AFTER lunch—and the tea that followed—we started off to pay
a visit to Sheykh Mohammed el Mawhub, the representative of the
Senussi in the oasis, at his _zawia_ (monastery) close to the town.
His history is interesting, as throwing some light on the methods
of the Senussi sect. He was born somewhere between 1840 and 1850,
at Jalo, in Tripoli, and early in life became a member of the
Senussia. While still quite a young man, probably under thirty, he
was sent by the head Senussi sheykh to try to convert the inhabitants
of Dakhla Oasis.
He arrived with practically no possessions beyond the clothes he
stood up in, and began to expound the doctrines of his order to the
inhabitants. He soon succeeded in collecting a following, upon whom,
after the manner of his kind, he lived.
His next step was to apply to the authorities in the oasis for a
permit to sink a well, and, having obtained it, asked his followers
to help him in the work. The first well he sank—Bir Sheykh
Mohammed—lies some four miles to the west of the village of Qasr
Dakhl, and, when sunk, turned out to be an extremely good one. Soon
afterwards, he sank a second well—Bir el Jebel—rather nearer to
the village, which proved to be an even better one than Bir Sheykh
Mohammed. This well was also sunk mainly by voluntary labour. The two
wells together irrigated a considerable area. Close to them _ezbas_
(farms) were built, which were inhabited by Sheykh Mohammed’s
sons. These farms being on the road from Dakhla to Kufara, the
headquarters of the Senussi, and well removed from the village,
without any of the ordinary _fellahin_ of the oasis near them,
enabled the Mawhubs to come and go to Kufara, a journey always
conducted by them with a considerable amount of mystery, without
fear of being observed by the other natives of the oasis.
While the property round these wells was being developed, the building
of his _zawia_ was also being proceeded with. This also was largely
carried on by voluntary workers, not only from the members of his
sect, but also from other villages, who, without actually belonging
to the community, were sympathetic towards it and considered it a
pious act to assist in the building of a religious edifice to be
devoted to the service of Allah. Later on other wells were sunk.
The _zawia_ consisted of a courtyard surrounded by a very high wall
of mud bricks that was not even plastered. The whole building had no
pretensions to any architectural beauty. I glanced into the court
through the door as we passed it. A man, sitting on the floor of a
small room opening out of it close to the entrance, and three small
boys he was teaching, were the only inhabitants to be seen.
Sheykh Mawhub’s house was of the same simple character as the rest
of his _zawia_. We were led up into a guest chamber of the usual type,
with settees round the walls, and were left for some time to our own
devices. After about ten minutes’ waiting a Sheykh Ibrahim—whom
I recognised as the schoolmaster I had seen in the courtyard of the
_zawia_—came in and announced that tea was coming shortly, and that
Sheykh Mawhub himself would follow it—he evidently considered this
a mark of considerable condescension on the part of the sheykh.
Tea in due course appeared, and Sheykh Ibrahim, having seen that
we had all been duly served, departed and another interminable
delay occurred.
At length we heard sounds of slow shuffling footsteps, punctuated
by halts and questions and answers in a low voice in the distance,
and the _mamur_ whispered to me that he thought it must be Sheykh
Mawhub who was coming. He seemed to stand rather in awe of him.
The sheykh himself at last appeared in the doorway, respectfully—it
would hardly be too much to say reverently—supported by Sheykh
Ibrahim. He seemed to be in the last stage of nervousness. He just
touched hands with us in an almost lifeless manner, and then, still
supported by Sheykh Ibrahim, sat down huddled up on a settee in the
far corner of the room, being tenderly tucked into his place by the
attendant sheykh. Hardly had he settled himself into his corner than,
rather to my surprise, Qway came in, just spoke to him casually and
then went and sat down as near as possible to the tea. It was evident
that Sheykh Mawhub was the friend that Qway had asked leave to visit,
and that he had already seen him, as the usual greetings were omitted
on his entry.
A very resplendent young man followed close on Qway’s heels, went up
and kissed Sheykh Mawhub’s hand, and then immediately went out again
and stationed himself just opposite the door with his back to the wall
of the passage, where he remained watching the assembled guests. This
proved to be Sheykh Ahmed, the eldest son of Sheykh Mawhub.
It was noticeable that the native Government officials, who, while at
Rashida and during the journey through the oasis, had behaved in the
usual boisterous manner of their kind, laughing and chaffing each
other and perpetually bawling out orders, apparently for no other
object than to hear their own voices and assert their authority, were
all most subdued and almost timid in the presence of Sheykh Mawhub.
His stage management was excellent, and he was certainly rather an
impressive looking individual. Since his access of prosperity, and the
advent of his sons to manhood, he had led an extremely retired life
and become practically a recluse, seldom emerging from his _zawia_
or seeing anyone except his followers, leaving the management of his
property largely to his sons and the men, such as Sheykh Ibrahim,
who were attached to his _zawia_. It was popularly supposed that he
devoted his whole life to study, the affairs of the sect to which
he belonged and to his religious observances. It was probably this
method of life, combined with the influx of so many strangers,
that accounted for his obvious nervousness.
The old sheykh, from the time of his entry, entirely dominated the
meeting. His manner was so quiet and subdued as to be almost an
affectation. He spoke at first in such a low voice as to be scarcely
audible, and replied to the remarks of the officials as briefly
as possible.
The _mamur_ took it upon himself to explain to the sheykh that I
was going off to map the desert, and had been making enquiries about
Zerzura; so, as he had introduced the subject, I asked Sheykh Mawhub
if he had ever heard of the place. He thought for a moment, and then
said he had. It was an enchanted oasis, and all the inhabitants and
cattle had been turned into stone, and would only come to life when
someone had been sacrificed there.
He then for a few moments gazed out of the window at the sky with
the rapt expression of a stained-glass saint, and added in a tone of
dreamy reminiscence that a Greek had once tried to look for Zerzura,
but that he had not been able to find it, and had died of poison on
his way back to Europe. He then came down to earth again and glanced
at me in an absent-minded way; but I thought that I detected something
like a twinkle in his bleary eyes.
Afterwards we got on the subject of natural history. The sheykh woke
up and became interesting. I had a long conversation with him on a
variety of subjects. Towards the end he rather overcame his reserve
and seemed to be trying to please, for on my expressing regret that my
knowledge of his language was insufficient to enable me to converse
with him, except through an interpreter, he volunteered to teach me
Arabic, if I would come to his _zawia_.
I own I was tempted. The chance of completing my education
in a Senussi monastery was unique; but it would have been an
“eye-washy” sort of job, and I had other work to do—besides
I doubted his motives, so I declined. He seemed genuinely
disappointed. He had hoped, I suppose, to keep me learning Arabic
in his _zawia_, instead of going off to explore the Libyan Desert
that the Senussi looked upon as their private property.
After some further conversation, the sheykh invited us all to be his
guests for the night at the _ezba_ belonging to his son, Sheykh Ahmed.
Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_ lay some five miles to the west of the
_zawia_. The first part of the way was mainly over uncultivated
land. As soon as he was removed from the restraining influence of his
father’s presence, Sheykh Ahmed shook off his odour of sanctity
and appeared in his true character of a very cheery and slim young
scamp. He and his two brothers, Sheykhs Mohammed and ’Abd el
Wahad—both of whom joined us before reaching the _ezba_—had by
no means the reputation in the oasis for sanctity that their father
possessed. Sheykh Ahmed was reported to be an extremely slim fellow
to deal with, and, even among the natives, had the character of being
“the biggest liar in the oasis.” ’Abd el Wahad, the youngest
brother, was still in his ’teens, and had not then attracted the
gossip of the oasis. But Sheykh Mohammed was considered to be even
more tricky than his elder brother.
It was the old, old story; too much pious teaching in the youth is
apt to lead to a reaction later on. One meets clergymen’s sons,
for instance, who are famous for many things, but excessive piety
is seldom one of them. History being based on human nature is
proverbially apt to repeat itself, and those _in loco parentis_
would, I fancy, always do well to remember that Robert the Devil
was the son of Richard the Good—he frequently is!
Old Sheykh Mawhub’s religion was obviously a very real and
genuine thing, but that of his sons was, from all I heard and saw,
largely a matter of conforming to the outward formalities of their
order. But the prestige of the sect they belonged to was so great
that, with the simple inhabitants of the oasis, their backslidings
were overlooked, and almost regarded as one of the privileges of
their holy character. In North Africa it is only necessary to label
yourself as a holy man, to say enough prayers and fast occasionally,
and you can do pretty much what you like in the meantime.
A ride of something over an hour brought us, just as the sun was
setting, to Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_. His guest house, like that of
the _’omda_ of Rashida, was built on to his private dwelling, where
his wives and family lived. The house, and its guest house, were
surrounded by a series of open yards forming the farm buildings,
and used as places in which to house the stock at night, as
threshing-floors and so on.
[Illustration: A TEA PARTY IN DAKHLA OASIS.
Enormous quantities of very strong tea are drunk by the natives,
the making of which is a regular ceremony. Note the large copper
urn on the left. (p. 39).]
The guest chamber was a long narrow room about twenty-five feet from
east to west by twelve from north to south. Two windows and the door
opened on to a kind of terrace, while on the opposite side three
windows looked out, to the north, on to a garden, in which was the
well that watered the _ezba_, and where a number of palms and other
fruit trees were planted, over the tops of which could be seen the
cliff bounding the oasis in the blue distance.
[Illustration: SHEYKH AHMED’S GUEST HOUSE.]
The windows were draped with red curtains, and a doorway, leading
into a small bedroom on the western end of the room was covered
by a pair of heavy and rather dusty velveteen curtains of the same
colour. The floor was carpeted, a few mats being placed here and there
over the carpet. The roof, which seemed to be built in the usual
way with palm trunk rafters supporting _jerids_ (palm leaf stems),
was covered with a thin coating of plaster, whitewashed like the
walls and painted with broad red stripes—a form of decoration
which, though roughly executed, was both effective and tasteful,
and, taken with the subdued hues of the rugs on the floor, formed
a colour scheme of which a European artist need not have been ashamed.
Knowing the reputation that the Senussi bear for leading the
simple life, and their supposed aversion to adopting any European
innovations, the contents of the room filled me with complete
surprise.
On a plate by an open window, so as to be in the draught, stood the
inevitable _gula_—a porous terra-cotta bottle for cooling water,
to be found in every native’s house in Egypt. Nailed to the wall
were circular paper fans of Japanese make and two or three of a
curious hatchet shape, ornamented with bits of red cotton stuff,
such as are made in the oasis. A gaudy red and black print of Mecca
was nailed to the wall opposite to the door, and a second long print
in silver on silk, which stretched nearly across the eastern wall,
showed another view of the same subject in villainous perspective,
together with some other scenes of Eastern towns that I was unable
to identify, the spaces between the views being filled up with texts
and Arabesque ornamentations.
The remainder of the furniture was pure European—a shelf, with
a mirror beneath it fixed to the wall, might have been bought in
Tottenham Court Road; a hammock chair and some of bent wood with
cane seats of the usual type, a couple of deal tables, on one of
which stood a nickel-plated paraffin lamp and a sparklet bottle,
and on the other a few books, an ordinary black japanned tray, with
a glass water bottle and tumblers, and a gramophone. On one side
of the gaudy print of the sacred Ka’aba at Mecca, was a coloured
oleograph of the Khedive, and on the other was one of King Edward VII!
Having seen us all settled comfortably in our places, Sheykh Ahmed
excused himself from attending on us any further, explaining that it
was time for the _maghrib_ prayer, and departed downstairs, where
shortly afterwards we heard him fervently leading the prayers in
the room beneath us.
Soon after he returned with a servant bringing the inevitable
tea. Having seen that we were all served, Sheykh Ahmed departed
again to change his clothes, and returned in a more gorgeous raiment
than before.
While waiting for dinner to appear, Sheykh Ahmed’s two
brothers—Sheykh Mohammed and Sheykh ’Abd el Wahad—came in,
went up and kissed his hand and then remained standing till he waved
them permission to sit down.
The Senussi—or the better class among them at any rate—keep up the
ceremonious manners of the old patriarchal system of the Arabs. Sheykh
Ahmed, for instance, would not even stay in the room with his father
in the _zawia_, much less sit down in it without his permission. His
younger brothers, in his own home, kissed his hand when they came
into the room and waited his permission to sit down. They stood
up whenever he did, and remained standing till he went out of the
room, or till he signed them to be seated. When Sheykh Mohammed,
the second brother, came in, the youngest, Sheykh ’Abd el Wahad,
at once stood up.
When dinner arrived the two younger brothers left, to go, I
understood, to Sheykh Mohammed’s _ezba_, which was not far from
that of Sheykh Ahmed. Sheykh Ahmed himself helped to lay the cloth. A
folding iron table was brought up to near where we were sitting, and
an enormous round tray in red enamel, having views of Switzerland in
panels all round it, was laid on the table. A cloth was spread over
it, and on this the dinner was laid. At nearly all the _’omdas’_
houses we stayed at we ate with our fingers in the native way; but
at Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_ we had nickel-plated spoons and forks,
plates, tumblers and knives with plated handles.
Sheykh Ahmed himself, in accordance with the strict Arab etiquette,
with his sleeves carefully rolled up to prevent them from being
soiled by coming in contact with the dishes, waited on his guests
at first—he was a good “bun hander”—and it was not till
I invited him to join us, that he took his seat at the table and
joined in the conversation. I was unfortunately unable to follow
a good deal that he said, as my Arabic at that time was not of the
best, but from the laughter that greeted many of his remarks, he was
clearly an amusing and witty talker. He joined freely in the chaff
of the Egyptian officials, and had evidently a gift of quick repartee.
The Mawhub family prided themselves upon keeping the best table in
the oasis, and the dinner that he provided for us was, without any
exception, the best meal I ever had the good fortune to take part in,
and I took a large part in it.
The _mamur_ was one that the Senussi hoped to convert to their
sect—if they had not already done so. Much of their influence in
Egypt was gained by this form of “pacific penetration.” Sheykh
Ahmed was no fool, and probably realised that the easiest road
to an Egyptian’s heart is through his tummy. He had accordingly
borrowed his father’s cook from the _zawia_ at Qasr Dakhl to do
honour to the occasion. This man was said in the oasis—probably
correctly—to have been at one time a chef to the Sultan of Turkey,
and Turkish cooking is probably the best in the world.
I do not know whether we in Europe borrowed our monastic system
from the Arabs, whether they got it from us, or whether we both got
it from some common source; but certainly there are a great many
points of resemblance between ours and theirs. The reputation for
“good living,” enjoyed by the monasteries of the Middle Ages in
Europe, when
“No baron or squire or knight of the shire
Lived half so well as a holy friar.”
has its exact counterpart in most of the Moslem monasteries at the
present day. That cook from _zawia_ of the Senussi sect—so famed
for their abstemious simple life!—in Qasr Dakhl, was a past-master
in his art, and that dinner must have been one of his finest efforts.
First arrived a large basin full of broth with two or three young
chickens that had been boiled in it. The broth was strongly flavoured
with lemon, which is an acquired taste.
Then came the _pièce de résistance_—a turkey. The police officer
who was sitting next to me, who was himself an excellent cook,
and quite knew what he was talking about, said it had been boiled
in milk and then buttered, covered over with some sort of paste and
put into the oven for a few minutes. It was stuffed with almonds,
rice, raisons and _ferikh_, a sort of pop-corn, made, I believe,
of green corn fried in butter. The stuffing had also some sort of
spice in it that I was not able to identify.
The meat seemed to have lost all its fibre and almost melted in
one’s mouth; the skin was crisp and tasted like pastry; the
stuffing—but to give an idea of what that stuffing was like is
beyond me—no one but a poet could describe it.
After the turkey came chickens, roasted and also stuffed. Rissoles,
flavoured with some delicious herbs, followed.
By the time the rissoles had been finished, I already felt that I had
done more than justice to Sheykh Ahmed’s hospitality, and that to
attempt to pay him any further compliments in this direction might
be attended by serious consequences. I hoped that the end of the
meal might be in sight. But not a bit of it.
“The hardships of the lonely white man in Africa” have often been
described, but they have never been really done justice to—they’re
frightful! After the rissoles came an endless succession of sweets,
made as only a Turkish cook can make them. A spongy kind of blancmange
eaten with jam. Jam-tarts—the jam being apparently made from
dates. Crisp, thin flakes of pastry, covered with whipped cream,
coloured pink and eaten with honey. A kind of very sweet nougat, also
eaten with cream, followed by unmistakable Turkish Delight, thickly
covered with powdered white sugar, which was infinitely superior to
the best “Rahat lakum” that could be bought even in Cairo—rahat
lakum, by the way, was a name that no one seemed to have even heard.
After dinner of course came tea, and following that _kerkadi_,
or Sudan tea—a drink made from the dried flowers of a plant that
grows somewhere in the Sudan.
The latter I had heard of in Egypt, but had never seen, so hearing
that Sheykh Ahmed had some, I asked for it. It is not only considered
by Moslems to be quite correct to ask your host to produce any little
thing in this way, but it is even considered as a compliment.
The _kerkadi_ was first made cold. A few flowers were dropped into a
tumbler and stirred round for a few minutes till a pale pink decoction
was produced, and then sugar was added to sweeten it.
When made in this way it produced a drink with a curious slightly
acid flavour, that would have been very pleasant and refreshing
on a hot day. It can also be drunk hot, in which case it is made
exactly in the same manner as ordinary tea. But it is not nearly so
good when made in this way, and when it has been left standing for
some time it takes a strong acrid flavour, that would not be likely
to appeal to European tastes. But as a cold drink it is surprising
that it is so little known.
The policeman told me in a whisper that the tea which preceded the
_kerkadi_ was of extremely fine quality, adding native-like that
Sheykh Ahmed must have paid a guinea a pound for it. He was very
likely correct, for this is by no means an unusual price for one of
the richer natives of the oasis to give for his favourite Persian tea.
When dinner and tea were over, and our cigarettes had been lighted,
the Coptic doctor took possession of the gramophone, and we were
regaled by Arab songs and tunes. Songs, band pieces and an occasional
recitation followed each other for about half an hour. At length
a very dreary tune was put on, and, as everybody voted it a bore,
Sheykh Ahmed went over to the pile of records and began sorting them
over, saying that he would find something better.
The record that he put on the machine proved to be a dialogue
between a man and his wife, who after a few sentences started to
quarrel violently, abusing each other and calling each other all
the filthy and disgusting names that even the Arabic language could
produce. This record evidently appealed to the audience, for they
fairly roared with laughter at some of the remarks. As soon as it
was finished and had been repeated, Sheykh Ahmed put on a song,
which I was quite unable to follow, but which, from the remarks of
the audience, must have been of an exceedingly racy character.
That gramophone was a great institution, but one that in my second
year in the desert nearly led to unpleasant complications. On my
return to Cairo, after my first season in the desert, I ordered half
a dozen records to be sent to Sheykh Ahmed as _bakhshish_—leaving
the choice of them to the shop assistant, as being more likely to
know what would appeal to native tastes.
I visited Sheykh Ahmed again during my second season, and the
gramophone was once more brought out and my records produced. Sheykh
Ahmed had kept them in a separate place from the others in his
collection, and I suspect had never put them on his gramophone
before. But he placed them, one by one, on his machine and sat over
it, beating time to the music, politely pretending to be thoroughly
enjoying them. From this I gathered that he was entirely unaware
of the nature of the music that his gramophone was producing—for
they were certainly not records that I should have selected to send
to a Senussi sheykh.
Some years later, owing to a slight difference of opinion with the
Government authorities, Sheykh Ahmed found it convenient to clear
out suddenly with his family and belongings to Kufara.
If some future visitor to that oasis should hear proceeding from a
native house a fine baritone voice, announcing that he will “sing
him songs of Araby and tales of fair Kashmir,” or a choir of voices,
accompanied by a brass band, exhorting him to further efforts by
the inspiring strains of “Onward, Christian soldiers! marching
as to war,” he will be able to locate Sheykh Ahmed’s house,
and will know where those records came from.
I called at the shop, when next I was in Cairo, to ask why records
so entirely inappropriate for a present to a Senussi sheykh had been
sent to him. During the course of a rather heart-to-heart talk on the
subject, the shop assistant explained that, as he had not expected
me to go out again to the oasis, he had chosen those records as
“a joke.” It certainly had a humorous side; the sight of that
unsuspecting Senussi sheykh politely beating time to “Onward,
Christian soldiers!” was quite worth seeing!
But to return to my first visit to Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_. When
that gramophone’s repertoire came to an end, a lengthy and serious
discussion took place as to whether our digestion of the dinner
was sufficiently far advanced to allow us to go to bed. Although it
was then past two o’clock in the morning, the conclusion that was
unanimously arrived at was that we should give our digestions some
further time to continue their work before we retired. The company
had evidently determined to make a night of it.
It was decided at first that we should have a little more music. The
policeman during the morning had manufactured a sort of penny
whistle out of a piece of cane. The _mamur_ got hold of an iron
tray, which he proceeded to use as a _tamtam_. The Coptic doctor,
having had the advantage of an education under European teachers
at the Qasr el ’Aini hospital in Cairo, was more civilised in
his choice of an instrument—he managed to get hold of a comb
from somewhere, and, with a piece of paper added, proved to be
a first-rate performer. Having thus improvised a jazz band, they
proceeded to make the night hideous by singing over again some of
the songs they had heard on the gramophone.
At length, tiring of that amusement, they proceeded to play a childish
game, in which one of them thought of something and the others, by
questioning him in turn, tried to find out what it was. This caused
considerable amusement, and the fun waxed fast and furious. The game
was evidently a popular one. But the things that that sanctimonious
Senussi sheykh thought of—well! they _were_ Eastern! so much so
that I eventually went to bed, and left them still playing—so
austere were the Senussi!
[Illustration: MAKING WOODEN PIPES.
These oases are irrigated by artesian wells of unknown antiquity,
they are all lined with wooden pipes. Similar wells are being sunk
to this day. (p. 312).]
[Illustration: A STREET IN RASHIDA.
Sometimes the upper stories of the houses are built over the streets
to keep the roadways cool in hot weather. (p. 49).]
After a somewhat disturbed night’s rest, I was aroused by a renewal
of the concert by the jazz band. Coming out of my room I found the
whole party in various stages of undress, sitting on the mattresses on
which they had spent the night, smoking cigarettes, singing, banging
trays and waiting the arrival of the barber to shave them. Sheykh
Ahmed, himself, was not to the fore, he had retired to his private
house for the night, and had not then put in an appearance.
The arrival of the barber and two servants with washing appliances
put an end to the pandemonium. The barber went the round of each of
the native guests in turn, shaving them and trimming their hair,
while the remainder washed their hands as the attendants poured
water over them. These preliminaries having been got through they
proceeded to dress.
Sheykh Ahmed, gorgeously arrayed as usual, soon came in from his
house, and proceeded with the help of the servants to lay the table
for breakfast.
The meal having been concluded, tea made its appearance, and this
having been consumed, we were taken by our host to see his well
and garden. In one of the small-walled enclosures built round
his house, he showed us his oven, round which were lying a number
of rough earthen plates, pots and basins. The oven itself was a
small beehive-shaped erection, slightly ornamented on the dome
with raised patterns, among which a device like an inverted Y was
conspicuous. This may possibly have been his _wasm_—tribal cattle
brand.
The Senussi sect itself has a _wasm_ of its own, consisting of the
word “Allah,” to show that the beasts and slaves branded with it
are consecrated to His Service. I have never seen any slaves marked
with this brand, but have often seen their camels, which had been
marked in this way. In each case, however, the word took the form
[Symbol]. This may have been due only to bad writing on the part
of the man who branded the beast, but it may also be a kind of
conventionalised form of the correctly written word.
Sheykh Ahmed’s two brothers arrived just before his house party
broke up. So when we had gone back to the guest chamber to pack our
belongings, I took the opportunity of photographing them together. I
afterwards tried to induce Sheykh Ahmed to be photographed in his
white praying clothes; but I made rather a _faux pas_ there. He
looked very angry for a moment, then stiffly replied that that was
impossible as it was _haram_—forbidden by his religion. But he
soon recovered his temper and was all smiles by the time we left.