Читать книгу Mogreb-el-Acksa: A Journey in Morocco - R. B. Cunninghame Graham - Страница 5

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All Mogador we found much exercised about the province of the Sus, the very province in which the inaccessible Tarudant, the city of our dreams, was situated. It seemed that about eighteen months ago, one Abdul Kerim Bey, an Austrian subject, had arrived and hoisted his flag as Patagonian consul. Brazil and Portugal, Andorra, San Marino, Guatemala, Hayti, and San Domingo, Siam, the Sandwich Islands, Kotei, Acheen, the Transvaal, Orange Free State, and almost every place where there was revenue sufficient to buy a flag and issue postage stamps for philatelists, had long ago sent consuls to Mogador. Their flag-staffs reared aloft looked like a mighty canebrake, from the sea; their banners shaded the streets after the fashion of the covering which the Romans drew over their amphitheatres, and half the population were consuls of some semi-bankrupt state. Yet Patagonia, even in Mogador, excited some surprise. Jews who had been in Buenos Ayres (and a considerable quantity emigrate thence from Mogador) argued that Patagonia was under the authority of the Argentine Republic. Those who had been in Valparaiso said it belonged to Chile. Few knew where Patagonia really was. The Arabs, whose geography is fragmentary, thought “Batagonia” was situated somewhere in Franguestan, and that contented them. What struck their fancy most was certainly the colour and design of the new oriflamme. Barred white and blue, a rising sun grinning across three mountain tops, a cap of liberty, and a huanaco ruminant; an Araucanian Indian in his war paint in one corner, and here and there stars, daggers, scales, and other democratic trade-marks, made up a banner the like of which had seldom been observed in all the much be-bannered town of Mogador. The owner of this standard and the defender in Morocco of the lives and liberties of Patagonian subjects, dressed like a Turk (long single-breasted black frock coat and fez), and spoke a little Turkish, but no Arabic. His age was that of all the world, that is, somewhere between twenty-eight and fifty, and his appearance insignificant, all but his eyes, which some declared to have the power of seeing through a brick, and others that of piercing through cloth and leather, and discerning gold from silver in the recesses of a purse. Be all that as it may, a travelled man, a doctor; that is, “tabib,” for the two words, though given in dictionaries as the Arabic and English for the equivalents of the same thing in either tongue, in point of fact, are different. “Tabib,” in Oriental lands, is a convenient travelling designation, as “Colonel” in the Southern States, and as “Captain” was in Georgian times; it rather indicates a status than a profession, and, in addition, is not out of place upon a traveller’s card.

Dr. el Haj Abdul Kerim apparently enjoyed his designation and his “tabibship” by the grace of God. His consulate he held by virtue of a mandate of an extraordinary potentate.

Some two-and-twenty years ago, a Frenchman, one Aureille de Tounens, a man of family and an advocate of Bordeaux, succeeded in persuading the Indians of Arauco that he was their king. This soon aroused the anxiety both of the Chilians and the Argentines; for from the time when first Ercilla wrote his “Araucana,” the Indians of Araucania had been free, and if they had had a king perhaps they would have taught the neighbouring Republics what liberty really meant. For a brief space De Tounens flourished under the style and title of “Aurelio Primero, rey de los Araucanos,” and then diplomacy or treachery, or both, ousted him, and he died “i’ the spital” in his own town of Bordeaux. During his efflorescence he coined money, designed a flag, gave titles of nobility, and appointed consuls; and it appears that one of them was this Kerim Bey, the Turco-Austrian, who swooped upon Mogador, out-consuling all consuls hitherto known by the size and pattern of his flag. It is not likely that Aurelio Primero ever heard of Mogador, still less that from Arauco he sent a special envoy to such a place. Most probably he sent out consuls generally, after the fashion of bishops in partibus, with a roving consulship, and with instructions to set up their flags wherever they found three or four dozen fools assembled and a sufficient roof to bear the pole.

One of these roving consular commissions no doubt was given to Dr. Abdul Kerim Bey, in days gone by, in South America. Indeed, I fancy I remember at Bahia Blanca a forlorn Austrian who was said to have held some illusory employment about the person of the Araucanian King, such as head bottle-washer, holder of the royal stirrup, or guardian of the royal purse, the last, of course, a sinecure which, in all courts that have no money, should be abolished in the interest of economy. Our Mr. Abdul, [36] during his residence in Mogador, having heard that the province of the Sus was rich in mines, and that no port open for European trade existed south of Mogador, the grandfather of the present Sultan having closed Agadhir (formerly known as Santa Cruz when in possession of the Spaniards), bethought himself that it would be a master stroke to make a treaty with the semi-independent chieftains of the Sus, open either Agadhir, Asaka, or some other port, and trade direct with Europe. Sus being mainly peopled by Berber tribes, who, it is said, are the descendants of the Numidians, who certainly were in possession of the country at the epoch of the invasion of the Arabs, has always been but ill-affected to the central government. The town of Tarudant and the Zowia of Si Hamed O’Musa have hitherto been the two chief centres of the Shereefian [37] authority, but recently, from some fancied slight or from ambitious motives, the representative of Si Hamed O’Musa, one Sidi Hascham, has wavered in his allegiance to his lord.

That which is most desired by every Arab intriguer is the possession of good rifles, and it appears that Kerim Bey, Esq., promised to help the chiefs to unlimited supplies of Winchesters. But be this as it may, Kerim appeared in London with a treaty, real or supposititious, a fez, some twenty words of Arabic, several tons of assurance, and the experience of five-and-forty years. With these commodities he got a syndicate together to engage in trade with the province of the Sus, open a harbour, divert the caravans which now come from the interior and the south to Mogador, supply the ingenuous natives with rifles, bibles, Manchester “sized” cottons, work the real or hypothetic mines, introduce progress—that is electric light, whisky, and all that—and give the acrobats of Taseruelt a reasonable music-hall which might spare them the long voyage to London to seek a fitting place in which to show their powers.

The necessary gentlemen (tribe of Manasseh) with money being found, it was incumbent to get a man de pelo en pecho, [38] as the Spaniards say, to visit Morocco, see the Sultan, go to the Sus, and arrange matters with the various chieftains personally. Like all the world, Abdul Kerim had many faults, but amongst them the fault of rashness was not numbered. In his wildest moments he had never asserted that he personally had penetrated in the little visited Sus; it was thought if the treaty (which he exhibited, but could not read) was genuine, that it had been negotiated by a third person who knew the country well.

Brave men are not so far to seek in London, and one, Major Spilsbury, soon volunteered. He was the kind of man able and willing to walk up to a cannon’s mouth; the sort of man who risks his life ten times a day for forty years to gain his livelihood, and dies—either by an Indian arrow, Malay parang, or Arab bullet—“one of our pioneers of empire” or else a “foolish filibuster,” according as he succeeds or fails. Quiet and courteous, a linguist, and brave to rashness, he was the very antithesis of Abdul; but such as they were they started out together on their quest.

Sus being the most southern province of Morocco, Abdul Kerim quite naturally went to the north, and dragged his wondering companion all round the empire till at last they found the Sultan, who was in Morocco city, when it turned out that all the boasted influence Abdul Kerim had set forth he possessed was nothing, and the Sultan refused permission to trade direct with Sus. At Mogador the inevitable quarrel took place, and Abdul started for Montenegro, Muscat or elsewhere, and left poor Major Spilsbury alone.

He being determined to see the adventure through, engaged a Jewish interpreter, went to the Canaries, chartered a schooner and landed at Asaka after having entered into negotiations from Mogador as to his reception with the chiefs.

Eight or ten days he fought with contrary winds aboard his little unseaworthy schooner, reached Asaka, landed, was well received, made treaties with the chiefs, and all went well until an inferior chief, either being bribed by the Sultan or because he did not think himself sufficiently regarded, or because of the old antipathy to Christians, ever so strong amongst Mohammedans, rode up at the head of fifty horsemen and spread confusion amongst the assembled natives, declaring that he would permit no Christian to traffic in the land. Shots were exchanged, and Spilsbury, bearing his treaty, as Camoens bore his poems, had to escape on board his schooner and for the present leave the enterprise; though, whilst I write, I should not be surprised to learn that he was near Asaka with a fresh expedition. [39a] Quite naturally the advent of such a consul from a new country such as “Batagonia,” [39b] his flag, his fez, his name, and all the subsequent proceedings created some excitement in such a quiet place as Mogador. Consuls assembled, took counsel, wrote dispatches, charged for stamps, and generally fulfilled the functions of their office. Long-bearded Jews, whose talk up to that time had never strayed from money, now discussed questions of diplomacy, of international law, discoursed on piracy, of filibustering, wondered if business would have been improved if Spilsbury had got a footing, but thought no affair sublunary could be quite rotten if Daniel Sassoon [40] had had a finger in the pie.

The Arabs generally were puzzled, but pleased to think there seemed a chance of good repeating rifles being in the market; but all the European residents saw clearly the hand of all-encroaching England, and in especial the French were certain that Mr. Curzon had given his sanction to a plot to extend the dominion of the empire over Sus.

All things considered, it was a most inauspicious time to attempt a journey to such a place as Tarudant, guarded most jealously itself from Europeans both by the fanaticism of the inhabitants and by the special prohibition of the Moorish Government to any European to pass south of the Atlas Mountains to the plains. Hardly had we well landed in the town, when a report was spread that we were agents of the British Government, or advance couriers in the interest of the syndicate. Our sojourn at the house of so well-known a missionary as Mr. Zerbib in some way allayed the public fear, for no one credited him with any but purely spiritual views of conquest. The fact that we had no arms, suggested our great cunning, for no one doubted that we could lay our hand on stacks of rifles if we chose, though how we could have done so was a mystery, as all the influence of our minister at Tangier proved insufficient to procure me even a pass for a common double-barrelled gun, so much alarmed were the authorities after the recent landing on the coast. No one, except the Turks, more clearly comprehend that only the jealousy of the European nations saves their independence than do the ruling classes of Morocco. They understand entirely the protestations about better government, progress, morality and all the usual “boniment” which Christian powers address to weaker nations when they contemplate the annexation of their territory. On the one hand they see the missionary striving to undermine their faith, and on the other they behold the whisky seller actually sapping their Mohammedan morality; behind them both they see the ironclad arriving in their harbours under frivolous pretences to exact enormous compensation often for fancied injuries, and they well know the official Christian’s God is money, or as they say themselves, “amongst the Nazarenes all is money, nothing but money.” [41] The Moors have vices, plenty of them, some of them well-known in London and in Paris, but in their country a poor Mohammedan, unless in case of famine, is seldom left to starve. Even a begging Christian renegade, of whom there are a few still left, always receives some food where’er he goes, and is not much more miserable than the poor Eastern whom one sees shivering about the docks in London and imploring charity for “Native Klistian” with an adopted whine, and muttered national imprecation on the unsuspecting almsgiver.

The Moors all know when once a European gets a footing in their land, even although that should be brought about by filibustering syndicates financed by London capitalists, that the nation to whom the filibusters belong steps in to guard its subjects, and having once stepped in, remains for ever. They see Ceuta, Alhucemas, el Peñon de la Gomera and Chafarinas all in foreign hands, and like the fact as much as we should like the Russians in the Isle of Wight. Therefore, their irritation about the Sus was most intense, and the jealousy of foreign travellers never keener.

Much has been said about the badness of the Government of Morocco. Most Governments are bad, the best a disagreeable institution which men submit to only because they fear to plunge into the unknown, and therefore bear taxation, armies, navies, gold-laced caps, and all the tawdry rubbish which takes from themselves, to furnish living and employment for their neighbours, under the style and title of national defences, home administration, and the like.

In countries like Morocco, where men still live under the tribal system, all government must be despotic; witness Algeria, Afghanistan, and Russian Tartary. The unit is the tribe and not the individual, and what we understand by freedom and democracy would seem to them the grossest form of tyranny on earth. No doubt no man in all Morocco is secure in the enjoyment of his property; but then in order to be amenable to tyranny one must be rich, and as most tribesmen own but a horse or two, a camel, perhaps a slave, some little patch of cultivated ground or olive garden, it is not generally on them the extortion of the Government descends, but on the chief Sheikh, Kaid, or Governor, who, if he happens to be rich, can never sleep secure a single day, for he knows well some time he will be brought to Fez or to Morocco, thrust in a dungeon underground, and made to give up all he has on earth. True, whilst this very man enjoys his wealth and place he oppresses all the tribe to the utmost of his power; but still I fancy that hardly a Moor alive would change the desultory Eastern tyranny, which he has suffered under all his life, and under which his fathers groaned since the beginning of the world, for the six-monthly visit of the tax collector as in Algeria. When people in Morocco speak of Algeria they admit the safety of the roads, the gathered harvests, no hostile intervention coming between the sickle and the wheat; they admire the railroads, laugh at the figure which the French soldiers cut on their horses, but generally finish by saying, “the Arab pays for all, and in that land they tax your dog, your horses, and you yourself, and all are slaves.”

Most Europeans point with pride to the curious system known as “protection,” and called by the Arabs “Mohalata,” which for at least a hundred years has existed in Morocco, as something to be proud of. The system needs a few words, as generally writers on Morocco, without a word of explanation, talk of the custom and state it is a good one, in the same way that free and fair traders each assume their nostrum is the best, or as professors of the Christian or Mohammedan religions look on their dogmas as being alone fitted for honest men to hold. Briefly, the system of the “Mohalata” was invented to obviate the difficulties of trading in a country so badly governed as is Morocco. The word in Arabic means partnership, but the system has been complicated by the habit of protection by means of which the European partner generally contrives to get his Moorish partner made a citizen of the country to which he himself belongs. Thus, “Mohalata” and “Protection” have come to be so mixed together, that it is rare to find a Moor in partnership with any European and not protected by a European Consul. Once protected, the Moor ranks as a Montenegrin, Paraguayan, Englishman, Frenchman, or Portuguese, or what not, and is removed from the exactions of his own Kaid (governor), and even is placed outside the jurisdiction of his own Sultan.

So far, so good, for no one can pretend the Sultan’s government is good, and under shadow of the protection system many individual Moors have become rich. But in their efforts to escape from their own rule, the wretched Moors often fly from the claws of Moorish tribal feudalism, and fall into the mouth of European commercialism, unrestrained by public opinion, the press, or any of the preventive checks which keep the “cash nexus” system within some sort of bounds in England. The following anecdote may serve to illustrate how the protection system occasionally works out. Mohammed—[44] ten years ago was partner of a European merchant in Mogador. The European (a God-fearing man) purchased three camels on condition that Mohammed—should act as camel-driver, and take the beasts about the country wherever it was profitable to take goods. A camel in Mogador may be worth some thirty dollars. For this business Mohammed was to receive a certain portion of the profits made. For several years all went well; Mohammed made his journeys, took his merchandise about, and got his portion of the gains, feeding the camels at his own expense.

One day the Christian (in Morocco all Europeans pass colloquially as Christians) said to Mohammed, “I intend to leave the place and to return to Europe. My intention is to sell the camels, and we can then divide the profits of the sale according to our deed.” The Arab answered he was willing, and began to cypher up the sum the beasts should bring when sold.

The Christian then informed him that he had a scheme by which he thought that they might each gain much, and if it prospered, that Mohammed could keep the camels for his pains. Mohammed, nothing loath, sat all attention to hear the expected plan by means of which he was to keep his beasts. “You shall take the camels,” said the Christian, “and load them for a journey to the Sus. At some point of the journey thieves shall attack you, and you shall then throw all the merchandise upon the ground, then return home at once, and swear before the Cadi that I entrusted you with two thousand dollars and it is stolen, and I will force the Government to compel the Sheikh of the tribe where the robbery was done, to make all good, and we will share the money, and you can keep the camels for your own.” A scheme of this kind always attracts an Arab; it is just the sort of thing he would invent himself. And when his own ideas are returned to him, passed through the medium of a Christian mind, he is certain that the thing must be all right. Curiously enough, although the Moors are never tired of cursing at the Christian sons of dogs, yet they are well aware of their superior business capabilities, and never seem to doubt their word in matters of the sort. “But,” said Mohammed, “if I tell the Cadi that I had your money and that thieves took it, he will throw me into prison, and there is little chance I shall ever come out alive.” “Have no fear,” said the merchant, “the imprisonment will be a mere formality. I will feed you when you are in prison, and in a few days you will be free.”

The camels were duly loaded, and Mohammed set out upon his journey to the Sus. In a few days he returned, having torn his clothes, rolled himself in the sand, and with some self-inflicted bruises, informed his friend the merchant, who took him to the Cadi to testify on oath.

Most unluckily for the miserable man the place he chose to pitch upon for the scene of his adventure was a few miles outside the town, in a district called Taquaydirt. The Cadi sent for the headman, who came and swore that he had never seen Mohammed, and he himself failed to identify any of the natives of the place, who were presented to him. Seeing the thing looked grave, he went and took sanctuary in the tomb of Sidi M’Doul, [46a] the patron saint of Mogador, about a mile outside the town. Inside the sanctuary the man was safe, and every day his European friend sent him his food, his “Tajin,” [46b] “Couscousou,” [46c] flat Moorish bread, and green tea (called Windrisi from Windres, that is London, from whence it comes), seasoned with mint and sweetened with enormous lumps of sugar broken with a hammer from the loaf. A week passed by, and every day his wife and children came and talked to him, standing outside the shrine, and much elated at the kindness of their European friend, and of the affluence which, in a day or two, was to burst on them through his influence.

But all their feasting did not suit the European’s book, and he contrived to get Mohammed out of the sanctuary, upon the pretext that it was necessary to swear again to the affair before the judge. The swearing and examination over, the Cadi (at the Christian’s instigation) threw the poor devil into prison, and then for a few days the Christian sent him his food, as he had done before when in the sanctuary. After a day or two he feigned to think Mohammed had deceived him as to the robbery, and had really taken the two thousand dollars for himself. The supply of food then ceased, and the Christian raised a plea against the Arab for restitution of his money, or, failing that, the seizure of his goods.

The wretched man, seeing himself deceived, confessed the plot, but as he (this time) spoke the truth, no one believed him. The lawsuit ran its course, and the Arab’s wife sold off his horse and gun (the most cherished property an Arab has), sold off his camels, their cows, their goats, and sheep, and raised six hundred dollars after selling everything she had. His children begged, the wife worked as she could, the husband, heavily chained in prison, starved.

Five long years passed away, the wife feeding her husband as she could, the children running about like pariah dogs, maintained by charity. Then the good Christian merchant died, and his heirs, of course, still pressed for payment of the debt.

Four more long years went by, and then a thing occurred which makes one think of the proverb that “to jump behind a bush is better than the prayers of good men.” [47] Within the prison were five hundred men, Mohammed one of them; a mutiny broke out, the guard was overpowered, and a few dozen men got out. Then came Mohammed’s turn, and he, thinking that his good deed might win his freedom, seized the key and locked the door, keeping the rest within. News went unto our lord the Sultan in his camp, and people hoped that he might exercise his clemency. Back came a letter praising Mohammed’s deed, and saying he deserved his liberty, but that the Sultan could not grant it till the debt was paid.

Ten years have passed away, the merchant is long dead, six hundred dollars paid for nothing, a family reduced to misery, and still the victim of the plot remains in prison, heavily chained and prematurely old; Allah looks down, the call to prayers rises to heaven five times a day, and poor Mohammed, a grey-headed man, resigned and uncomplaining, talks to the casual stranger at the prison gate and says the Christian was no doubt a knave, but that the thing was written (mektub), and that therefore no one was to blame, Allah Ackbar, no God but God, and Lord Mohammed is his messenger.

The protection system may benefit the Jews, who, once despised and spit upon by every Moor, have of late years become the tyrants of the land. Scarcely a Jew of any property in any Mellah, [48] in Morocco, who is not a citizen of some foreign state. Perhaps America has made the most use of its protective powers. Both the United States and the Brazils have frequently named consuls who were quite unworthy of representing either state. These men, in several instances, have sold protection right and left, and nothing is more common than to meet a Moor or a Jew in one or other of the seaport towns, who tells you that he is a Brazilian or an American. To-day the United States seem to have seen the error of their ways, and several of their consuls are of high character, and fitted to do honour to the post they occupy.

Until quite recently, at times a consul would “sell a Moor,” that is would tell his luckless “citizen” that, unless by such a time a sum of money was forthcoming his protection would be withdrawn. The effect of this would be as a sentence of death to the unlucky man. Generally the protected citizens amass some money, and if the protection is withdrawn, their Kaid or Governor falls down upon them, puts them in prison, where they either die or else remain till, as the prisoner in the Gospel, they have paid the uttermost farthing they possess. As to reclamations, how can a Moor, speaking no foreign language, go to Andorra, Montenegro, or San Marino, to appeal. Pay and appeal, [49a] the proverb says; but fancy an Arabic-speaking man, without a cent, appealing in New York, or in Brazil, in neither of which countries men of dark races are viewed with favour, and justice is a costly pastime even for the rich.

No doubt some few have become rich under protection. Witness the case of Si Bu Bekr, who for so long a time was British agent, and who, when a few months ago he showed me all his treasures in his palace in Morocco city, tapped on his iron chest, and said, “This one is gold, that is all jewels; this, again, is full of bonds;” and is assumed to have a hundred thousand pounds all safely tied up in Consols.

But, on the other hand, sometimes the partnership and protection is as a shirt of Nessus, and I have heard an Arab say, “Can I not get away from his cursed ‘Mohalata’?” rather the exactions of my Kaid than the insidious bleeding by my Christian partner. Still it must be confessed that both protection and “Mohalata” are much sought after by the natives, and nothing is commoner than to be asked, whilst on a journey, either to protect or enter into “Mohalata” with a Moor. As in the case of the kindred system which prevails in Turkey, of “capitulation,” much abuse creeps in, and as the country is not ripe for mixed tribunals I suppose the chicken will have to live and bear its pip. [49b]

Peacemakers and reformers pass a thankless life, and it appears as almost every ill we see is irremediable, and as the world goes on quite cheerfully (no matter what we do), crushing the weak, and opening wide upon the passage of the strong, that curses are no use; the only course the wise man can adopt is to stand well away and keep his own opinions to himself, unless, indeed, after the fashion of the man in Joseph Conrad’s story, [50] he prefers to hang himself, and then put out his tongue at the world’s managing directors.

Finding myself the observed of all observers in Mogador, I transferred my residence to Mr. Pepe Ratto’s International Sanatorium, about three miles outside the town, which passes generally under the designation of the Palm-Tree House. There I essayed to live my filibustering character down, and for a day or two went sedulously out shooting in the hottest time of day, to show I was a European traveller; collected “specimens,” as butterflies and useless stones; took photographs, all of which turned out badly; classified flowers according to a system of my own; took lessons in Arabic, and learned to ride upon the Moorish saddle. A few days of this exhilarating life made all things quiet, and the good citizens of Mogador were certain that I was a bona-fide traveller and had no design to attack the province of the Sus.

The Sanatori Internacional de la Palmera was a sort of hotel of the next century. Everything in it was “en construction.” The managers, two little Marseillais, of the bull-dog type, spent almost all their time either in practising la boxe Marseillaise, in playing on the concertina, an instrument which, when I am in Europe (dans les pays policés), I fancy obsolete, but which, in days gone by, set my teeth often aching in the River Plate and in Brazil. After so many years when first again I heard its wheezy tones, upon a moonlight night in the Palmera, with camels resting under the great palm tree, and Arabs lying asleep, their faces covered in their haiks, horses and mules champing their corn, hyenas growling in the distance, jackals yelping, and the frogs croaking like silver cymbals, as they never croak to the north of latitude forty, it set me wondering why men must go about on a calm, clear night grinding an instrument to make their unoffending fellows’ stomachs ache. Besides the concertina and “la boxe” (Marseillaise), the brothers, curly-headed and pleasant little sons of La Joliette or La Cannebiere, devoutly entered everything into a ledger, large enough for Lombard Street, by double entry; and besides that had an infinity of talents de société, kept chameleons, understood botany, were cooks and linguists, speaking most languages including “petit nègre” quite fluently; were civil, educated, ignorant, and thoroughly good fellows to the full length of their respective five feet four and five feet seven inches.

The hotel was on a hill and had a view over a sand hill, on which grew oceans of white broom, dwarf rhododendrons, gum cistus, thyme (which in Morocco is a bush), and mignonette, and in whose thickets wild boars harboured and from which sand grouse flew whirring out. The owner of the place, a mighty sportsman, having slain more boars, and had more adventures in the slaying than any one, since Sir John Drummond Hay laid down his spear. Born in Mogador, of English or Gibraltarian parents, and speaking Spanish, English, Arabic, and Shillah quite without prejudice of one another, Mr. Ratto, known to his friends as “Pepe,” fills, in South Morocco, the place that Bibi Carleton fills in the north. No book upon Morocco is complete without a reference to both of them. How the thing comes about I do not know, but not unfrequently the sons of Europeans born in hot countries turn out failures, either in person or in mind, or both, but when the contrary occurs and the transplanting turns out well, the type is finer than is common in the mother country. Both of my types would, walking in a crowd in any town of Europe, attract attention. Tall, dark, brown-eyed, erect and lithe, clear brown complexions, open-handed and quick of apprehension, good horsemen, linguists, and yet perhaps not fitted to excel in England or in France, or any country where continuous work is necessary, they have had the sense to stay at home, and become as it were “Gauchos,” that is a sort of intermediate link between the Arab and the European, and at the same time to incorporate most of the virtues of the two races. Put them in Western Texas, Buenos Ayres, or South Africa, and they must have made fortunes; as it is both are as rich as kings when mounted on a good horse, a rifle in their hands, and a long road to travel for no special cause.

Not far away begins, sporadically, the district of the Argan Tree, [52] in fact, outside the door of the Palmera stands a small specimen, the roots almost uncovered and bent towards the east by the prevailing wind.

Not far away, still lives a patriarch of this restricted family, flat topped and gnarled and like a Baobab, its branches taking root all round the stem, and running on the ground for fully fifty feet, goats climbing on its limbs, snails clinging to the leaves, pieces of rag tied to the boughs by passing Arabs, reminding one of the Gualichu [53] tree in the South Pampa of Buenos Ayres. After long years of life it seems to rest, putting forth leaves and shoots, and bearing fruit, as if it were by habit, and as a protest against the decay which has overtaken all its fellows. The passing Arab, though he may break a branch to light his fire, still reverences it in a vague way, never forgetting as he passes to praise God for it, as if Allah had set it there to tell him of his power.

The choice of guides became a difficulty. Few men in Mogador cared to attempt a journey to Tarudant in company with a European, even though disguised. Arabs who knew the way were terrified at venturing alone into the territory of Berbers, and Arabs feared to be found out upon the road and put in prison by the Sultan’s governors.

All were agreed the journey was hazardous, although to what extent they were not sure. Sometimes in travelling in Arab countries it is possible to take a guide into a certain part, and then to get some tribesmen to accompany you. In our case this was impossible, as I could not speak Arabic sufficiently to pass off as a native of the place. Even to say I was a Georgian, a Circassian, or Bosnian, for any of which I might have passed as far as type goes, would have aroused suspicion, for why should an inhabitant of such a country journey to Tarudant?

Although the place I wished to visit is tabooed for Europeans, still Arabs, like other men, delight in doing what they know they should not do, with the full consciousness of doing wrong.

To the illiterate Moor or Arab nothing seems so wrong as to eat bacon, pork, or touch a pig, and yet at times they say “I ate some pork the other day, it was magnificent,” after the fashion that boys smoke at schools, pretend to like it, and are sick behind a hedge. An Arab says no wonder Christians are so red in the face and look so well, do they not feed on pork and drink strong wine? It seems to be implanted in the human mind that anything a man is bidden not to do, must, of necessity, be the one thing that if he did it, would make him happy all his life. If this be so, and clergymen (all of the highest moral standing) have assured me that is the case, surely the general consensus of the opinion of mankind is towards doing everything they like, and if that is the case it must be right, for anything which can secure a majority of votes is sent from heaven, for God himself is quite uncertain of the justice of his acts till men have voted on them.

Still, guides for such a journey did not abound. One was too old, a second too religious to go with Christians, or a third too big a rogue even to go with Christians; till at the last a man, Mohammed el Hosein, came forward of his own accord.

Report averred he was a slave-dealer, but the best muleteer in the country. In person he was thin and muscular, age thirty-eight, just married, a first-rate horseman, cunning and greedy, but to be depended on if once he gave his word. All his delight, as he himself informed me, was to drink green tea and smoke tobacco, and, therefore, like the old Scotch lady, who, when a cook was recommended to her for her good moral character, exclaimed, “Oh, damn her morals, can she mak guid broth?” I did not boggle at his slave-dealing, but took him on the spot. Strangely enough he had been employed by missionaries, who spoke well of his capacity touching his muleteership, but lamented over the hardness of his heart. By nationality he was a Berber, with the thin face, small eyes, and high cheekbones of all his race. He sang in Shillah, in a falsetto voice, a quavering air, both in and out of season, and seated on a mule, a packing needle in his hand to act as spur, got over more mortal leagues of country in a day than any other mule driver whom I remember this side of Mexico.

After the muleteer, came choice of roads, for three were open to us; the first along the coast passing the town of Agadhir. [55] This road is flat and sandy, and follows close to the coast right down to Agadhir, and by it Tarudant can easily be reached within five days from Mogador. The disadvantages of following this road were three; firstly, we had to pass the town of Agadhir, in which the Sultan had a governor; and secondly, Agadhir once passed, we had to traverse the country of the Howara tribe, which bears an evil name for turbulence. Journeying, as I proposed to do, in Moorish dress, two difficulties lay in my path. Firstly, I might be recognised, and if so recognised by an official of the central government I should have been turned back at once, as has already happened to other travellers in South Morocco. Again, dressed as a Moor and not discovered, I had to run all the risks a Moor must run in travelling, from robbers and from violence. These risks do not beset a European travelling in European dress to the same degree, as Moors in general are chary of meddling with Europeans. It may be asked, why then did I adopt the Moorish dress, and not go boldly as a European after having got a permit from the Sultan, and taken a guard of Moorish soldiers.

These were my reasons: the Sultan of Morocco, when he gives a European a permit to travel in his territory always writes on it, after the usual salutations to his various governors, “we recommend this Christian [56a] to you, see that he runs no danger.” The Moor, reading between the lines, sees that the Sultan wishes him to stop the Christian visiting any unfrequented place, and naturally he puts a lion in the path. Thus, had I gone to Agadhir furnished with guard and Sultan’s letter, the governor would have received the letter, kissed it, duly placed it on his forehead, called to his scribe to read it, made me welcome, and informed me that it was quite impossible for me to go farther, as certain bastards, [56b] who feared neither God nor Sultan, would be sure to kill me on the road. I should have told him: “well, my death be on my own head,” and he would straight have answered, “be it so in God’s name, if it were only yours, but who will shelter me from the anger of our Lord the Sultan if you are killed?” Persuasion, bribes, and everything would have been in vain, and had I then insisted, I should have found myself politely escorted back by a guard of cavalry, as all the Sultan’s governors are well aware that their liege lord admits of no mistakes, but punishes mistakes and faults alike.

Just as I had determined to risk the journey by the way of Agadhir, news came that the Howara tribe was in rebellion, and that the road was shut. There still remained two mountain passes through the Atlas, one starting from a place called Imintanout, and going by Bibouan to Tarudant, and still another from Amsmiz, a town close to Morocco city, which crossed the Atlas at its greatest breadth and led to Tarudant, across the River Sus at a place called Ras el Wad, a whole day’s journey from Tarudant. Needless to say both roads were longer and much more difficult than the coast route, and by either of them I should have employed at least eight days to reach my destination.

Choosing the shortest road I then determined to go by Imintanout, and set about at once to make my preparations for a start.

Mohammed el Hosein brought his own mule and with it another belonging to one Ali of the Ha-Ha [57] tribe, that is to say Mohammed hired a mule from Ali who accompanied us (as I learned upon the road) to see his animal was not ill-treated. Ali I suspect received no pay, but was a sort of general homme de peine, and quite contented so that he received his food and that his mule was fed, and even thought himself quite fortunate when he received a pair of cast-off shoes. He had no idea where we were going to, and when we told him, wished to return, and would have done so had we not laid hands upon his mule, which seeing, he resolved to brave all dangers rather than trust it to the tender mercies of Mohammed el Hosein. For the rest Ali was a muleteer, which race of men, whether Spaniards, Mexicans, Turks, or Brazilians is all alike, singing all day while sitting sideways on their beasts, smoking continually, eating when there is food, and sleeping quite contentedly (as the unjust all sleep), their heads resting upon a pack saddle, feet to the fire, and with a tattered blanket covering their faces from the dew at night. Lutaif, following his character of a man of letters, rode on a mule, perched on a high red pack saddle, which, loosely girthed, after the Moorish fashion, swayed about and made it quite impossible for him to mount or to dismount without assistance. By this time we had bought our Moorish clothes, in which Lutaif, being a Syrian, looked exactly like one of the figures on the outside of a missionary journal, which assume to represent biblical characters, and really are a libel on the Syrian race. Having arranged to represent a Turkish doctor, I put on the clothes with some misgivings, and left my room in the Palmera with the air of one who has assumed a fancy dress. On my appearance all declared that I need never say I was a Turkish doctor, for I looked so like a man from Fez, in type and colouring, that it was better to say nothing as to who I was, and that the passers-by would take me for a travelling Sherif. A Sherif being a holy character generally rides upon a horse, and so I purchased one through the good offices of Mohammed el Hosein, who happened to know of “the best horse in all the province which his owner wanted to dispose of—with saddle and bridle all complete—for a mere nothing, being short of cash.” I purchased the whole “outfit” at nine-and-twenty dollars, a third more than a native would have paid. The saddle was rotten, and felt like riding on a bag of stones, but the horse, though lean in condition, was full of quite unsuspected spirit, sure-footed, and excellent upon the road. Equipped with horse, high Moorish saddle covered with red cloth, dressed in white, but with a blue cloth cloak to cover all, a fez and turban, head duly shaved, and yellow slippers, with, of course, a pair of horseman’s boots (called temag by the Arabs) buttoned up the back with green silk buttons, embroidered down the sides with silk and silver thread, a leather bag to sling across the shoulders and act as pocket, I was ready for the start.

Tents and the general camp equipment of a European journeying in Morocco, did not trouble me. We had a little tent packed on a mule, just large enough to serve as sleeping quarters for myself and for Lutaif. The men had to sleep by their mules after the Moorish fashion, and if it rained to come for shelter under the lea side of our tent. Cooking utensils were but a kettle and an iron pot; we had no forks or spoons, as being dressed as Moors we had to eat after the Moorish fashion with our hands, our only luxuries being a rather gim-crack brass tea tray, a pewter German teapot, and six small glasses to drink green tea flavoured with mint, and made as sweet as syrup. In my anxiety to be quite the native, I even left my camera, an omission which I regret, as had I taken it I might have published a book of views of the Atlas, and saved much trouble to the public and myself.

A European who came to see us off looked at our modest equipage with some disgust, and said that he had never seen a Christian start like a Susi trader, and that we should soon repent the want of European comforts. Your European comfort when in Europe is in place; but on the march in a wild country everything additional you take is as the grasshopper in the adage, which I think soon made its presence felt. It is customary for fools and serious men, when setting out on any journey (say to Margate), finishing books, entering into the more or less holy state of matrimony, becoming bankrupt, or entering holy orders, going to sea, meeting their first love, burying their most disagreeable relation, or being jilted, thrown from a bicycle, being kicked or knighted, in fact in any of the disagreeables, which like rain fall on the just and the unjust, but always show a preference for the poor honest man, to sit down and record exactly how they felt, what thoughts occurred to them, and generally to disport themselves as if another mortal in the world cared they were even born, except their mothers and themselves.

Time-honoured institution, from which no scribbling traveller should depart. If you have naught to say, why write it down, extend it, examine into it, and write and write till after writing you persuade yourself you have written something; and if upon the other hand you happen to have aught worth writing, keep it to yourself, and go to bed remembering that to-morrow is another day, that thoughts will keep and mules are ever better saddled about an hour before the sky on the horizon begins to lighten, and the first faint flush of dawn spreads slowly like a diurnal Aurora Borealis and drives the morning star back to its night; for then, as mules are cold and empty, they cannot swell their stomachs out so much and stop the muleteers from drawing home the girths.