CAIRO TO BEDRESHAYN.
A rapid raid into some of the nearest shops for things remembered at the
last moment--a breathless gathering up of innumerable parcels--a few
hurried farewells on the steps of the hotel--and away we rattle as fast
as a pair of raw-boned grays can carry us. For this morning every moment
is of value. We are already late; we expect visitors to luncheon on
board at midday; and we are to weigh anchor at two P.M. Hence our
anxiety to reach Boulak before the bridge is opened, that we may drive
across to the western bank, against which our dahabeeyah lies moored.
Hence, also, our mortification when we arrive just in time to see the
bridge swing apart and the first tall mast glide through.
Presently, however, when those on the look-out have observed our signals
of distress, a smart-looking sandal, or jolly-boat, decked with gay rugs
and cushions, manned by five smiling Arabs, and flying a bright little
new union jack, comes swiftly threading its way in and out among the
lumbering barges now crowding through the bridge. In a few more minutes
we are afloat. For this is our sandal and these are five of our crew;
and of the three dahabeeyahs moored over yonder in the shade of the
palms the biggest by far, and the trimmest, is our dear, memorable
Philæ.
Close behind the Philæ lies the Bagstones, a neat little dahabeeyah in
the occupation of two English ladies who chanced to cross with us in the
Simla from Brindisi, and of whom we have seen so much ever since that we
regard them by this time as quite old friends in a strange land. I will
call them the M. B.’s. The other boat, lying off a few yards ahead,
carries the tri-color, and is chartered by a party of French gentlemen.
All three are to sail to-day.
And now we are on board and have shaken hands with the captain and are
as busy as bees; for there are cabins to put in order, flowers to
arrange, and a hundred little things to be seen to before the guests
arrive. It is wonderful, however, what a few books and roses, an open
piano, and a sketch or two will do. In a few minutes the comfortless
hired look has vanished, and long enough before the first comers are
announced the Philæ wears an aspect as cozy and home-like as if she had
been occupied for a month.
As for the luncheon, it certainly surprised the givers of the
entertainment quite as much as it must have surprised their guests.
Being, no doubt, a pre-arranged display of professional pride on the
part of dragoman and cook, it was more like an excessive Christmas
dinner than a modest midday meal. We sat through it unflinchingly,
however, for about an hour and three quarters, when a startling
discharge of firearms sent us all running upon deck and created a
wholesome diversion in our favor. It was the French boat signaling her
departure, shaking out her big sail, and going off triumphantly.
I fear that we of the Bagstones and Philæ--being mere mortals and
Englishwomen--could not help feeling just a little spiteful when we
found the tri-color had started first; but then it was a consolation to
know that the Frenchmen were going only to Assuân. Such is the _esprit
du Nil_. The people in dahabeeyahs despise Cook’s tourists; those who
are bound for the second cataract look down with lofty compassion upon
those whose ambition extends only to the first; and travelers who engage
their boat by the month hold their heads a trifle higher than those who
contract for the trip. We, who were going as far as we liked and for as
long as we liked, could afford to be magnanimous. So we forgave the
Frenchmen, went down again to the saloon, and had coffee and music.
It was nearly three o’clock when our Cairo visitors wished us “bon
voyage” and good-by. Then the M. B.’s, who, with their nephew, had been
of the party, went back to their own boat; and both captains prepared to
sail at a given signal. For the M. B.’s had entered into a solemn
convention to start with us, moor with us, and keep with us, if
practicable, all the way up the river. It is pleasant now to remember
that this sociable compact, instead of falling through as such compacts
are wont to do, was quite literally carried out as far as Aboo Simbel;
that is to say, during a period of seven weeks’ hard going and for a
distance of upward of eight hundred miles.
At last all is ready. The awning that has all day roofed in the upper
deck is taken down; the captain stands at the head of the steps; the
steersman is at the helm; the dragoman has loaded his musket. Is the
Bagstones ready? We wave a handkerchief of inquiry--the signal is
answered--the mooring ropes are loosened--the sailors pole the boat off
from the bank--bang go the guns, six from the Philæ and six from the
Bagstones, and away we go, our huge sail filling as it takes the wind!
Happy are the Nile travelers who start thus with a fair breeze on a
brilliant afternoon. The good boat cleaves her way swiftly and steadily.
Water-side palaces and gardens glide by and are left behind. The domes
and minarets of Cairo drop quickly out of sight. The mosque of the
citadel and the ruined fort that looks down upon it from the mountain
ridge above diminish in the distance. The pyramids stand up sharp and
clear.
We sit on the high upper deck, which is furnished with lounge-chairs,
tables and foreign rugs, like a drawing-room in the open air, and enjoy
the prospect at our ease. The valley is wide here and the banks are
flat, showing a steep verge of crumbling alluvial mud next the river.
Long belts of palm groves, tracts of young corn only an inch or two
above the surface, and clusters of mud huts, relieved now and then by a
little whitewashed cupola or a stumpy minaret, succeed each other on
both sides of the river, while the horizon is bounded to right and left
by long ranges of yellow limestone mountains, in the folds of which
sleep inexpressibly tender shadows of pale violet and blue.
Thus the miles glide away, and by and by we approach Turra--a large,
new-looking mud village, and the first of any extent that we have yet
seen. Some of the houses are whitewashed; a few have glass windows, and
many seem to be unfinished. A space of white, stony, glaring plain
separates the village from the quarried mountains beyond, the flanks of
which show all gashed and hewn away. One great cliff seems to have been
cut sheer off for a distance of perhaps half a mile. Where the cuttings
are fresh the limestone comes out dazzling white and the long slopes of
débris heaped against the foot of the cliffs glisten like snow-drifts in
the sun. Yet the outer surface of the mountains is orange-tawny, like
the pyramids. As for the piles of rough hewn blocks that lie ranged
along the bank ready for transport, they look like salt rather than
stone. Here lies moored a whole fleet of cargo boats, laden and lading;
and along the tramway that extends from the river side to the quarries
we see long trains of mule-carts coming and going.
For all the new buildings in Cairo, the khedive’s palaces, the public
offices, the smart modern villas, the glaring new streets, the theaters
and foot pavements and cafés, all come from these mountains--just as the
pyramids did more than six thousand years ago. There are hieroglyphed
tablets and sculptured grottoes to be seen in the most ancient part of
the quarries, if one were inclined to stop for them at this early stage
of the journey; and Champollion tells of two magnificent outlines done
in red ink upon the living rock by some master hand of Pharaonic times,
the cutting of which was never even begun. A substantial new barrack and
an esplanade planted with sycamore figs bring the straggling village to
an end.
And now, as the afternoon wanes, we draw near to a dense, wide-spreading
forest of stately date-palms on the western bank, knowing that beyond
them, though unseen, lie the mounds of Memphis and all the wonders of
Sakkârah. Then the sun goes down behind the Libyan hills; and the palms
stand out black and bronzed against a golden sky; and the pyramids, left
far behind, look gray and ghostly in the distance.
Presently, when it is quite dusk and the stars are out, we moor for the
night at Bedreshayn, which is the nearest point for visiting Sakkârah.
There is a railway station here, and also a considerable village, both
lying back about half a mile from the river; and the distance from
Cairo, which is reckoned at fifteen miles by the line, is probably about
eighteen by water.
Such was our first day on the Nile. And perhaps, before going farther on
our way, I ought to describe the Philæ and introduce Reïs Hassan and his
crew.
A dahabeeyah, at the first glance, is more like a civic or an Oxford
University barge, than anything in the shape of a boat with which we in
England are familiar. It is shallow and flat-bottomed, and is adapted
for either sailing or rowing. It carries two masts; a big one near the
prow and a smaller one at the stern. The cabins are on deck and occupy
the after-part of the vessel; and the roof of the cabins forms the
raised deck, or open-air drawing-room already mentioned. This upper deck
is reached from the lower deck by two little flights of steps, and is
the exclusive territory of the passengers. The lower deck is the
territory of the crew. A dahabeeyah is, in fact, not very unlike the
Noah’s ark of our childhood, with this difference--the habitable part,
instead of occupying the middle of the vessel, is all at one end, top
heavy and many-windowed; while the fore-deck is not more than six feet
above the level of the water. The hold, however, is under the lower
deck, and so counterbalances the weight at the other end. Not to
multiply comparisons unnecessarily, I may say that a large dahabeeyah
reminds one of old pictures of the Bucentaur; especially when the men
are at their oars.
The kitchen--which is a mere shed like a Dutch oven in shape, and
contains only a charcoal stove and a row of stew-pans--stands between
the big mast and the prow, removed as far as possible from the
passengers’ cabins. In this position the cook is protected from a
favorable wind by his shed; but in the case of a contrary wind he is
screened by an awning. How, under even the most favorable circumstances,
these men can serve up the elaborate dinners which are the pride of a
Nile cook’s heart, is sufficiently wonderful; but how they achieve the
same results when wind-storms and sand-storms are blowing and every
breath is laden with the fine grit of the desert, is little short of
miraculous.
Thus far, all dahabeeyahs are alike. The cabin arrangements differ,
however, according to the size of the boat; and it must be remembered
that in describing the Philæ I describe a dahabeeyah of the largest
build--her total length from stem to stern being just one hundred feet,
and the width of her upper deck at the broadest part little short of
twenty.
Our floor being on a somewhat lower level than the men’s deck, we went
down three steps to the entrance door, on each side of which was an
external cupboard, one serving as a store-room and the other as a
pantry. This door led into a passage out of which opened four
sleeping-cabins, two on each side. These cabins measured about eight
feet in length by four and a half in width, and contained a bed, a
chair, a fixed washing-stand, a looking-glass against the wall, a shelf,
a row of hooks, and under each bed two large drawers for clothes. At the
end of this little passage another door opened into the dining-saloon--a
spacious, cheerful room, some twenty-three or twenty-four feet long,
situated in the widest part of the boat, and lighted by four windows on
each side and a skylight. The paneled walls and ceiling were painted in
white picked out with gold; a cushioned divan covered with a smart
woolen reps ran along each side; and a gay Brussels carpet adorned the
floor. The dining-table stood in the center of the room, and there was
ample space for a piano, two little book-cases, and several chairs. The
window-curtains and portières were of the same reps as the divan, the
prevailing colors being scarlet and orange. Add a couple of mirrors in
gilt frames; a vase of flowers on the table (for we were rarely without
flowers of some sort, even in Nubia, where our daily bouquet had to be
made with a few bean blossoms and castor-oil berries); plenty of books;
the gentlemen’s guns and sticks in one corner; and the hats of all the
party hanging in the spaces between the windows, and it will be easy to
realize the homely, habitable look of our general sitting-room.
Another door and passage opening from the upper end of the saloon led to
three more sleeping-rooms, two of which were single and one double; a
bath-room; a tiny back staircase leading to the upper deck; and the
stern-cabin saloon. This last, following the form of the stern, was
semicircular, lighted by eight windows, and surrounded by a divan. Under
this, as under the saloon divans, there ran a row of deep drawers,
which, being fairly divided, held our clothes, wine, and books. The
entire length of the dahabeeyah being exactly one hundred feet, I take
the cabin part to have occupied about fifty-six or fifty-seven feet
(that is to say, about six or seven feet over the exact half), and the
lower deck to have measured the remaining forty-three feet. But these
dimensions, being given from memory, are approximate.
For the crew there was no sleeping accommodation whatever, unless they
chose to creep into the hold among the luggage and packing-cases. But
this they never did. They just rolled themselves up at night, heads and
all, in rough brown blankets, and lay about the lower deck like dogs.
The reïs, or captain, the steersman, and twelve sailors, the dragoman,
head cook, assistant cook, two waiters, and the boy who cooked for the
crew, completed our equipment. Reïs Hassan--short, stern-looking,
authoritative--was a Cairo Arab. The dragoman, Elias Talhamy, was a
Syrian of Beyrout. The two waiters, Michael and Habîb, and the head cook
(a wizened old _cordon bleu_ named Hassan Bedawee) were also Syrians.
The steersman and five of the sailors were from Thebes; four belonged to
a place near Philæ; one came from a village opposite Kom Ombo; one from
Cairo, and two were Nubians from Assuân. They were of all shades, from
yellowish bronze to a hue not far removed from black; and though, at the
first mention of it, nothing more incongruous can well be imagined than
a sailor in petticoats and a turban, yet these men in their loose blue
gowns, bare feet, and white muslin turbans, looked not only picturesque
but dressed exactly as they should be. They were for the most part fine
young men, slender but powerful, square in the shoulders, like the
ancient Egyptian statues, with the same slight legs and long, flat feet.
More docile, active, good-tempered, friendly fellows never pulled an
oar. Simple and trustful as children, frugal as anchorites, they worked
cheerfully from sunrise to sunset, sometimes towing the dahabeeyah on a
rope all day long, like barge-horses; sometimes punting for hours, which
is the hardest work of all; yet always singing at their task, always
smiling when spoken to, and made as happy as princes with a handful of
coarse Egyptian tobacco, or a bundle of fresh sugar-canes bought for a
few pence by the river side. We soon came to know them all by
name--Mehemet Ali, Salame, Khalîfeh, Riskali, Hassan, Mûsa, and so on;
and as none of us ever went on shore without one or two of them to act
as guards and attendants, and as the poor fellows were constantly
getting bruised hands or feet and coming to the upper deck to be
doctored, a feeling of genuine friendliness was speedily established
between us.
The ordinary pay of a Nile sailor is two pounds a month, with an
additional allowance of about three and sixpence a month for flour.
Bread is their staple food, and they make it themselves at certain
places along the river where there are large public ovens for the
purpose. This bread, which is cut up in slices and dried in the sun, is
as brown as gingerbread and as hard as biscuit. They eat it soaked in
hot water, flavored with oil, pepper and salt, and stirred in with
boiled lentils till the whole becomes of the color, flavor, and
consistence of thick pea soup. Except on grand occasions, such as
Christmas day or the anniversary of the flight of the prophet, when the
passengers treat them to a sheep, this mess of bread and lentils, with a
little coffee twice a day, and now and then a handful of dates,
constitutes their only food throughout the journey.
The Nile season is the Nile sailors’ harvest time. When the warm weather
sets in and the travelers migrate with the swallows, these poor fellows
disperse in all directions; some to seek a living as porters in Cairo;
others to their homes in Middle and Upper Egypt, where, for about
four-pence a day, they take hire as laborers, or work at Shâdûf
irrigation till the Nile again overspreads the land. The Shâdûf work is
hard, and a man has to keep on for nine hours out of every twenty-four;
but he prefers it, for the most part, to employment in the government
sugar factories, where the wages average at about the same rate, but are
paid in bread, which, being doled out by unscrupulous inferiors, is too
often of light weight and bad quality. The sailors who succeed in
getting a berth on board a cargo-boat for the summer are the most
fortunate.
Our captain, pilot, and crew were all Mohammedans. The cook and his
assistant were Syrian Mohammedans. The dragoman and waiters were
Christians of the Syrian Latin church. Only one out of the fifteen
natives could write or read; and that one was a sailor named Egendi, who
acted as a sort of second mate. He used sometimes to write letters for
the others, holding a scrap of tumbled paper across the palm of his left
hand, and scrawling rude Arabic characters with a reed pen of his own
making. This Egendi, though perhaps the least interesting of the crew,
was a man of many accomplishments--an excellent comic actor, a bit of a
shoemaker, and a first-rate barber. More than once, when we happened to
be stationed far from any village, he shaved his messmates all round and
turned them out with heads as smooth as billiard balls.
There are, of course, good and bad Mohammedans as there are good and bad
churchmen of every denomination; and we had both sorts on board. Some of
the men were very devout, never failing to perform their ablutions and
say their prayers at sunrise and sunset. Others never dreamed of doing
so. Some would not touch wine--had never tasted it in their lives, and
would have suffered any extremity rather than break the law of their
prophet. Others had a nice taste in clarets and a delicate appreciation
of the respective merits of rum or whisky punch. It is, however, only
fair to add that we never gave them these things except on special
occasions, as on Christmas day, or when they had been wading in the
river, or in some other way undergoing extra fatigue in our service. Nor
do I believe there was a man on board who would have spent a para of his
scanty earnings on any drink stronger than coffee. Coffee and tobacco
are, indeed, the only luxuries in which the Egyptian peasant indulges;
and our poor fellows were never more grateful than when we distributed
among them a few pounds of cheap native tobacco. This abominable mixture
sells in the bazaars at sixpence the pound, the plant from which it is
gathered being raised from inferior seed in a soil chemically
unsuitable, because wholly devoid of potash.
Also it is systematically spoiled in the growing. Instead of being
nipped off when green and dried in the shade, the leaves are allowed to
wither on the stalk before they are gathered. The result is a kind of
rank hay without strength or flavor, which is smoked by only the very
poorest class, and carefully avoided by all who can afford to buy
Turkish or Syrian tobacco.
Twice a day, after their midday and evening meals, our sailors were wont
to sit in a circle and solemnly smoke a certain big pipe of the kind
known as a hubble-bubble. This hubble-bubble (which was of most
primitive make and consisted of a cocoanut and two sugar-canes) was
common property; and, being filled by the captain, went round from hand
to hand, from mouth to mouth, while it lasted.
They smoked cigarettes at other times, and seldom went on shore without
a tobacco-pouch and a tiny book of cigarette-papers. Fancy a bare-legged
Arab making cigarettes! No Frenchman, however, could twist them up more
deftly or smoke them with a better grace.
A Nile sailor’s service expires with the season, so that he is generally
a landsman for about half the year; but the captain’s appointment is
permanent. He is expected to live in Cairo, and is responsible for his
dahabeeyah during the summer months, while it lies up at Boulak. Reïs
Hassan had a wife and a comfortable little home on the outskirts of old
Cairo, and was looked upon as a well-to-do personage among his fellows.
He received four pounds a month all the year round from the owner of the
Philæ--a magnificent broad-shouldered Arab of about six foot nine, with
a delightful smile, the manners of a gentleman, and the rapacity of a
Shylock.
Our men treated us to a concert that first night, as we lay moored under
the bank near Bedreshayn. Being told that it was customary to provide
musical instruments, we had given them leave to buy a tar and darabukkeh
before starting. The tar, or tambourine, was pretty enough, being made
of rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl; but a more barbarous affair
than the darabukkeh was surely never constructed. This primitive drum is
about a foot and a half in length, funnel-shaped, molded of sun-dried
clay like the kullehs, and covered over the top with strained parchment.
It is held under the left arm and played like a tomtom with the fingers
of the right hand; and it weighs about four pounds. We would willingly
have added a double pipe or a cocoanut fiddle[8] to the strength of the
band but none of our men could play them. The tar and darabukkeh,
however, answered the purpose well enough, and were perhaps better
suited to their strange singing than more tuneful instruments.
We had just finished dinner when they began. First came a prolonged wail
that swelled, and sank, and swelled again, and at last died away. This
was the principal singer leading off with the keynote. The next followed
suit on the third of the key; and finally all united in one long,
shrill, descending cry, like a yawn, or a howl, or a combination of
both. This, twice repeated, preluded their performance and worked them
up, apparently, to the necessary pitch of musical enthusiasm. The primo
tenore then led off in a quavering roulade, at the end of which he slid
into a melancholy chant, to which the rest sang chorus. At the close of
each verse they yawned and howled again; while the singer, carried away
by his emotions, broke out every now and then into a repetition of the
same amazing and utterly indescribable vocal wriggle with which he had
begun. Whenever he did this, the rest held their breath in respectful
admiration and uttered an approving “Ah!”--which is here the customary
expression of applause.
We thought their music horrible that first night, I remember; though we
ended, as I believe most travelers do, by liking it. We, however, paid
them the compliment of going upon deck and listening to their
performance. As a night-scene, nothing could be more picturesque than
this group of turbaned Arabs sitting in a circle, cross-legged, with a
lantern in their midst. The singer quavered; the musicians thrummed; the
rest softly clapped their hands to time and waited their turn to chime
in with the chorus. Meanwhile the lantern lit up their swarthy faces and
their glittering teeth. The great mast towered up into the darkness. The
river gleamed below. The stars shone overhead. We felt we were indeed
strangers in a strange land.