,
however, with the action of H.M. late Secretary of Foreign Affairs, who
laid all the blame of my imprisonment upon myself, and entirely ignored
the fact that my passport,—demanding that I should be allowed to pass
without let or hindrance, and that I should be afforded every assistance
and protection of which I might stand in need in the Ottoman Empire,
and which had been vizéd by the Turkish Consul-General in London,—bore
his own signature, which, if it were not lithographed, might have been
worth the sum paid for the document that bore it, as an autograph, but
was certainly entirely useless for the purpose for which it was supposed
to be affixed. Although I made my journey through the Yemen with the
knowledge and consent of the late Sir William White, then H.M. Ambassador
at Constantinople, I was informed, in one of those elegant despatches
of the Foreign Office, that I had entered the Yemen on entirely my own
responsibility, and must bear the results of my actions myself! and
that if the Turkish Government saw right to put me in prison and give
me such bad water to drink that fever was the result, they really could
not hold any one responsible for it beyond my own person. My question
as to whether the wording of my passport was of any value, or merely a
form that meant nothing, they entirely ignored, and to this day I have
been unable to obtain a reply. Suffice it to say that with all its seals
and titles and stamps, a British passport does not seem to be of much
value in the Ottoman Empire; nor when it is absolutely disregarded is any
one blamed by the Foreign Office except the unoffending bearer, who may
have been so dazzled by its splendour as to believe that it might be of
service to him. However, what with making treaties and doing their duty
in society, it can be easily understood that the time of the officials
is too much occupied to attend to such an unimportant question as the
imprisonment of an Englishman, even though by such an occurrence every
word and sentence of a paper to which H.M. Secretary of State appends his
signature is disregarded and abused.