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Title: Tafilet : the narrative of a journey of exploration in the Atlas mountains and the oases of the north-west Sahara
Author: Harris, Walter Burton
Language: English
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TAFILET
[Illustration: BERBER VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE GHADAT.]
TAFILET
THE NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY OF EXPLORATION IN THE
ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE OASES OF THE
NORTH-WEST SAHARA
BY
WALTER B. HARRIS, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
‘A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN,’ ‘THE LAND OF AN AFRICAN SULTAN
TRAVELS IN MOROCCO,’ ‘DANOVITCH, AND OTHER
STORIES,’ ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY MAURICE ROMBERG_
_FROM SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR_
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCV
_All Rights reserved_
TO
CLEMENTS R. MARKHAM, Esq.,
C.B., F.R.S., F.S.A.,
PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY,
This Book
IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
* * * * *
Very few words of preface are necessary for this book.
To three friends I owe hearty thanks for assistance toward the
successful accomplishment of my journey—namely, to Alexander
Peckover, Esq., D.C.L., F.L.S., F.R.G.S., &c.; James Mason, Esq.;
and R. G. Haliburton, Esq.
To the Proprietors of the ‘Illustrated London News’ I am gratefully
indebted for the use of the drawings made from my original sketches
and photographs, which have been most generously placed at the
disposal of my publishers and myself.
WALTER B. HARRIS.
_November_ 1895.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAP. PAGE
I. PREPARATIONS AND START 1
II. MARAKESH 27
III. THE ASCENT OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS 50
IV. THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE BERBERS 83
V. THE DESCENT FROM THE ATLAS 105
VI. GHRESAT TO DADS 129
VII. DADS 153
VIII. DADS TO UL TURUG 179
IX. OUR ARRIVAL AT TAFILET 213
X. WITH THE SULTAN AT TAFILET 231
XI. TAFILET OR TAFILELT 260
XII. THE RETURN JOURNEY 307
XIII. THE ACCESSION OF THE NEW SULTAN OF MOROCCO 330
INDEX 381
ILLUSTRATIONS
* * * * *
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
BERBER VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE GHADAT _Frontispiece_
A GENERAL VIEW OF MARAKESH _To face page_ 28
THE SÔK JUMAA-EL-FANAR, MARAKESH „ 42
AT THE BASE OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS „ 114
THE VALLEY OF DADS „ 140
A “KSAR” OF ASKURA „ 240
RUINED BRIDGE ON THE ROAD TO TAFILET „ 324
STREET LEADING TO THE SULTAN’S PALACE, MARAKESH „ 342
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
PAGE
LANDING IN SAFFI 8
A WELL AT SUNSET 12
BERBER TRIBESMEN 16
FROM SAFFI TO MOROCCO CITY: A WEEKLY MARKET 26
A STREET IN MARAKESH 32
INNER COURT OF SULTAN’S PALACE IN MARAKESH 35
THE KUTUBÍA IN MARAKESH 38
A JEWISH BANKER OF MARAKESH 45
A STREET SCENE IN MARAKESH 48
BERBERS 64
FORDING THE WAD GHADAT 69
A VIEW FROM ABOVE ZARKTEN 73
THE SHEIKH’S HOUSE AT ZARKTEN 76
THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS FROM THE SOUTH 85
APPROACHING MARAKESH FROM THE NORTH 91
A PASS ON THE ROAD 108
AGURZGA 124
A VILLAGE SCENE 139
A BERBER FAMILY AT DADS: WOMAN MEALING CORN 144
INSIDE THE VILLAGE OF AÏT BU HADDU, AT DADS 158
A WOMAN OF DADS 165
YOUNG JEW OF DADS 174
SAINT’S TOMB ON THE ROAD TO UL TURUG 200
UL TURUG 204
WAD GHERIS 222
IN TAFILET 277
A CORNER OF A SÔK—EARLY MORNING 282
YOUNG WOMEN OF TAFILET DRYING DATES 294
THE KAID OF GLAWA’S RESIDENCE 320
SHOPS AT BAB KHEMIS, MARAKESH 327
MAPS.
SKETCH MAP OF MOROCCO SHOWING AUTHOR’S ROUTE _To face page 1_
DETAIL MAP OF AUTHOR’S ROUTES BETWEEN MARAKESH
AND TAFILET _At end_
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF MOROCCO,
Showing Mr W. B. Harris’s Routes to and from Tafilet.
_Author’s route_ -----]
TAFILET.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
PREPARATIONS AND START.
It had long been my intention to make a journey of exploration into,
and if possible beyond, the Atlas Mountains; and though on several
occasions my plans had been already formulated, I had been obliged,
almost at the last moment, to abandon the idea.
However, the close of the year 1893 offered an opportunity which
could not be neglected; but before entering upon the description
of my journey, a few words must be said as to what not a little
helped it toward success.
Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan of Morocco, had been meditating for some
years an expedition into the southern regions of his dominions,
toward that indefinite frontier which divided his country from
the wastes of the Sahara desert. Until, however, the spring of
the year 1893 he had been so occupied with summer expeditions,
organised to crush petty rebellions and intertribal strife, that he
had found no favourable opportunity of making any protracted absence
from the seat of his Government; for so miserable are the means of
communication in Morocco, that, once across the Atlas Mountains, he
was practically as distant from his capital—and still more from
the residence of the European Ministers accredited to his Court,
who reside at Tangier—as Kamskatka is from London.
However, during the summer of 1892 the tribes had been so punished
for their many rebellious offences, and so heavily taxed in
consequence, that his Majesty felt but little anxiety in carrying
out his projected visit to his trans-Atlas dominions.
But there were other questions almost as serious to
be considered—first, his relations with foreign Powers; and,
secondly, the reception that might await him in those far-off
corners of his realm.
With regard to the former, while avoiding all political questions,
one or two words must be said. First, it must be understood that
Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan, was not only an autocratic
ruler, but his own Minister of Foreign Affairs; and a great
difficulty therefore arose as to who, in the case of sudden foreign
complications, should be directed to fill his place. No one knew the
temperament of his Ministers and Viziers better than the Sultan,
and probably no one could trust them less; for although their
patriotism might be all that was desired, it was very possible that
this same over-zeal might lead them into difficulties. For this
reason the relations of his country with the European Governments
were temporarily put into the hands of a council, in which the
acting Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sid Fadhul Gharnit, held but
only an equal voice with the rest; while the powers vested in Sid
el Haj Mohammed Torres, the Vizier-resident at Tangier, were more
fully specified and amplified, for alone of all the members of
the Sultan’s Government this man could be said to possess the
confidence both of the European Ministers and his master.
Having announced the manner in which all questions of foreign
affairs were to be regulated during his absence, there was to be
considered the second serious difficulty of the enterprise—the
reception he would receive. For the purpose of ensuring success
in this respect, long before his Majesty started from Fez for the
south, influential members of his family, already acquainted with the
tribes in question and their attitude toward the Sultan, were sent
out to bully and bribe. Of the two, the latter did the most toward
ensuring his Majesty’s safe passage through the Berber tribes,
and by March 1893 everything was prepared for a start to be made.
It is usual for the rulers of Morocco to change their residence from
year to year, spending the winters in one of the larger cities,
either Fez, Meknas, or Marakesh, and during the summer and autumn
to make the long marches from the north to the south of the empire,
or _vice versa_. The enormous retinue accompanying the Sultan,
the quantity of baggage to be transported, to say nothing of the
insufficiency of all commissariat arrangements and the entire
absence of roads, renders these royal progresses matters often of
several months’ duration.
None can have known better than the Sultan the difficulties—even
dangers—of the journey before him; for, although he possessed
no personal knowledge of the country to be traversed, he was well
informed as to the climatic changes that would have to be endured,
as to difficulty in finding food for his troops, and still greater
difficulty for his horses and mules, and as to the physical aspect
of the country, which presented, along the proposed routes, not only
the heat and cold of the desert, but the passage of mountain-passes,
one alone of which reaches an altitude of over 8000 feet above the
sea-level,—and this amongst subjects who, by birth a different
and a semi-conquered nation, would provide nothing or little for
his welfare, and whose reception, if hearty enough in words, would
lack any real enthusiasm.
There can be no doubt that influence was used to prevent Mulai
el Hassen starting out upon this journey, the expenses of which,
even to a European Government, would be enormous, while the dangers
were scarcely less; but so persistent was his Majesty in carrying
out his idea, that he showed little favour to those who tendered
him advice, and let it be clearly understood that the matter rested
with him alone.
In April a start was made from Fez, the direction being due south,
and a halt of a few days was called at Sufru, a small town some
sixteen miles away from the capital. Here the European officers
attached to the Sultan’s suite were informed that it had been
decided that they were not to accompany his Majesty, and they
forthwith returned to Fez. The sole exception made was in the case
of the French doctor, M. Linares, who was commanded to remain with
the army, and to make the journey with the Sultan.
After weary months of hard travel and equally hard delays, Mulai
el Hassen reached his goal, Tafilet, the home of his ancestors,
in the first week of November.
There is no need here to recount the march from Fez to that oasis;
suffice it to say that, in spite of the physical difficulties of the
country, the scarcity of provisions and fodder, and the half-hearted
reception of the Berber tribes, it was successfully accomplished.
It may be thought that I have already digressed too far from the
purpose of my book in making these introductory remarks; but as it
was owing to the Sultan’s presence in Tafilet that I was able to
undertake my journey at all, and happily bring it to a successful
end, I have felt constrained to briefly state the reasons that
had taken Mulai el Hassen to the far-away oasis in the desert from
which his dynasty originally sprung.
As to the motives of the Sultan, it is difficult to state anything
with certainty. No doubt religious zeal to pray at the reverenced
tomb of his ancestor, Mulai Ali Shereef, had much to do with the
desire to undertake so long and trying a journey, for it could have
been from no hope that by so doing any considerable sums of money
could be collected or extorted, as was generally believed to be the
case, for none could have been better aware than he of the poverty of
the country and its inhabitants. Probably it was solely the religious
point, touched with some anxious curiosity to see the home of his
ancestors, that led him to empty the treasury upon an expedition
from which no real, and but little moral, benefit could accrue.
I had meanwhile been carefully watching such glimpses of information
as from time to time reached England as to the whereabouts of the
Sultan and his army, and scanty and contradictory as they were,
I was able by the beginning of September 1893 to gather that his
Majesty’s journey, in spite of a general belief to the contrary,
would be successful, and that Tafilet would be reached.
I therefore left England in the middle of September, and collecting
the few necessaries for my journey at Tangier, reached Saffi, some
400 miles down the Atlantic coast of Morocco, in the second week
of October.
The journey from Tangier to Saffi was one that presented but little
of interest. The coast-steamer in which I travelled visited the
various ports,—Laraiche, Rabat, Casablanca (Dar el baida), and
Mazagan, all of which I knew well. The weather was rough, and we
had some difficulty in communicating at more than one of the ports,
lying for some twenty hours off Rabat before the lighters were
able to issue from the mouth of the river—the Bu Regreg—that
separates that town from Sallee, the home of the old rovers, whose
depredations upon English sailing-ships were at one time so well
known and so much dreaded.
However, on the fifth day after leaving, Saffi was reached, and
fortunately the sea was calm enough to allow of our landing in one
of the strangely built and decorated surf-boats in use at that port.
[Illustration: _Landing in Saffi._]
What a shouting and yelling there was of the boatmen, as my Riffi
servant Mohammed, of whom more anon, and I, perched on the top of
our little pile of baggage, were tossed to and fro by the curling
seas that one after another broke along the beach! In silence the
steersman watched his opportunity, and with a smooth gliding motion
we were borne between rugged rocks, and our boat lay high and dry
upon the beach.
Saffi has been too often described to need more than the merest
mention here. It is a strange, flat-roofed, white town, reaching
from the sea-beach high up the semicircle of hills by which it
is enclosed, the summit capped by the windowless walls and peaked
towers of the great castle, once a palace of the Sultans, now little
more than a deserted ruin.
Within the town the streets are narrow and dirty. In rainy seasons
the mud is almost knee-deep, and a torrent flows through the
main street. The native inhabitants are poor, and accordingly
but little signs of luxury or trade are to be found, with the
exceptions of the large stores of the few European merchants who
reside there. The town is walled, in parts of Moorish workmanship,
in others the remains of the old Portuguese occupation; for Saffi,
like most of the other towns of the Atlantic coast of Morocco,
once formed a small colony of the “King of the Algarves.”
The few days I spent at Saffi passed pleasantly enough, for I
was entertained by Mr Hunot, her Majesty’s Vice-Consul, whose
knowledge of Arabic and Morocco, gained from a residence of some
forty years in the country, is exceptional; and though I chafed at
the delays that always meet one in dealing with Moors, he did much
to render my time as agreeable as could be to a man who was intent
upon nothing but in making a start.
Small as my preparations were, they caused me several days’ more
delay than I liked; but before the week was out I found myself on
the eve of departure, with a couple of mules, an old man who was
to be my guide, philosopher, and friend, his son and his nephew,
a black slave-girl belonging to his establishment, a stray Sahara
pilgrim, and my Riffi servant.
Adopting the dress of the country on my departure, and mounting a
pack-mule on the top of the luggage, we set out one morning, not
at sunrise as I had hoped, for the old man forgot everything that
he could forget, and remembered an enormous quantity of things he
should have left behind, and it was near mid-day before we passed
out under the old gateway of the town and climbed the steep hill,
in the valley below which the only gardens that Saffi can boast
are situated.
The heat was intense and water scarce, and both we and our poor
animals suffered the entire road to Marakesh, or, as it is more
commonly called, Morocco City, a distance of about a hundred
miles. There had been no rain for some five months, and even the
_metafir_, as the natives call their underground cisterns, were
nearly dry, and many quite so.
The road from Saffi to Marakesh presents no aspect of peculiar
interest. The tribes of Abda and Beled Ahmar are passed through, the
latter boasting the dreary circular salt lake of Zima, near which is
a cluster of white buildings, a _mdarsa_ or sort of college, where
the late Sultan and many of his sons received their education. The
inhabitants are all Arabs, but their villages are few and far
between, or lie off the road. The country, at this time of year
a dreary stony waste, is in the spring one great field of waving
corn; and the horses of Beled Ahmar are famous. Owing to the heat,
we did not arrive at Morocco City until the fourth day, and did
not actually enter until the morning of the fifth, preferring to
spend the night just outside the walls.
There is one scene, however, that presents itself as one nears the
city that cannot be passed over without mention, though I myself,
amongst others, have described it before. Yet so strikingly grand
is it, and so unique, that it demands reference in any work that
deals with this portion of Morocco. I refer to the first view of
the wide valley of the Tensift, with its wonderful background of
the range of the Atlas Mountains.
We had been climbing the steep slopes of Jibeelet, the name given to
the range of hills that form the north boundary of the wide valley
of the Tensift, for some little time before the plain beneath came
into view. The ascent had been a hot and tiring one,
[Illustration: _A Well at Sunset_]
and we and our mules were thirsty indeed. Nor were there any means
of obtaining water, for during some hours we only passed one small
village belonging to a few shepherds of the Arab tribe of Ulad Dlim,
and their waterjars were empty. The well was a couple of miles away,
and not till sunset were they going to fill the jars again. Dirty
and poverty-stricken their little collection of thatched hovels
and grimy tents were, but picturesque all the same, with a group of
women in dark-blue cotton in the foreground, wearing necklaces of
large amber beads and coral, and with long plaits of untidy hair,
while dogs and naked children stood by and watched our little
caravan pass. Up we toiled until, passing through a narrow gorge,
the scene opened out before us in indescribable beauty. At our
feet lay the valley of the Tensift, far below us, stretching away
some thirty miles or so to where the great range of the Atlas rose
majestically from the plain. Green was the valley, green with crops
and groves of date-palms, while here, there, and everywhere sparkled
and glittered the river Tensift and the many canals that carry water
from its stream to irrigate the surrounding country. A haze hung over
the valley, that sufficed, without in any way hiding its beauties,
to soften the effect of the fierce sunlight; so that beyond the
river the plain appeared to shimmer in semi-unreality until there
arose from the level ground the great barrier of mountain beyond,
its summit white with snow, its base blue with distance.
Inexpressibly grand it was, yet not with the grandeur that rugged
cliffs and precipices can give, for beyond everything appealed to
one the richness of the scene. After the hot weary march across
waterless plains, the vegetation was surpassingly welcome; and the
dark forest of palm-trees, stretching for miles along the valley,
was as cheering to our eyes as are the lights of his village to
the storm-tossed mariner. There are few views in the world that
can equal the first sight one obtains of the Tensift valley and the
Atlas Mountains,—the strange mingling of tropical vegetation, of
fields green with crops, and of peaks 13,000 and 14,000 feet high,
one and all capped with snow, forming a unique scene. There, too,
was the city, its minarets, like little needles, peeping above the
level of the feathery heads of the palms, but still far away.
The glimpse of shade and water gave energy to our weary bodies,
and we pushed on as fast as was possible for the tired mules, who,
nevertheless, needed but little urging, for to them, too, the scene
must have appealed as much as, if not more than, to ourselves.
At a stream we drank; then entering the palm-groves, threaded our
way, here through a forest of tall straight stems, there through
fields of green maize, until within a mile or two of the city
we camped for the night at a small _nzala_, or resting-place for
caravans.
As often in these pages this word _nzala_ will be found, it may be
as well to explain its purport here. Owing to the lawlessness of the
tribes, small villages have been planted by the native Government
along all the tracks which in Morocco answer the purposes of
roads. Usually the inhabitants of these wayside caravanserais are
natives of some other tribe, brought there and given a small grant
of land. The villages consist merely of thatch huts and the brown
_ghiem_ or tents of the Arabs; but there is always a large _zareba_,
or open space enclosed with a high and thick thorn hedge, in which
travellers and their pack-animals spend the night. The village
community furnishes a guard at the only entrance to this _zareba_,
and in case of robbery the inhabitants are held responsible by
the Government. In return for this responsibility they collect a
small tax from any who make use of their protection. The system
is a good one, and theft is very uncommon, it being greatly to the
villagers’ benefit to carefully guard the traveller’s property
and exact the small fee, rather than by stealing call down upon
themselves the wrath of the native Government and the rapacity of
the local officials.
So at the last _nzala_ on the road from Saffi to Marakesh we spent
the night, pitching our one little tent in the _zareba_, and hiring
an elderly female, who possessed only one eye, to cook us some supper
in her hut of thatch; and, considering that her fire consisted only
of bunches of thistles, which had to be replaced almost as soon as
they were lit, she performed her task with skill and success.
[Illustration: _Berber Tribesmen._]
The next morning, at the tail of our little caravan, I entered
Marakesh on foot, grimy and travel-stained, and reached my
destination, the house of Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui, without
attracting any attention as a Christian in disguise.
Here comfort, even luxury, awaited me, and pleasant indeed were the
eight days I spent in the city before continuing my journey—this
time into unknown regions.
Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui is almost the best-known man in Morocco,
and probably the most disliked, a fact in which he takes particular
pride. Protected by the British Government, to all intents and
purposes a British subject, he has by these means been able to
amass a large fortune without the native Government having annexed
it and imprisoned the possessor. Whether this fortune has been
altogether collected by creditable means, according to European
ideas of business, I am unable to say, nor is it a matter of any
importance. Suffice it that his fortune has made him many enemies,
whose jealousy at seeing him easily and safely amassing wealth,
while they have been under the constant dread of confiscation by
officials, and continual taxation, has reached such a pitch that
they have not hesitated to spread all kinds of scandalous reports
about his goings on. These reports reached the ears, amongst others,
of British philanthropists in England; and while Sid Abu Bekr was
engaged in building fresh houses and buying new gardens in his native
city, the House of Commons was being harangued as to the perfidies
of the so-called “Government Agent” in Morocco City. It did
not stop there; newspapers, even foreign European Governments,
took the question up, and his name became of common mention in
official despatches. As long, however, as his personal liberty
was not affected, he merely laughed at these hazardous statements,
until one day it was brought to his ears that things looked serious,
and that the only English newspaper in Morocco was calling him a
slave-dealer, a brothel-keeper, and, if I remember right, a murderer.
Then Abu Bekr girt up his loins to fight, and for some ten days his
action for libel occupied the time of the High Court of Gibraltar. I
was present on the occasion, and shall never forget the scene when,
seated in the witness-box, Sid Abu Bekr, robed in silks and fine
linens, answered calmly and expressionlessly the extremely unpleasant
questions put to him by the defendant—unpleasant in that they
referred to that, to the Moor, most private of questions, his wives
and his daughters. Every atrocity, every crime, was stated to have
been committed by him; but with no result more than the fact that
Sid Abu Bekr won his action with costs, and 500 dollars damages,
and an injunction that the libel should not be repeated.
Thereupon, his character legally cleared, he returned once more to
Marakesh, where, surrounded by his little daughters, to whom he is
devotedly attached, he lives in luxury and wealth.
In the house of this man my days were spent, just as I lived another
three weeks with him on my return journey, and I received from
him then, just as I have always done, every mark of kindness and
hospitality. Even the interior of his house was open to me, and
many a pleasant hour I passed playing with his little daughters,
whose dresses of silks and brocades sparkled with jewels.
By this time I had found opportunity to take stock of my travelling
companions, who, as they played a by no means unimportant part in
the success of my journey, deserve some notice.
The chief of our party, by position, age, and, he himself would
probably add, acquirements, was the elderly Shereef. In person
he was dark, of a sort of coffee-colour, with a grey beard and
moustache; a short figure inclined to stoutness, and a bad habit of
trying to sing. Himself a native of the Sahara, it was on him that
I principally relied for success in my undertaking, my personality
and disguise being concealed under the bushel of his reputation and
accomplishments. Principal amongst the latter was his knowledge of
medicine, a hereditary knowledge it must be understood, part of the
_baraka_, or blessing, of his august family, for he was a descendant
of the Prophet Mohammed. I unfortunately had no opportunity of
seeing the result of his skill, for when in his company I was never
in one place sufficiently long to obtain any information as to the
potency of the draughts he administered out of one of the three empty
soda-water-bottles he had with him. It was entirely my own fault,
though, that I did not see him perform the operation he was most
skilled in—namely, cataract—for before leaving Tangier I had
received a letter from him asking me to bring a large bottle of
chloroform and a knife suitable for the purpose. This I steadily
refused to do, and I think that the old man felt the slight I
had unintentionally offered him, and fancied that I doubted his
skill. At least he was always holding forth upon the subject, and
continually repeating the story that when in Algeria he had been
offered a fabulous salary—the sum varied each time the tale was
told—to remain in charge of the military hospital at Algiers, an
honour which he had declined. He never tired of narrating the facts
and details of his most successful operation. There is a sect in
Morocco called “Hamacha,” who are followers of a certain saint
by name Sidi Ali ben Hamduch, who lies buried near Meknas. These
devotees amuse their audience—and themselves too, let us hope—by
throwing into the air heavy cannon-balls, which they allow to fall
upon their shaven crowns. On the occasion in question a Hamdushi
had unfortunately evidently been wanting in religious power, for the
cannon-ball crushed his skull. My old Shereef friend had been called
to the rescue, and according to his account, which, let us hope, for
the sake of science as well as his own reputation, is a true one,
he removed the broken patch of skull, replacing it with the rind
of a green pumpkin, and closing the skin over it. In a month’s
time the patient was not only convalescent but was once more hard
at work practising his religio-acrobatic feats, with not only a
remodelled and renovated skull, but even a new crop of hair! Such,
then, was the skill of the leader of our caravan.
But there was another member who aspired to play the chief part
in our little camp—the black slave-girl. Of all the mischievous
impertinent hussies that ever saw the light of day she was the
worst. Alternately shrieking with laughter at her practical jokes,
and howling with rage because she couldn’t get what she wanted
for supper, she was equally annoying in either capacity. At the
same time, one could not help laughing at her strange antics. Why
she had come at all was at first a mystery to me, until it leaked
out that she had insisted upon doing so, and had pulled the old
man’s beard until, with tears in his eyes, he had promised to
take her—anyhow, come she did. Her mother was a slave of the
Shereef’s wife—the wife who lived at Saffi, for there were a
couple more at Dads, where he had formerly resided, and where his
home really was—who had been bought with her little daughter, our
fellow-traveller, some ten years before. The girl was fearfully ugly,
as black as jet, with all the typical features of the negro. However,
one readily forgave her this, and all her sins as well, for many a
laugh her antics caused us when hunger and cold made a laugh worth
double its ordinary value. When she was riding she wanted to walk;
as soon as she commenced to walk she wanted some one to mount her
again on the mule, from which, if she did not purposely alight,
she would invariably tumble off. Such was the lady of our party,
and she accompanied us as far as Dads, leaving there with the
old Shereef some four days before I arrived at Tafilet. She stood
the cold and fatigue of the journey well, and ought to be made a
Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, for she had a wonderfully
retentive memory of the road and all the places we had stayed at,
though as often as not she managed to forget the sternly delivered
command that she was not to eat our complete store of dates while
our backs were turned. Enough of Embarka, for such was her name.
The next individual in our caravan was of a very different kind and
class,—a long, tall, delicate, thin man of some four-and-twenty
years of age, with one of the most beautiful voices in speaking I
ever heard. He was himself a Shereef, a nephew of the old doctor’s;
and a man of absolute fearlessness in danger, and equal gentleness
and sweetness of manner in time of peace. He never complained of
cold or hunger, though we suffered much from both, but bore all the
hardships of the journey, and they were many indeed, not only with
every fortitude, but also without ever losing an opportunity to
attempt to add to my comfort. As we trudged along the weary desert
roads he would for hours together, with a voice that would be the
fortune of a Member of Parliament, and gestures that an actor might
spend years and never acquire, relate to me strange stories of the
past, page after page of Moorish history and tradition, in Arabic
as pure and as poetical as any that can exist.
The very opposite was the old Shereef’s son, a boy of some twelve
or thirteen years of age. Heavy in body and mind, he had neither
the intellect to be amusing nor the inclination to be useful, and
served no other purpose of advantage than to be the object of the
black girl’s practical jokes instead of any other of us.
There was, too, in our party the returning pilgrim, a devotee of the
sect of Mulai Ali el Derkaui, as was apparent from his green turban
and the string of large wooden beads he wore suspended round his
neck. A strange quiet man he was, always ready to help us load our
animals or pitch our one little tent, but seldom speaking; never
missing the hour of prayer, and often himself bearing part of the
load of his little donkey, on which he was carrying to his native
village a few bars of rough iron to be forged into ploughshares. We
saw but little of him: he was always a hundred yards ahead or behind,
counting his beads as he came along; and often when we missed him
altogether we could see away back along the road his figure, or its
shadow, for his colour and that of his clothes corresponded too
truly with the yellow sand, as he rose and fell in prayer. I was
much struck by his quiet, patient, uncomplaining way. He didn’t
belong to us, but travelling in the same direction, he joined
our little caravan, and we made the journey together. I of all
our party had some conversation with him, for kind as were they
all to the solitary stranger, he was timid and retired. However,
we often talked together as I trudged beside him, and he seemed
to be a man of no little power of reasoning and thought. Often in
discussing theological questions, and he would talk of nothing else,
it became apparent that a battle was raging in his heart, a battle
of common-sense against prejudice and fanaticism. He had travelled
to Mecca and back, and his eyes had been opened, and he seemed to
realise the narrow-mindedness of the school in which he had been
brought up. He spoke openly to me, for to the day he left us at
Dads to turn aside to his home, he never knew I was a Christian
and a European, and often we prayed together by the roadside.
There remains but one more man to mention, my servant Mohammed
er-Rifi, who followed me faithfully throughout the long journey,
and returned with me to Tangier to commence again the humdrum
existence of waiting at table and sweeping floors. An excellent
youth he is, all good nature and smiles, strong and trustworthy,
but preferring the luxuries and warmth of my kitchen to sharing
the hardships of a desert tramp of several hundred miles. However,
he never complained until the end of the journey, and then, arrived
once more in Marakesh, he cursed the desert, and all that in it is,
with all the curses he could muster—a very tolerable lot, on the
whole. However, I cannot speak too highly of his fidelity and of
the patience with which he bore what must have been to him a most
terrible journey—nor forget to say that at times he hints that
he and I should set out afresh for pastures new.
I have entered somewhat at length into the characters and description
of my men, but some word of praise is only due to them; for had
I not been surrounded by a faithful and uncomplaining band, my
success in reaching Tafilet would never have come about.
The usual delays occurred in Marakesh before we got started once
more, this time again the fault of the old Shereef, who wanted to buy
presents to take to his relations at Dads,—the existence of whom,
although he had two wives and quite a number of children there,
he had apparently forgotten for several years,—and could not
decide what to purchase.
So having found quarters for my men and my mules, I determined to
enjoy the last few days of rest and plenty that I was destined to
know for several months.
[Illustration: _From Saffi, to Morocco City: a weekly Market._]
CHAPTER II.
MARAKESH.
I had already several times visited Marakesh, or Morocco City, and
had therefore no difficulty in finding my way all over the town,
through the streets of which, ruinous as they are, it is always
a pleasure to pass; for all kinds and species of human beings
congregate in this southern capital of the empire, from the fair
mountaineer to the swarthy negro from Timbuctu and the Sudan, from
the rich merchant of Fez to the lithe shy Berber of the snow-clad
peaks of Mount Atlas.
But before I speak of the inhabitants and the strange sights to be
seen within the city, some general description of the place must
be given.
Marakesh shares with Fez and Meknas, both lying far to the north,
the title of a capital, and it often forms the residence of the
Sultans of Morocco for considerable periods at a time, the royal
palace here being one of the largest in the country. The city
lies in a wide plain, formed by the valley of the Wad Tensift,
some fifteen miles to the north of the foot-hills of the great
Atlas range, at an altitude of some 1600 feet above the level of
the sea, from which it is distant about a hundred miles. A wall
from 20 to 30 feet in height surrounds the city, which covers a
very large extent of ground, though no inconsiderable portion of
the enclosed extent is composed of gardens. This wall is defended
at intervals of 120 yards by towers, some of which are formed of
stone, but most of native concrete or _tabia_, and without lime
being employed. Seven gates give entrance and exit to and from the
town, but none presents any remarkably handsome features, being more
attractive from their yellow colouring and general picturesqueness
than from any architectural beauties. On almost all sides the city
is surrounded by luxuriant groves of date-palms, stretching for
some miles to the north, but more scanty on the south. These are
irrigated and the water-supply brought from the Wad Tensift, which
flows to the north of the city, and in which there is, summer and
winter, a considerable volume of water.
Approaching Morocco from almost every direction except the south,
the place lies hid behind the forest of palms until one is close
upon it, and even then little is to be seen but the dull yellow
walls with their square towers, above which rise the many minarets
of the form common to Morocco. These do not in the least resemble
those of the East, being of far more solid construction and form,
and are almost universally square, though now and again octagonal
or sexagonal. Often decorated in gorgeous green tiles, they add,
wherever they are met with, a glimpse of colour and form to a
city that is otherwise but gloomy,—its buildings and soil, its
inhabitants and their clothing, seeming to be all more or less
tones of one colour, a greyish yellow. Such is Marakesh as seen
from without the walls.
[Illustration: A GENERAL VIEW OF MOROCCO CITY.]
As soon as one has entered its gates the state of dilapidation in
which the city now is becomes apparent. Surrounded by ruinous houses
and mosques are large open spaces of ground, as often as not filled
with the refuse of the city. From these the streets give entrance
into the more habitable quarters, where some pretensions to comfort,
though few to cleanliness, are to be found.
The streets are wider, as a rule, than in Fez, though many are narrow
enough; but the size of the houses bears no proportion to those
of the northern capital, being for the most part of one storey in
height, except in the thoroughfares and quiet back-streets in which
the richer portion of the population live. The smaller one-storeyed
buildings all more or less adopt the same form of construction, being
built round an open court. _Tabia_—concrete, or rather consolidated
soil—is the material in use, with here and there mud bricks. Only
two stone buildings, I believe, exist in the whole city.—the
handsome gate leading into the “Kasba” near the Government
mosque, and the still more handsome minaret of the “Kutubía.”
Some little signs of prosperity, however, are apparent
in the bazaars, which are large and well supplied. The new
“Kaiseríeh”—parallel arcades arched overhead and lit by open
skylights—are of by no means contemptible size or construction,
and in good repair. They present of an afternoon, when the goods
are for sale by auction in the arcades and by retail in the many
box-like shops that line them, a picturesque and lively scene. All
manner of goods can be purchased here—from the newest design in
Manchester cottons to old silver daggers and brass candelabra. As
in nearly all oriental cities, the different trades possess their
separate bazaars, one whole street being given up to the _attarin_,
or sellers of sugar, spices, glass, and china, &c., who answer much
to our grocers; another to the brass and copper workers; a third to
the saddlers; and the longest of all perhaps to the shoe-workers,
for Marakesh is celebrated for its leather. The merchants and
inhabitants generally of the city are very different in type and
character to those of Fez. Whereas the latter are fair, and generally
most fanatical, the native of Marakesh is a good fellow, smiling and
cheery, with far more of the traits of the negro than of the Moor
of the north. In colour, too, he is much darker than the Fezzi,
and many show more or less remote signs of negro blood, owing,
no doubt, to their proximity to the darker tribes, and the fact
that the slave-trade of entire Morocco filters through this city.
The residential part of the town is divided into several districts,
separated from each other by open spaces, or by streets of
shops. Just as in Europe, there are the fashionable and unfashionable
quarters, the “Medina” or city being perhaps the most sought
after. So largely does fashion hold sway over the people, that the
rents of houses of equal size only a few hundred yards away from
one another vary often fifty per cent, a palace in the district
of “Bab Dukala” not bringing anything like so large a sum as a
minute house in the “Medina.” It was in the latter that I resided
during my stay, in the house of Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui, who owns
very considerable property all over the city, and particularly in
this neighbourhood. The houses here are high, and, like most Moorish
residences, have but few windows looking towards the street, one and
all possessing central courts on to which the rooms open. But even
in respect of windows Morocco City is different to Fez, for whereas
[Illustration: _A Street in Marakesh._]
in the latter from the streets one sees but few, and those generally
closely barred, in Marakesh they are in considerably larger numbers,
though, as I stated above, by no means general.
After the “Medina”—the trading quarter—the “Kasba” is
the most important. This district, the residence of the Government,
and which contains the palace, is separated from the remainder of
the town by walls, much resembling those that encircle the city,
but higher and in better repair. Nor do the houses reach to this
wall, for between the city proper and the “Kasba” are large
open spaces and many gardens, adding a most picturesque effect to
this quarter. These gardens for the most part are walled, and as
a rule only the tree-tops, amongst them the handsome cypress and
date-palm, are visible, while the minarets beyond cap the scene.
One enters the “Kasba” through the handsome stone gate of
which I have already made mention, and of which tradition says the
stones were brought from Spain, and after passing a smaller and
less important gateway, one emerges opposite the large “Jumma el
Makhzen,” or Government mosque, with its handsome minaret of stone
and tiles, and its huge modern courtyard, opening on to the street by
large gates. With the exception of the tower, now fast falling into
decay, it presents no particular features of architectural beauty,
though its courts and green tiles and turreted walls are by no
means despicable. A long straight road with one-storeyed houses on
both sides, for the most part quarters of soldiers and _employés_
in the Government service, leads on to another series of walls,
those of the Sultan’s palace.
As in all the Moorish cities, the great courtyards of the palace
are public thoroughfares, though they can be closed any moment
by the strong gates which are found in every direction, and one
of the principal entrances and exits of the city is through the
royal squares that lie between the palace and the great park,
or “Agdal,” of the Sultan. These squares, three in number,
are surrounded by high walls of modern construction and in good
repair, and open into one another by handsome gateways, decorated
in colour-tiles and painting,—the latter an art peculiar almost
to this portion of Morocco, and though met with here and there
elsewhere, it is known throughout the country as a Marakesh
fashion. For the most part it consists of red and black designs
upon a ground of yellow ochre, and has by no means a bad effect,
especially when employed under the overhanging roofs of green tiles
in the palaces and mosques.
Although it covers a very considerable amount of ground, the
palace at Marakesh, as seen from the outside, does not present
any very particular features of beauty, though the pointed roofs
of brilliant green and highly glazed tiles, capped with globes of
gold, are picturesque enough. The interior it is impossible to see,
and the one or two courtyards which I had visited on a previous
occasion were in bad repair, noticeable only for their size and
absence of decoration. Probably, however, in the portion of the
palace put aside for the private use of the Sultan and his many
women, there exists a great deal that
[Illustration: _Inner Court of Sultan’s Palace in Marakesh._]
is beautiful in the way of architecture and decoration, though the
constant love of the Sultans for pulling down and rebuilding has no
doubt destroyed much of the older work, which in all probability
was the best. It must by no means, however, be denied that even
the modern architecture of the Moors, as exemplified in the finer
houses of Fez, is excellent. It is the custom of writers on Morocco
to detract in every way from the present state of the country and
its inhabitants, especially as regards architecture; but this is
no doubt owing to the fact that they have no opportunity during
their stay in the towns of entering the houses of the official
and richer classes, for the Moors are very shy of strangers, and
it requires a long acquaintance with the language and the people
before they will admit one, as a rule, into the interior of their
abodes, and then generally not unless the native costume is adopted,
for fear of falling into bad repute if “Christians” are seen to
enter. I have myself not only had many opportunities of seeing the
finest houses of Fez, but have resided in them for several periods
of no little time, and can vouch that some of the dwellings of
the richer men are little short of the Alhambra in beauty. The one
great drawback to their modern architecture is the entire absence
of marble pillars, in place of which much heavier work is erected,
usually richly decorated in tiles. Beautiful as they often are, the
airiness and lightness so apparent in the Alhambra, for instance,
is entirely wanting. The mosaics of finely cut tiles to-day being
worked in Fez surpass in design and skilful application any I have
seen in Spain. However, I have wandered rather far from Morocco
City, for there but little if any great beauty is to be seen,
the inhabitants being, as a rule, much poorer than those of the
northern capital, while the materials used in the construction of
their houses are not nearly so good or so lasting.
On the opposite side of the three squares to the palace are the
walls of the “Agdal,” the great enclosed park of the Sultan. On
a previous visit to Marakesh I had been allowed to wander at will
in these gardens for hours at a time, and though, according to
our ideas, they have fallen into a state of ruin, they are still
very beautiful. Water runs in every direction; and at one spot is
a huge tank, or reservoir, reached by a handsome flight of steps,
and of such dimensions that a steam-launch plies upon its waters. As
for the gardens, they are a forest of olive and palm and orange
trees, half smothered in many places in dense creepers, while the
soil is covered with a thick undergrowth of shrubs and flowers,
that shelter not only the partridge and the hare, but even foxes
and jackals. The Sultan, in spite of the dilapidated state of his
gardens, draws no small revenue from the sale of its fruits, which
are put up to auction annually, and sold when still on the trees,
the purchasers having to pluck and send them to the market, as well
as to guard them against theft.
There are several fine mosques in the Marakesh, one surpassing
all the others in its magnificent minaret, which may be said to
be almost the sole existing example in the whole country of the
remarkable existence. This
[Illustration: _The Kutubía in Marakesh._]
mosque and minaret are known as the “Kutubía,” or “Mosque
of the Library,” from its having contained at one period a vast
collection of manuscripts. The tower, built of squared stone, is
280 feet in height, and is surmounted by a smaller minaret, which
again is capped with a dome. On the summit of this dome are three
gold globes, one above the other and decreasing in size. On the
summit of the lower tower is a parapet of Moorish design. The whole
building is of a dull red colour, and the niches of the windows and
the centres of its faces are carved in a very pure style of Arabic
design. Originally tilework filled most of these niches, but a great
quantity of this has fallen away, though a broad band of green and
black encircles the whole immediately below the parapet. Just as
in the two sister towers,—the Ghiralda of Seville and the Hassan
tower at Rabat, the latter uncompleted,—a sloping incline takes
the place of steps within, on account of this forming an easier
ascent for the beasts of burden that carried the stones during its
construction. The architect of all three of these towers is said to
have been a certain Fabir, who worked in the employ of the Sultan
El Mansur, in whose reign the Kutubía was completed. The mosque
beneath, though covering an enormous extent of ground, is in by no
means just proportion to the great minaret, being built of brick,
and white-washed, while the roof is tiled. Below the flooring is said
to exist a great cistern excavated by the Sultan El Mansur. The
pillars supporting the roof of this mosque are all of marble,
and the courts are paved in the same stone and coloured tiles.
From whatever point Marakesh is looked at, the great tower of
the Kutubía is the first object to catch the eye, and it forms an
excellent landmark in steering one’s way over the bewildering plain
that surrounds the city on all sides. I was told when crossing the
Glawi Pass, on the fourth day after leaving Marakesh for Tafilet,
that from a point near the road this great work, the sole reminder
of the genius of the old-day Moors, was visible.
Although the largest mosque, and possessing the handsomest minaret,
the Kutubía seems much deserted as a place of worship, possibly
from its being somewhat removed from the more inhabited portions
of the city. Two shrines have annexed all the veneration of the
townspeople and the surrounding tribes,—those of Sid bel Abbas,
the patron saint of the city, and Mulai Abdul Aziz. A pretty story
is told about the first, which, though common amongst the Moors, I
have never seen quoted. Sid bel Abbas arrived outside the walls of
the town, a beggar in rags; but although his poverty was apparent,
he had a great reputation for sanctity. Before entering he sent to
the Shereefs living within to ask their permission to be allowed to
reside in the city, a course that much perturbed the said saints; for
up to that moment they possessed the monopoly of the business—in
Morocco a most lucrative one—of demanding and receiving alms
on account of their descent from the Prophet. Wishing, however,
to avoid an abrupt refusal, they resorted to delay, during which
Sid bel Abbas took up his residence on the summit of a rocky barren
hill—Jibel Glissa—which rises amongst the palm-groves to the
west of the walls, and on which a little mosque to-day commemorates
the event. At length, seeing that some answer must be sent, the
Shereefs filled a bowl to the brim with water and sent it out
to him. The bowl represented the city and the water themselves,
and the bowl was full, which said pretty plainly, “Business
already overstocked—much rather you wouldn’t come.” However,
they gave him an opportunity of getting over their device, for the
message they sent was couched in more poetical language. “If you
can add,” they said, “to a bowl of water already full, enter.”
Thereupon the saint plucked a rose and held it in the sun until its
stalk thirsted for moisture, when he gently laid it in the bowl. The
water displaced was drunk up by the thirsty flower. In this manner he
sent the bowl back—but with no answer. When, however, the Shereefs
saw that he had succeeded, and also paid such a pretty compliment
to himself as to liken them to the water and himself to the rose,
they withdrew all opposition, and the saint entered the city, and,
judging from the reverence paid to his bones, must have entirely
monopolised the business.
The “Zauia” of Sid bel Abbas forms a sort of almshouses, and
food and money are distributed there to the poor. An entire quarter
of the city—the extreme north-west—belongs to the _zauia_, and
it owns enormous tracts of palm-groves and agricultural land in the
surrounding plain. These possessions have been offerings from the
faithful, or bequests at death, and in some cases purchases made with
the constant flow of money that pours into the coffers of the mosque.
Another almost equally holy spot is the shrine of Mulai Abdul Aziz,
which lies either in or just on the borders of the “Medina”
quarter. A very handsome building covers the tomb, like that
of the rival saint, gorgeously decorated, and full of lamps and
candlesticks of precious metals. But of all the treasures stored in
these sanctuaries, clocks are the most numerous. When this invention
began to penetrate into Morocco—that is to say, in comparatively
late years—they were naturally looked upon as the most valuable
and wonderful things, and a fashion promptly set in to bestow them
upon the ashes of the dead saints. Every one who could afford it
gave a clock, and often in talking of local saints I have heard
Moors say, “Ah! he was a saint indeed, God’s mercy upon him;
and there are four clocks in his tomb!” It is said that the
burial-place of Mulai Idris at Fez presents a bewildering scene of
clocks, great and small, half going, and all wrong. I myself have
had opportunities of visiting one or two tombs in Morocco, and have
listened, bewildered, to the ticking of fifty or sixty of these
much-reverenced presents. Most seem to be tall “grandfather”
clocks, made in England, and dating from about the end of the last
century. Some are remarkably fine, with silver dials, showing
the quarters of the moon, &c. Even to-day the natives adore the
great, loud, ticking horrors manufactured for the native market in
Algeria—monstrosities of gaudy decoration and painted wood—and no
good house is considered complete without one or more. I have dined
in houses at Fez where there have been six or seven in one room.
[Illustration: THE SÔK JUMMA-EL-FANAR, THE PRINCIPAL PLACE IN
MOROCCO CITY.]
None of the other mosques of Marakesh calls for much remark, though
those of Ibn Yusuf, El Mansur, and El Muiz are large, the former
possessing a very handsome, though more modern, minaret, rich in
green tiles. As is customary all through Morocco, no Christians
are allowed to enter the sanctuaries, and even whole districts,
_zauias_, are sacred. One or two streets near the tomb of Mulai
Abdul Aziz are crossed with chains, marking the boundary of town
and saintly property, and within these limits even the assassin
is safe from arrest, for they answer the purpose of marking the
boundary of the refuge. The result is that all the _zauias_ are
full of refugees of all classes, from political prisoners to the
pilferer of the stalls in the markets.
Two large markets are held weekly, one outside the Bab (gate)
el Khamis—as its name implies, on Thursdays—and the other
within the city walls in the square of Jumma el fanar. Both collect
large crowds of the country-people, as well as the natives of the
town, and the trade is considerable in native produce. The more
picturesque of the two is without doubt that of the “Khamis,”
for the great open space that serves as the market-place is
surrounded on two sides by the palm-groves, and on the other two
by the long straight line of the city walls. A few cypress-trees
and a white-domed saint’s tomb add not a little to form a fit
background to the strange grouping of figures and animals that
are crowded together in the market. Here herds of oxen, cows, and
calves are for sale, tended by the long-robed Arabs from the plains;
there camels, goats, and sheep. Mules occupy a spot to themselves,
and one at a time is mounted by the auctioneer to show its paces;
while a professional rider gallops to and fro, shouting as he goes,
upon the various horses, for which he yells for bids. All classes
and kinds of people congregate in the market—from rich Shereefs,
accompanied by slaves, and riding great fat mules with crimson
saddles, to the ragged hungry soldier; from the timid Berber of the
Atlas peaks, in his black cloak, to the _gamin_ of the streets;
from the respectable grain-merchant to the most disreputable of
Jew money-lenders. Here, too, the shoesmith has his tents, and
women sell baskets and embroideries, pots and pans of earthenware,
and wooden dishes, embroidered _kuftans_ and woollen girdles. All
the city seems to adjourn of a Thursday morning to the great level
space outside the Bab el Khamis to buy and sell or look on.
[Illustration: _A Jewish Banker of Marakesh._]
The Jews, as in nearly all Moorish cities, possess a quarter to
themselves—the “Mellah,” or salted place. In Marakesh it lies
quite close to the “Kasba,” and almost adjoins the Sultan’s
palace. If anything this division of the town is dirtier than any
other, while the ever-present smell of _mahia_—the strong spirit
made in the place—adds a nauseating aroma to the many already
emitted by the offal and filth thrown out into the street. There
are many well-to-do Jews in Marakesh, and one or two possess nice
houses, scrupulously clean within, but with manure-heaps, several
feet in height, at the door-step—the refuse of the place, which
they merely throw there and leave to rot.
Drunkenness seems very common in the streets of the _mellah_,
and it is this fact that gave rise to the recent complaints as to
the persecution of the Jews. As far as the Sultan is concerned,
they can get as drunk as they like in their own quarter, for
they are under a Sheikh of their own; but he naturally objected
to them selling _mahia_ to the soldiery, for whose crimes he was
responsible. However, in spite of the fact that the Jews are,
or ought to be, almost all Moorish subjects, the Sultan has not
been able to prevent this nuisance, for the cry of persecution at
once arises. I was asked on the last two occasions that I visited
Marakesh to make inquiries as to the state of the Jews there, and
had opportunities of speaking with, and consulting, the leading and
most respectable of the Israelites. They one and all made light of
the complaint of general persecution, but mentioned that individual
cases did exist where Jews had been hardly treated on insufficient
evidence. However, such is far more often the case with Moors. I have
met with much kindness on my travels from the Jews of the interior,
and also at times with no little show of fanatical hatred; and I
think that the most respectable of their tribe in all the towns
acknowledged that the cry of persecution was more an attempt to
become exempt from taxation than for justice for wrongs done. There
can be no doubt, however, that in former times the Jews were cruelly
used; but the late Sultan, Mulai el Hassen, was a broad-minded man,
and never refused to listen to their petitions. No one mourned his
death more sincerely than the peace-abiding members of that tribe,
whose wrongs he was ever ready to redress, though only naturally
he put opposition in the way of those who, taking advantage of
European protection or his own leniency, practised nefarious usury
with his subjects.
The population of Marakesh to-day does not probably number more than
some 40,000 souls, though it is said that within a hundred years
of its founding by Yusuf in 1062 A.D. it contained some 700,000
inhabitants. There is no doubt, though this figure is probably an
exaggeration, that it was at one time a city of great importance
and learning, for even Europe sent its sons to be educated at the
great colleges that existed there at that time.
I have written but little as to Marakesh. It is a city that has
so often been described by other travellers, that it has been my
purpose here merely to sketch its peculiarities and to give a general
[Illustration: _A Street Scene in Marakesh._]
impression of the place. Briefly, it presents a maze of yellow
streets, leading, here, between the crumbling walls of tottering
houses; there, through narrow dimly lit bazaars with their tiny
boxlike shops; and here, again, amongst the high white walls of
the residences of the richer class. Then out into great open dusty
spaces, surrounded by half-ruined mosques with tiled minarets,
or gardens above the walls of which appear the tops of palms,
olive, and orange trees, and the straight stems of glowing
cypresses. Then perhaps one turns a corner and comes face to face
with a drinking-fountain of exquisite tilework and carved wood,
to stumble, as one gazes at it, into a manure-heap or a hole in the
road, broken in the roof of some aqueduct. And beyond the wonderful
range of white snow-peaks, rising some 12,000 feet above the level
of the city, the silent majesty of the great Atlas Mountains.
CHAPTER III.
THE ASCENT OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS.
On the afternoon of November 1 a start was eventually made for our
journey of exploration. My party consisted of the same men as had
accompanied me from Saffi, with the addition of a dull and lazy
negro, whom I had taken into my employ on the recommendation of a
native of Tafilet to whom I had confided my plan. He turned out to
be worse than useless, complained the entire route of the hardships
of the journey, and insisted upon riding the whole distance, while
I had to go most of the way on foot, gaining his point by constant
veiled threats of exposing my identity. I had to humour him as long
as we were upon the road, for fear of his making known the fact
that I was a European in disguise; but on my return to Marakesh he
paid the price of his impertinence and perfidy in a manner more
in use in Morocco than in England—for on my making a statement
to his master of his conduct, which was amply corroborated by all
my men, he received, without my knowledge, though I do not think I
should have objected, the flogging he deserved. His presence was
a constant cause of anxiety and danger during the whole journey;
and his coarse impertinent manner, his threats, his treatment
of my other men and myself, so exasperated me, that on one or two
occasions I felt that I could have ordered him to be flogged myself,
and enjoyed the sight of it. While every one else was making light of
the cold and our hunger, he would be cursing at me for having brought
him, and stealing, if he could get it by no other means, the share
of food belonging to the rest of the men. The least remonstrance
brought a threat that he would inform the natives of my disguise,
and thereby ensure my death. On one occasion it was only by an
effort that I succeeded in restraining my men from murdering him,
which was their intention during some night. Fear of discovery there
was none, and their moral code certainly would allow of the taking
the life of a man whose presence caused danger to every other soul
in camp, and who used this power to obtain everything procurable
that he set his heart on, caring little whether the rest of us fell
by the wayside from fatigue so long as he could ride, or died of
starvation so long as he could obtain his fill of food. I have no
pity even now when I think of the salutary hiding he got when he
returned to Marakesh, for a worse villain never, I believe, existed.
We split up our little party and left Morocco City by different
gates, so that in case any information had reached the ears of the
native officials there would be less chance of their being able
to arrest our progress; but nothing occurred, and an hour after
bidding adieu to my host, Sid Abu Bekr, our united caravan of men,
three mules, and a couple of donkeys, had entered the palm-groves
and was threading its way toward the open plain.
Before us lay the Atlas, blue and white in the sunshine, and
seeming to bar all farther progress in that direction, of so
equal an altitude are the snow-peaks. The scene was a charming
one—the constant peep of the glistening snow seen through groves
of palms. But the forest, which to the west and north of Marakesh
extends to a great distance, does not to the east protrude far
into the plain; and in an hour or so we had left the last palm-tree
behind and entered the open level country, which stretched away to
where the unbroken line of mountains rises from the plain.
At a small _nzala_, the merest collection of thatch huts with the
usual _zareba_ of thorn hedge, we spent the night, crowding into
the little tent, before which our animals were hobbled; and soon
our tin kettle was boiling, while the black slave-girl unpacked
the tiny glass tumblers that take the place of tea-cups, and the
old Shereef made a brew of the favourite beverage of Morocco,
green tea with piles of sugar and mint.
Every one was in the best of humours. At length all delays were over,
and we were started upon our adventurous journey, in the success of
which all, with the exception of the negro, felt a common interest;
and as we squatted round the tent we talked and laughed together,
as cheery a little band of men as could be found anywhere.
Before dawn on November 2 a start was made. Impatient as I was to
reach country where I should be safe from the interference of the
Moorish Government, it was decided that our pace must be very slow,
for a long and weary road lay before our pack-animals, and their
strength must be husbanded for the climb over the mountains. So it
was that we pushed on quietly, seldom travelling over three miles
an hour at this part of the road, although the soil was good and
the country level.
Our course took us in an east-by-south direction across the plain of
Misfiwa, which forms one of the large _bashaliks_, or governorships,
of Southern Morocco. There were many signs of cultivation on both
sides of the road; but the dry summer had turned the soil to a
light yellow hue, which rendered it no easy matter to see how much
was agricultural land and how much merely used for grazing. That
crops are largely raised in this part is a well-known fact, yet
judging from the appearance of the soil at this season of the year
it looks poor enough. The villages are few and far between, and
although mostly inhabited by the Berbers, the original inhabitants
of Morocco before the Arab invasion, their dwellings had not as yet
begun to show the neater and superior style of building we were so
soon to notice. However, as we proceeded and forded the Wad Urika,
placing a longer distance between us and the city, the improvement in
the habitations became visible, and instead of the thatch _nuail_, or
huts, of the villages that we had been passing, we found houses built
of _tabia_ with flat roofs, which, though possessing no particular
appearance of comfort or size, were greatly superior to the others.
Two rivers were passed before we left the plain to enter one of the
valleys of the Atlas Mountains, at Imin Zat. These were, namely, the
Wad Urika, which I have already mentioned, and the Wad el Melha, or
salt river, which owes its name to its brackish waters. Both rise in
the Atlas Mountains,—the Urika in the valley above Akhliz, which I
had visited some five years previously; and the Wad el Melha farther
to the east, issuing from the hills by a narrow valley a few miles to
the east of that of the Urika. Although such of the last winter’s
snow as disappears in summer had already melted, and the fresh fall
had not as yet taken place, there was a considerable body of water
in both streams, a sure sign that while we had been parching in the
sun-dried plains heavy rains had fallen amongst the mountains. The
water of both is largely used for purposes of irrigation, although
that of the Wad el Melha is salt, and a considerable amount of
labour and time has been expended in banking up the small canals
which carry the precious liquid to the fields far removed from
the actual course. After flowing some ten miles into the plain
from the Atlas foot-hills, these two rivers unite in the province
of “Uidan”—“the rivers”—and finally empty themselves
into the Wad Tensift some six or seven miles to the north-east of
Morocco City, near the _zauia_ and tomb of Sidi Abdullah ben Sessi.
The plain at this point presents the appearance of an almost dead
level, though, in fact, it ascends to the east, until the termination
of the Tensift valley is reached, some thirty-five miles higher up,
where a concourse of smaller streams flowing from the north-east
and south unite to form the main river, which supplies with water
the entire country round Marakesh, and the city itself, finally to
reach the sea between Mogador and Saffi on the Atlantic coast.
The district of Misfiwa, through which we were passing, is bounded
by three powerful _bashaliks_: on the north Rahamna, the hills
of which, a continuation of the range of Jibeelet, which we had
crossed between Saffi and the capital, are clearly visible; on
the east Zemran, with its capital and seat of government at Sidi
Rehal; on the south Urika, including the country of Beled Ersdigi,
famous for its mulberry-trees and silkworms. All of these districts
are governed by powerful Bashas, who may be reckoned amongst the
richest and most important of Southern Morocco.
Nearly all the population of Misfiwa, although Berbers, speak Arabic
in addition to their own language, Shelha,—a fact that is due,
no doubt, to their constant communication with the city of Morocco,
which forms their market and source of supply. Yet, in spite of
the fact that Arabic is spoken amongst them almost as freely as
Shelha, they are true to their traditions in their intense dislike
to the Arabs. Aware previously of this trait in the character of
the Berbers, I had carefully chosen the men who accompanied me,
of whom one and all were by extraction Berbers, and who all spoke
Shelha with the exception of my Riffi servant, whose native tongue,
“Riffía,” is so much allied to it that he could gather the gist
of every conversation and make himself tolerably well understood
in turn. This fact, that the language of the natives was equally
the language of our party, helped us not a little in obtaining the
welcome everywhere extended to us by the Berber people.
A word or two must be said as to the system of cultivation and
raising crops extant in this portion of Morocco. The ground is
ploughed with the primitive native implement as soon as the first
rains of autumn fall, and the grain, especially the barley, sown
early. By May the harvest is in full swing, and the reaping and
gathering of the crops takes place. The ear is merely severed from
the stalk close to the top, so that long straw is left standing. The
ears are carried in nets upon the backs of mules, mares, and donkeys
to the _nuadder_, where the threshing takes place. A clear hard
space of ground, puddled with clay if necessary, is left bare,
and upon this the grain, still in the ear, is thrown, and over
the whole are driven round in circles the mares, horses, mules,
and often donkeys of the farmer, until the grain is thoroughly
separated. Pitchforks of wood are then made use of, and by raising
the straw and grain into the air the chaff is carried off by the
wind, the seed alone remaining. This is then stored in subterranean
granaries—_metammer_—sunk in the soil, the outlet to which
is a small hole at the top closed with stones and clay. The whole
is lined with a coating of stiff clay, which prevents the ingress
of water. Grain remains in a good state of preservation for long
periods when housed in this manner. On to the reaped fields the
cattle and sheep are now turned out to graze, finding means of
subsistence through the dry summer by cropping the standing straw,
and at the same time manuring the soil for the next season’s crops.
It was still comparatively early morning when we reached the
termination of the level ground at a spot where the Wad Misfiwa
leaves the Atlas foot-hills. The Berber name for this spot is Imin
Zat, the mouth of the Zat, the latter being the local title of the
river. The word _imin_, “a mouth,” is of very common occurrence
in geographical names amongst the Berbers, and corresponds exactly to
the Arabic _fûm_, both in meaning and the term implied. It does not,
as our word “mouth” geographically does, imply the estuary of a
river, but any gorge or outlet by which a river or a track enters a
different district or a different kind of country. In the following
pages the word will be found more than once in its latter meaning.
We found the ford of the Wad Misfiwa at Imin Zat by no means an easy
one. The river was not very deep, it is true, but so fast was its
current and so stone-strewn its bed that the footing was insecure,
and we were fortunate in crossing without any mishap, more than a
wetting to two or three of our men, and a partial soaking of the
pack of a donkey, which fortunately contained nothing that could
be damaged. Not so, however, a party of mountain Jews who crossed
at the same time, one of whom was washed completely off his legs,
and both he and his donkey carried some little way down the stream
before they were able to regain their footing. The water was very
cold, and the sudden immersion, no doubt a rare occurrence, which
the Jew obtained caused him to become a pitiful object, and he shed
liberal tears of annoyance at getting wet.
Nothing prettier than the entrance to the valley of Imin Zat can
be imagined. The hills slope gently down to the river’s edge,
clothed in groves of olives, under which the stream flows crystal
clear, leaping and dancing over the rocks and stones, and adding
to the charm of the scene its sweet music. For a background rose
the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas, standing out clear and defined
against a sky of azure blue. The village of Imin Zat stands on
the west bank of the river some little way up the hillside, and a
delightful site it possesses, clinging to the slope and rising tier
above tier, its deep yellow houses contrasting well with the dull
green of the olive-trees and the cobalt of the mountains and sky.
As from this point of our journey to its very conclusion the
buildings—whether the great _ksor_, or walled fortresses, of
Tafilet or the humble cottage of the Berber of the northern slopes of
the Atlas—are all constructed of the same material, _tabia_, it may
render more clear the constant use of the word in the descriptions of
scenery and villages if I describe here the manner in which _tabia_
is used, and of what it consists. Roughly it may be said to be
cement without lime—in other words, the soil, of sand, gravel,
and pebbles, beaten into a consolidated mass. The manner in which it
is employed is the following. The foundations of a building are sunk
and the ditch filled in; then from the level of the ground to the
height of usually some 2 to 3 feet stakes are driven into the earth
at each side of the ditch, and on the inside planks are arranged
parallel with the soil. Quantities of loose gravel and pebbles are
now brought, and the space intervening between the planks is filled
up with the material, which, by means of being constantly beaten
down with heavy blocks of wood at the end of poles—_mrakas_,
the Moors call them—becomes a solid mass. Upon its drying the
planks are removed and replaced above the first stratum of wall,
the gravel being treated in the same manner. In this way a solid and
tolerably durable material is obtained, subject to but one destroying
action, that of water. On the northern slopes of the Atlas, where
the rains are heavy, the walls of the houses are protected almost
always by overhanging roofs, constructed on beams which project 2
feet or more over the wall. Across the beams and at right angles to
them is laid a flooring of dried canes, which again is covered with
brushwood. Beaten into the brushwood is a flat roof of adhesive clay,
which is held firmly in its place by the twigs which intersect it in
every direction. On the southern side of the Atlas range, however,
the rainfall is exceptionally small, and there is no necessity for
the overlapping roofs, the material being of sufficient durability
and strength to withstand the rare showers that fall there.
It is a curious fact that as one proceeds south from Marakesh, while
the dwellings of the natives improve, their welfare decreases; for
as soon as the fertile plains are left behind one leaves the farmer
class altogether and enters amongst a population dependent for its
livelihood upon the scanty stock of olives and vegetables they can
raise in their small gardens, and more generally upon the firewood
and charcoal that they carry, often two or three days’ journey,
to the capital. Many of the richest farmers of the most fertile
districts of Morocco have no roof to cover them but their brown
goat-hair tents or thatch huts, while almost the poorest peasant
amongst the Berbers possesses a cottage of _tabia_, which nearly
always presents an appearance of cleanliness and order. While the
rich Arab of the plains is content to spend his days seated on the
manure-heap in front of his hovel, the hardy and poor Berber of
the mountains builds himself a little verandah on the roof of his
house, where he can pass his time shaded from the sun or rain in
peace and quiet.
It is almost as soon as one enters amongst the Berber people that one
begins to find out how infinitely superior they are in morals and
character to the Arab. Their every word and look speak of greater
honesty and truth than one finds in a month amongst the Arabs. But
of the Berber character I shall have more to say anon.
As soon as we had passed over the ford of the Wad Misfiwa, our
road took a turn to the south, following the course of the river,
a little way up the side of the hills on its east bank. Gradually
ascending as we proceeded, we camped early at a miserable _nzala_ on
the summit of a steep incline, from which a fine view was obtainable
both up and down the river—up, to the snow-peaks of the Atlas;
down, to the plains we had now left behind and the hills of Rahamna
far away beyond. Very different was the thatched _nzala_ from the
neat and trim villages that dotted the valley below, surrounded by
their carefully terraced gardens of olives and vines, walnuts and
almonds; but the people where we camped were evidently very poor,
and eked a miserable pittance out of the small fees they collected
from passers-by—for the road over the Atlas is one not often
travelled, even by natives.
The change in the costume of the natives made it clear that we
had left the people of the plains and entered into the country of
mountaineers, for the length of their garments was much curtailed
about the legs, and instead of the draggling and mud-stained skirts
of the Arab there appeared the sinewy limbs of the children of
the mountains. But peculiar to the Atlas we noticed here for the
first time in general use the _khanif_ or _haidus_, the strange
black-hooded cloak with its eye-shaped pattern in yellow or red
in the centre of the back, the object of which no tradition seems
to make mention, and no history to hint at. All that we know for
certain of this strange garment is, that while it is not found
throughout Algeria, it crops up again in the mountains near
Tripoli. Putting aside all speculation as to the origin of the
design, it must be added that the material of which these cloaks
are made is an excellent one, the closely woven black goat-hair
being impenetrable to cold and rain, and therefore excellently
suited to the mountaineers of the bleak heights of the Atlas range.
A few words must be said as to the general difference of costume
between the Berbers and the Arabs. While the former wear the _jelab_,
a hooded garment closed down the front, it is never found amongst the
[Illustration: _Berbers._]
Berbers, whose one desire as to clothing seems to be absolute freedom
of limb. The _haik_, or toga-like garment of the Arabs, is used
amongst the better-class Berbers, but merely as a luxury. Their
typical costume consists of the _chamira_, or long loose shirt
reaching from the neck to below the knees, and the _haidus_ above,
the open hooded cloak called by the Arabs _s’lham_. This in the
case of the mountaineers takes the form of the black goat’s-hair
article, and in that of the Berbers of the plains of a thick but
finely woven garment of white wool. The one distinguishing mark
in the costume of the two races, however, is the following: while
the Arab loves to gird his waist with a sash or leather belt, the
Berbers have the greatest objection to anything of the sort, and
seldom, if ever, wear either. Some exception to these customs can
always be found in the case of Berbers who have left their native
lands to work in the Moorish cities, and here they can often be
found in dress absolutely resembling in every detail that of the
poorer class of townspeople; but this is owing far more to necessity
than option, for the local Berber materials cannot be found, except
rarely, in the Moorish towns.
In appearance, too, besides the difference of feature of which
I shall have opportunity to refer anon, there is considerable
variance of fashion and custom. While the Arabs leave unshaven their
beards and only trim their moustaches, the Berbers of the Atlas and
the country beyond shave the entire face with the exception of a
small pointed beard on the chin, which is connected with the ears
by a fine closely cropped line of hair. This shaving of the head
is general throughout both people, the only class who fail to do
so being devotees, the sects of “Ulad bu Sba,” who leave the
entire skull covered with hair; the followers of Sid ben Aissa,
or “Aissaua,” who leave crown alone unshaven; and the Riffis
and mountaineers of the north, who wear the _gitaya_ and _kron_
respectively, the former a long lock on the centre of the back of
the head, the latter grown on one side above the ear. It would be
interesting to discover the origin of these various but unvaried
customs of locks of hair, for the common explanation that they are
to be pulled up to heaven by is not only absurd but altogether an
insult to the high system of theology possessed by many who wear
them. So systematically are these customs preserved that there can
be little doubt, especially in the case of the Berbers, that they
date from a period long anterior to the introduction of Islam.
Leaving the valley of the Wad Misfiwa on the morning of November 3,
we turned directly to the east and crossed the spur of the Atlas that
lies between the valley of the former river and the Wad Ghadat. This
slope of the lower Atlas takes the form of a plateau, with an average
altitude above the level of the sea of some 3000 feet, and is known
as Tugana, a district under the jurisdiction of the Kaid of Misfiwa.
But very few villages or habitations were to be seen, and the greater
part of the soil seemed capable of but little cultivation, being
here torn into deep water-courses, there covered with brushwood. One
stream alone is crossed, the Wad Masin, a small clear river of no
size, but which, from the appearance of its banks, floods in the
rainy season. Near the ford were a few gardens, and dense bushes
of oleanders lined its course. A very short distance beyond,
one of the customary weekly _sôks_ or markets is held; but not
being market-day, the place was deserted and left to a mangy dog
or two, and a few ravens which sought for food amongst the offal
and dirt. There are no buildings at the market, for the native
shopkeepers bring their little tents—_gaiaton_—in which they
expose their wares for sale, packing up the same in the afternoon and
pushing on, probably to be in time to visit another _sôk_ elsewhere
the following day. The usual custom is for the consecutive _sôks_
along the main roads to be held on following days, so as to allow
all the travelling vendors of goods to visit one after the other in
succession. I have sometimes travelled for a week and found each day
some market by the roadside in full swing, by having hit off the
right day at the first _sôk_ and followed them up in succession,
though it is far more common to miss the entire number, and never
see a full market-place at all upon a long journey. These _sôks_
are always known by the name of the day on which they are held,
with the name of the place added as a distinctive mark. Thus one
finds “Had el Gharbiya,” “Sunday of the Gharbiya,” and
“Arbaa of Sid Aissa,” “the Wednesday of Sid Aissa,” so
called from its proximity to the tomb of that saint. Near this
_sôk_ of Tugana is a small semi-deserted village of stone-built
huts, a dreary poverty-stricken-looking place. From this spot we
had a choice of roads to the summit of the Atlas—namely, either
to pursue the one we eventually followed, _viâ_ the Wad Ghadat and
Zarkten, or to turn to the south, and skirting the side of the steep
mountains on our right, strike as straight a line across country as
the nature of the land would allow. The latter, a mere track, often
passing along the face of precipices and at all parts difficult,
leads _viâ_ Gadaruz and Tizi Aït Imiger to Zarkten, where the
two unite. However, we chose the longer but more practicable, and
even that was bad enough. What the other must have been like it is
impossible even to guess; but the fact that it is only pursued by
the native mountaineers and sturdy mountain mules would probably
have meant that for us it would have been impassable.
Ten miles after leaving the _nzala_ in the valley of the Wad Misfiwa,
we descended by an execrable path to the level of the Wad Ghadat,
close to
[Illustration: _Fording the Wad Ghadat._]
where a ruined or incompleted bridge raises its broken arches from
the stony river-bed. The ford was bad enough, even though the river
was not high, and it was only by piling the loads bit by bit on to
the top of the pack-saddle of the highest mule that we succeeded
in getting our baggage across at all, for the stream was strong
and wide and swift.
No history or tradition seems to contain any record of the bridge,
which, if ever completed, must have been a fine work with its
five high arches; but it is easily apparent that it is of Moorish
workmanship, and was no doubt erected by one of the early Sultans
of the present dynasty, probably in the seventeenth century,
for previous to that period the communication between Morocco
and Tafilet was almost _nil_, the two countries forming as a rule
separate kingdoms, though now and then falling under the jurisdiction
of one Sultan, as in the case of three successive rulers of the
Beni Merín dynasty. After the seizure of the thrones of Morocco
and Fez by the Filelis, who still govern Morocco, it would be only
more than probable that one of their first acts would be to keep
communication open with the desert, whence their armies were drawn;
and even to-day the river Ghadat at the time of the melting snows
prevents all farther progress up or down the road over which we
were travelling, which would not be the case were the bridge in
repair, though the snows in the heights above would as often as
not effectually bar all farther progress beyond.
The distance from the bridge over the Ghadat to Zarkten, the
principal village and residence of the deputy governor of the
district, cannot be more than about ten miles as the crow flies; but
the river was too full to allow us to follow its bed, the shortest
route, and we were obliged to climb by a precipitous path high up
the mountain-side on the east bank of the river. Keeping parallel
with the Wad Ghadat, except that we had necessarily to follow the
escarpment of the range, we toiled on over a stony and rock-strewn
track for some four hours. Tiring as the rough walking was—and it
required, too, all our energies to prevent our mules and donkeys
slipping on the smooth rock—the scenery amply repaid us for the
disadvantages we had to suffer.
Perhaps the valley of the Ghadat was not so wild as some of the
Atlas scenery we were yet to see; but it certainly possessed one
feature that all the others lacked—namely, vegetation; for here on
the cool north slopes of the range rain falls in plentiful supplies
in winter and spring.
Away above us the mountains towered—here clothed to their summits
with pine, arbutus, gum cistus, and evergreen oak; there rearing
precipice upon precipice of bare forbidding rock to where the
eternal snows formed a line of white against the sky. Below us,
for our road ascended high up the mountain-side, lay the valley,
clothed in verdure, through the centre of which, now in a wide
stone-strewn bed, now dashing between high walls of rock, flowed
the river, the roar of which was the only sound that broke the
silence. Here and there we looked down on to the flat roofs of the
Berber villages, where a small patch of land would be reclaimed,
and walnut and other trees planted, through the branches of which
peeps of narrow terraces, green with vegetables, appeared. Strange
beautiful shapes the mountains take, at places rolling in sweeping
curves, at others broken into rock projections and precipices,
but everywhere presenting some point of grandeur and beauty.
At length towards sunset Zarkten came into sight, ahead and far below
us, and we hurried on, hoping to reach the Sheikh’s house before
dark, and thus obtain provisions for the night and our next day’s
journey; but when, in fast falling twilight, we reached the rocky bed
of the river, we found all hope of fording it to be impossible, and
reluctantly retraced our steps to a few stone hovels we had passed
a quarter of a mile back, near which we found space to pitch our
tent. The cold was extreme, and it was only by untiring efforts that
we were able to persuade the inhabitants to sell us a fowl, which,
of its kind the very poorest, was no meal for eight people. Bread
[Illustration: _A View from above Zarkten._]
and the native _kuskus_ were neither to be obtained, and a few
dried figs was all that our stock consisted of.
At daylight we descended once more by a precipitous path, and,
after a weary hour and a half of labour, succeeded in getting our
animals and our baggage across the river. So tired were the poor
mules and donkeys with their struggle of perhaps 100 yards against
the swift current, that we were obliged to call an hour’s rest
on the farther bank, where we lay down under the shade of the grove
of trees that surround the residence of the Sheikh.
A picturesque castle it is that the deputy governor of the district
has built himself at Zarkten, though probably he gave more thought
to its defence than to its appearance in designing it. The main
body of the castle, for such it is, is a large square block,
with a high tower at each corner, the latter gradually tapering as
they ascend. The whole is built of _tabia_ of dull yellow colour,
but the summits of the towers are decorated with a coating of
white-wash. Surrounding the whole building is a wall, parts of which
form outhouses and rooms for retainers and guests. Standing in its
groves of trees underneath a peaked mountain wooded with pines,
it presents not only an effect of great picturesqueness, but also
appears to possess the undoubted advantage in such a lawless country
of being impregnable.
We had passed but few caravans or travellers on the road
hither—merely a mountaineer or two singing cheerily as he came
along driving his little mule before him, probably laden with
the dates of Tafilet, which change hands many times before they
reach Marakesh. A few of the mountain Jews, too, we met now and
again—long gaunt figures, many carrying arms, and one and all
a finer type of man than their co-religionists of the plains;
for they have a hard existence these Israelites of the Atlas, and
though not persecuted, find it difficult enough to scrape a living
from their trades, for, as a rule, they are gunsmiths, workers in
silver, or dealers in hides. As soon as our animals were rested,
we lifted our scanty baggage once more on to their backs, and set
out afresh upon our journey.
At Zarkten the valley splits into two parts, one continuing the
general direction—north and south—that we had been following,
while the other turns away to the west. It is from the latter that
the Wad Ghadat flows, rising in the snows of Jibel Tidili, or Glawi,
while the other is drained by the Wad Tetula, so called from a small
settlement of Berbers, higher up its course, but locally known as
the Asif Adrar n’Iri, “the stream of Mount Iri.” Just above the
Sheikh’s house, and within 100 yards of it, the two rivers unite.
Turning a little to the west, we ascended an incline amongst gardens
and fields and pine-trees, above the
[Illustration: _The Sheikh’s House at Zarkten._]
river Ghadat, until we reached the main portion of the village of
Zarkten, a mile farther on. The place is poor enough, a few stone
and _tabia_ houses of mean appearance lying on a dreary level of
bare soil at the foot of the great mountains beyond, and we did not
turn aside to examine it more closely, for the view we obtained of
the place from the distance of a few hundred yards was depressing
enough. There is a considerable settlement of Jews at Zarkten,
from whom we had hoped to obtain provisions; but it being Saturday,
they would not sell, and the man we sent to the _mellah_, or Jews’
quarter, returned empty-handed.
Our road turned once more to the south, and we commenced a steep
ascent by a sandy track up the side of a well-wooded mountain,
at the summit of which I found that we had reached an altitude
of 5600 feet above the sea-level, and nearly 2000 feet above the
Sheikh’s house at Zarkten, the elevation of which I made out to
be 3710 feet above the sea.
An adventure, which happily ended only in laughter, happened
to us at this part of the road. The track, never of any width,
was here extremely narrow, and our impatient donkey, desirous
of being the first to cross the Atlas, tried to push his way
past the mules. There being no room, however, to perform this
manoeuvre, he nearly put an end to his existence by falling over
the precipice. Happily he alighted some 40 feet down, legs up,
in the branch of a pine-tree. The difficulty was how to rescue him
from this perilous position, for the poor little fellow carried on
his back all my personal belongings—small though their quantity
was. We were obliged, accordingly, to unpack the mules, and by tying
together the ropes which held the tent, &c., in its place on their
backs, I managed to descend, and, cutting the pack-saddle loose,
had the happiness of seeing my luggage rescued. Then letting the
rope down again, I made it fast to the four legs of the donkey,
which I bound together to prevent its struggling, and the others
hauled him up, I eventually reaching the track by being pulled up in
much the same manner. The donkey was none the worse, and as soon as
he had recovered his equilibrium, and found, to his satisfaction,
that he was unhurt, issued a prolonged series of cries, and kicked
violently at everything his heels could reach.
Every step we took the scenery increased in grandeur, and from one
spot we could obtain views of the three valleys. To the west lay that
of the upper stream of the Ghadat, through which the river twisted
and turned, a thin thread of silver 2000 feet below us. The lower
slopes of the valley were mostly wooded, but towering far above them
on the west and south rose the central peaks of the Atlas range,
Jibel Glawi, or Tidili, a dome of pure white snow dominating the
whole, which presented a panorama of exquisite beauty. To the north
we could see the gorge of Zarkten, and far down the valley formed
by the united streams of the Ghadat and the Tetula; even the plains
beyond and the distant hills of Rahamna were visible in the clear
atmosphere. Less pleasing, but offering features quite distinct,
was the scene directly to the south of us, where the smaller river,
the Tetula, dashed between walls of rock that seemed in places
almost to meet over its stream. Here were no signs of vegetation,
except in the immediate foreground, and all was bare limestone and
snow above and shales below, a dreary but impressive scene.
We were leaving all vegetation behind us, and already I missed the
_azif_—palmeto—so common all over Morocco, and in its place
there appeared the _arar_—calitris—and juniper and pines,
while scattered about rose the twisted trunks of evergreen oaks.
Proceeding for a time along a level track over a mountain the name
of which is Telettin Nugelid, and at an average elevation of about
5000 feet, we descended once more and forded the Tetula, or Asif
Adrar n’Iri, near the pretty village of Agurgar, the name of
which—walnuts—is due to the existence of a fine clump of these
trees. Here the district of Aït Robaa, which extends along the west
bank of the Tetula as far as this point, was left behind, and we
entered the small and bleak tribe-land of Aït Akherait. Agurgar,
from its sheltered position, is pleasant enough, and the village
seemed clean and well built. A few of the natives, wild mountaineers,
met us and brought us a welcome meal of boiled turnips. The bed of
the Tetula is very narrow at this spot, the river rushing between
enormous boulders, which bear every appearance of having been heaped
up in their present positions by the action of glaciers, which
have long since ceased to exist in the Atlas,—for throughout the
whole range, as far as it has been at present explored, and that,
it must be confessed, is very little of it, no extant glacier has
been discovered.
Ascending again, this time on the right (east) side of the river,
we quickly left all vegetation behind, except for an occasional
wind-bent stump of an evergreen oak, and entered a wild dismal
country, the soil of which consisted for the most part of black and
grey shales, and above peaks of limestone, and they again capped
with snow. Not a sign of life, either animal or vegetable, was to
be seen; yet every now and then the cliffs gave back the echo of
some strange Berber song which told us that although no human being
was to be seen, even these dreary wastes of rock were inhabited.
At a tumble-down hovel of loose stones, where the natives had
scratched an acre of soil, poor enough but sufficient to grow a
few turnips, we spent the night of November 4, finding protection
from the cold in a dirty stable—for, with the exception of the
cultivated patch, there was not an inch of soil into which one could
drive a tent-peg. However, the dozen or so inhabitants of this
dismal abode asked the old Shereef and myself into a grimy room,
windowless and without a chimney, and filled with dense smoke,
where we were able to sit for an hour or two in warm discomfort
over the fire of half-burned charcoal, the fumes of which were
stifling. Poverty seemed in possession of the little place, for
not a blanket did they appear to possess; but they were cheery
good people, and spoke a little Arabic, so that conversation was
possible. In winter, when the entire district is under snow, they
drive their one or two cows into the house and hibernate,—only
the men, and they very seldom, ever leaving the house at all during
the two or three months of bitter cold.
They told me the name of the place was Afuden Nugelid, and I found
the elevation to be 5800 feet above the sea-level.
A few miles above this spot is a little oasis, the tiny district of
Tetula, sheltered from the bleak winds by a semicircle of mountains,
amongst which the few acres of gardens and trees nestle. The
village is a large one, compared with most that we had passed,
and the natives seemed better to do than our friends of the night
before. It is from this spot that the last steep ascent to the
pass over the Atlas commences, and after an hour and a half’s
scramble up slippery paths and amongst enormous boulders, we found
ourselves by ten o’clock A.M. on November 5 on the summit of
the Tizi n’Glawi, or Glawi Pass, at an elevation of 8150 feet
above the sea-level, where, weary with the steep ascent, we threw
ourselves down to rest in the warm sunlight, sheltered from biting
wind by a huge rock.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE BERBERS.
Although the Atlas range is said to extend from the Atlantic Ocean to
the Gulf of Syrtis, it is my intention to deal here with only such
a portion of it as is found in Morocco, and of that but briefly,
for in my journey to Tafilet I crossed the range at the same spot
on my going and return, and was therefore unable to gather much of
its nature beyond the portion I absolutely came in contact with. On
two previous occasions, however, I had visited this portion of the
Atlas, and on both followed it from due south of Marakesh to near
the Atlantic—to the point, in fact, where the mountains decrease
in altitude and spread out, forming the watershed between the rivers
Sus on the south and the Tensift on the north.
Although geographers claim for the many ranges that occur between
Morocco and Tripoli the name of Atlas, it must not be thought that a
continuous line of peaks extends from one point to the other; for,
speaking of the Moroccan portion, it ends more or less abruptly
where the plains of Beni Mgil occur, to the western side of the
Wad Muluya, the river which runs into the Mediterranean near the
frontier of Algeria and Morocco. In fact, it is not far to the
east of Fez that the peaks decrease in altitude, falling away to
the long plains which succeed. From this point, however, south and
westward they extend in unbroken line to near the ocean, taking a
general direction of south-west and then west. The entire portion
from Fez, from which the snow-peaks inhabited by the Beni Mgild
and Aït Yussi are visible, to but a little way beyond Demnat,
some fifty odd miles to the due east of Marakesh, is unexplored,
the nature of the succession of Berber tribes inhabiting its
slopes rendering it inaccessible to the traveller. From Demnat to
the Atlantic the tribes are less wild, and live in greater fear
of punishment from the Government in the case of molestation of
Europeans, with the result that not only the explorer but even the
most casual globe-trotter can travel in safety, and enjoy the grand
scenery which presents itself. Yet how few Europeans ever go!
I have already described the appearance of the Atlas Mountains from
the north, and farther on in the narrative of my journey more than
one allusion
[Illustration: _The Atlas Mountains from the South._]
will be found to the barren scene they present from the south. It may
be here added, however, as a general remark on this portion of the
range, that while the northern slopes contain fine wooded valleys,
their lower parts rich in olive and fruit trees, the south stretches
away, a dreary waste of stone and shales, presenting no feature of
beauty beyond its gloomy grandeur. The reason is not far to find,
for the desert wind in summer blows in terrific gusts, drying up
what soil does exist, while little or no rain ever falls. This very
scorching wind it is that renders so fertile the northern valleys and
the plain beyond, in which Marakesh lies, for, following the slope
of the mountains to the altitude of their highest peaks—and the
range must hereabout average nearly 11,000 feet above the sea—the
wind is transformed by the change of temperature into cloud, and
falls in heavy showers. The difference as one ascends the luxuriant
northern slopes, where fine vegetation is found to the altitude of
some 5000 to 7000 feet, to the scene that meets the eye when the
summit is crossed, is a most extraordinary one, and from the Tizi
n’Glawi, the pass over which I crossed, one could obtain the two
views at the same time—north, down the deep valley of the Ghadat,
with its woods and forests; south, over range beyond range of bare
limestone and shale mountains.
The main range at this part forms in reality but one of four parallel
chains. To the north of Marakesh the hills are known as Jibeelet,
and extend from near the Atlantic beyond the eastern end of the
tribe-land of Rahamna, terminating a few miles beyond Kalá. South
of this some twenty miles, and parallel with it, is the principal
range, beyond which, at an average distance of some twenty-five
miles, is Jibel Saghru, or the Anti-Atlas. However, although
the first two mentioned run directly east and west, Jibel Saghru
forms a large district of broken chains of mountains, the valleys
of which lead in every direction, for it empties such streams as
flow in rainy seasons east into the Wad Gheris, west to the Draa,
north to the Dads, and south to the desert. Yet in spite of this
the system takes an easterly and westerly direction, the same being
more apparent after the spot where the Wad Draa divides the range
into two portions. The natives call only the eastern portion Saghru,
not connecting it with the hills to the west of the Draa, which form
eventually the southern side of the Wad Sus. There is yet another
line of hills still farther to the south, Jibel Bani, which rise
near the Draa south of the _zauia_ of Tamgrut and continue to the
west. It has always been a question as to where they terminate;
but I was pointed out at Tafilet, from above the hill at Dar el
baida, the end of a chain of mountains to the south, which sink
gradually to the valley of the now united course of the Wad Gheris
and Wad Ziz. Beyond there appeared to be nothing but desert sand,
and this, I was informed, was the western extremity of Jibel Bani.
It is difficult to hazard an opinion as to where the highest peak of
the Moroccan Atlas will be found to exist, for at present but very
few observations of the high altitudes have been taken, though both
Sir Joseph Hooker and Mr Joseph Thomson reached to about 12,000
feet. In the native opinion Jibel Ayashi, in which most of the
large rivers of Morocco rise, surpasses the other peaks in altitude;
but, as far as I know, no European has ever seen it, much less been
there. Some geographers are of the opinion that the highest point
will be found amongst the mountains almost due south of Morocco
City. So equal are the summits in this direction that it will take
many ascents before any definite result can be arrived at, though,
with the exception of the obstruction of the native officials,
no great difficulties ought to arise, as the snow in summer and
early autumn almost altogether disappears, and no glaciers are
found throughout the whole range; nor do the mountain-tops rise in
precipitous peaks, but, as a rule, are flat and undulating.
But little game is to be found in this portion of the Atlas. The
Barbary wild sheep (_muflon_), it is true, exists, but is by no
means easy to obtain, as every native carries a gun, and should
chance give him the opportunity, fires at them whenever he may catch
a glimpse. The Berbers, too, are sportsmen; and the Kaid of Glawa,
and other governors, are in the habit of organising large hunts,
that have done much to kill off this fine beast and drive the
remainder into the most inaccessible parts. The lion is unknown,
and the leopard very rare, though farther to the north, in the
forests of Beni Mgild, both are said to be common, and I have
often seen the skins for sale, and captured lions in the Sultan’s
palace at Fez. Hyenas seem to be found throughout the entire range,
and foxes and jackals abound. Bird-life seems most noticeable for
its absence, and I have never seen, though I have spent several
months at different times in and near the Atlas, either a vulture
or an eagle. Smaller hawks and one or two varieties of kites are
common. Amongst game-birds I have seen only the red-legged Barbary
partridge and the pintail sand-grouse, and the latter only in the
foot-hills. A guinea-fowl is said to exist, and I have seen in the
possession of the Shereefs of Wazan specimens brought from Zimmour,
to the west of Rabat on the Atlantic coast. It is a small variety,
dark in colour, with a blue head and dark crest, and not half
the size of the fine plump bird of which I have shot so many in
Somaliland and around Harrar. A pretty grey-striped rock-squirrel
is common in the mountains, and much prized by the Berbers for his
meat, which is said to possess medicinal properties.
The commoner vegetation of the Atlas, which differs according
to altitude, are pine, _arar_ or calitris, evergreen oak, cork,
white poplar, wild olive, arbutus, laurustinus, lentiscus, palmeto,
oleanders in the riverbeds, and juniper, while at places the gum
cistus is found in large quantities.
The principal rivers of Morocco all rise in the Atlas Mountains, with
the exception of the Wergha, the large tributary of the Sebu, which
has its source in the hills to the south of the Riff country. The
Draa, Sus, the Gheris, and the Ziz are the principal rivers to the
south of the range; while to the north the Tensift, Um er Ribía,
Bu Regreg, and Sebu are all fed by the Atlas snows; and on the west
the Muluya, which empties itself into the Mediterranean.
Brief as these notes on the Atlas are, they will suffice for the
objects of this book. Those who desire to know more of their geology
and botany will find two works upon the subject, the results of
the explorations of Sir Joseph Hooker and Mr Joseph Thomson.
With regard to the inhabitants of the Atlas, they
[Illustration: _Approaching Marakesh from the North._]
are Berbers, and the following notes upon that race in general,
together with the constant mention of their customs and habits which
crop up in the succeeding chapters of my narrative, will, I trust,
not only bring before the reader a tolerably clear picture of these
people, but add possibly to the scanty information that exists as
to this trans-Atlas branch of the Hamitic people.
It would be out of place in a book which professes to be no more
than a narrative of exploration to enter at length into the subject
of the Berber race, and interesting though such would be, the
slight description of the people here appended must suffice. Nor
have I even collected into this chapter all the notes I was able
personally to make upon my travels, but have preferred in many
cases, such as in the descriptions of their dwellings, costumes,
&c., to make mention of these details when I come across them,
rather than drag them out of the context and place them all in one
chapter. This I have thought best to do for more than one reason,
but mainly because remarks _àpropos_ of the Berbers of Dads are
not equally applicable to those of Aït Atta for instance, though
these two tribes are neighbours. So rather than cause confusion
by mentioning peculiarities noticed in only one spot in a chapter
which deals with the race as a whole, I have spread my notes over
the entire journey, and included them at the points at which I
find them jotted down in my original diary—that is to say, at
such portions of my journey as I first noticed them.
Nor can mention at any length be made even of the race as a whole,
for though the country through which I passed was almost entirely
inhabited by this strange people, their territory is vastly more
extensive, and they may be said to inhabit districts along the
entire northern portion of Africa, from Egypt to the Atlantic
Ocean. Therefore it will be seen how impossible a task it would be
to enter at any length into the peculiarities of a race which at
different points presents such vastly different characteristics,
both in the physical aspect of the country they inhabit and in
their manners and customs. For this reason it is the safest course
to mention only what can refer to that portion of the Berber tribes
amongst which I found myself, with but a few general remarks that
apply equally to the entire race.
As to the derivation of the name considerable doubt exists,
nor was I able to trace any tradition amongst the people as to
its origin. Barth asserts that it sprang from the name of their
traditional ancestor Ber, but it seems more probable, at least a
safer surmise, to connect it with the Greek and Roman term Barbari,
for, I believe, without exception the name is not applied by the
Berbers to themselves, though in this respect the Arabs use it. The
general name by which they call themselves in Morocco is “Shloh,”
a word meaning “noble,” and thus the same as the more classical
term “Amazigh,” which, though well known all through tribes
inhabiting the districts south of the Atlas, I heard only once
or twice used. Amazigh is certainly the older name of the two,
and was known to both the Greeks and the Romans, and seems to-day,
though rarely used in Southern Morocco, to be the classical title
of the race.
Although to-day found all through North Africa, from beyond Tripoli
to the Atlantic Ocean, the Berbers seem to be entirely cut off from
one another, and to have no great intertribal feeling of patriotism,
or to be connected by any ties. Yet there can be no doubt that,
divided as the tribes are, they have a common origin, being the
Hamitic and original inhabitants of North Africa.
Yet even in so small a space of country as that through which I
travelled one finds the Berber tribes not only split up into minute
clans and factions, but so strangely differing from one another that
they might almost be the descendants of different races. Nothing more
unlike could be imagined than four typical Berbers, for instance, of
four portions of Morocco—the Riff, and the natives of Aït Yussi,
Dads, and the Sus—and yet there can be no doubt that they are of
the same family, and the language, though split up into dialects,
is practically the same. Yet in appearance the type is absolutely
different in these above-mentioned portions of Morocco, and no
feature in common, even to the dressing or shaving of the head,
or costume, is to be found amongst them, though one and all are
proud of their aboriginal origin.
But one tradition did I hear amongst the Berbers as to their
antiquity, and this tradition seems to be general amongst their
tribes, for we came across it on several occasions on our journey. It
is difficult to perceive how it could have sprung up, as it seems
to hint at an entirely different origin to that which history,
and even other traditions of their own, has set down to them. It
runs as follows. A certain maiden of the original Berber people, at
the time when the race lived in a far-away country swept by strong
east winds, once, in passing a strange king, had the misfortune
to expose more of her person than was decent, owing to her attire
having been raised by the gale. On the king laughing at the girl’s
misfortune, the tribe in very shame departed by night, and wandered
to the country that they now inhabit. So the story runs, and I
leave it to those more versed than myself in sifting traditions and
folk-lore to find the signification and value of the tale, which,
it may again be said, is not only common throughout the Berbers of
the trans-Atlas Sahara, but is known and repeated amongst the Riffis,
and between these two districts hundreds of miles of country exist,
while no communication takes place one with the other.
No doubt the fact that the Berbers have been many times conquered
has done not a little to account for their difference of type,
for the Phœnicians, Romans, Vandals, and Arabs have each in turn
invaded their country. But from whatever reason it may be, the fact
remains that a more divided and subdivided race could not be found,
and marriage, or even cordiality, between the tribes is unknown;
while they exist, in Morocco at least, in a state of perpetual
warfare with any one they can get to fight with them. Not only
are their hostilities levelled against the Arabs, for whom their
hatred is most deep, but whose religion they have adopted with
extraordinary fervour, but also against every other tribe, and
failing these, village against village, and even household against
household. Mention will be found more than once in the ensuing
pages of cases of this, in which it was the custom for neighbours
to fire at one another from their windows and roofs whenever the
opportunity presented itself. Yet in spite of this the stranger
passes in safety through them, for with him they bear no quarrel.
A few words must be said as to the manner in which native travellers
proceed in safety through districts in which bloodshed and murder
are of everyday occurrence. The system under which immunity from
murder and robbery is accorded to the stranger is known by two
names, _mzareg_ or _zitat_. _Mzareg_ originally means a spear,
and the term was thus applied from the fact that in old days a
spear was given by one of the tribe to the traveller, which, being
recognised as the property of one of their number, accorded him
safety in his journey. However, spears have long ago disappeared from
these districts, though the name _mzareg_ still remains. Nowadays
the common custom is for a member of the tribe, in consideration
of a small fee, to conduct the traveller in person, both being
sacred from attack while passing through the land over which the
tribe in question holds jurisdiction. As soon as the limits are
reached, a new _mzareg_ or _zitat_ has to be obtained. Sometimes,
especially in the case of the Jews living and trading in the Sahara,
some mark or token is given, such as a turban or handkerchief,
which is considered sufficient; but in cases of caravans and
total strangers a man invariably is employed, who answers the
double purpose of guide and protector. From Dads to Tafilet I was
accompanied on my journey by a _zitat_, without whom I could never
have reached my destination, as amongst the many Berber tribes we
passed through his presence afforded me immunity from inquisition
and annoyance. Here again I was fortunate, for I was not obliged
to change my _zitat_, the fact being that members of the tribe
of Dads can travel in safety amongst nearly all the other Berber
tribes, by a reciprocal arrangement by which the caravans of the
others are allowed to pass through their district without fear of
plunder. Dads has gained this unique privilege from its situation,
blocking as it does the entire road from east and west.
With regard to the Jews living amongst the Berbers a similar
practice exists to the _mzareg_, only in their case it is known as
_debeha_, or sacrifice. This name has been applied from the fact
that the system first arose from Jews seeking the protection of
the Berbers by sacrificing an ox or a sheep to them: nowadays the
native Jews no longer need to perform this, the patronage of the
Berbers being hereditary, the vassalage descending in both families
from father to son. Any injury suffered by the Jew is revenged by
the protecting Berber as though it had been committed to a member
of his own family. In this manner the Israelites are able to live
in tolerable security from murder and theft; in fact, they are
the only people who do, as the Berber is never happy unless he has
some one to kill, or is running a risk of being shot himself from
behind some stone. As may be expected, the Berbers do not allow
their influence to be used for nothing; but so poor are the Jews,
and also the entire country in which this state of things exists,
that it is little or nothing that the “lord” can screw out of
his vassal.
In the same way the tribe of Aït Atta, one of the most powerful of
the Berber tribes of the Sahara, recently added a large district to
the south of Mesgita, on the Wad Draa, to their already extensive
territory. However, the inhabitants—Haratin—could not be enrolled
as are the Jews, as they are Moslems; and though exactly the same
principle is carried on, the term implied is _neïba_—agents
or representatives. They, as in the other case, are protected by
their conquerors from attack from elsewhere, in return for which
they pay an annual tribute.
With regard to the language of the Berbers. Generally speaking,
it is known in Southern Morocco as Shelha, but as a matter of fact
it consists of many different dialects. Although along most of
the road we travelled over the dialect was much the same, I was
told that in the heights of the Atlas, as again in the districts
of the Draa, it was very different, and that it was no easy matter
for natives of each place to render themselves comprehended by each
other. The Berber language as spoken in Morocco may be divided into
four distinct dialects, which are again much subdivided: (i.) Shelha
proper, as spoken generally throughout the Atlas, from the tribes
of Ghiata, Aït Yussi, and Beni Mgild, to the south-east of Fez, as
far along the Atlas as about due south of Marakesh; (ii.) Riffía,
spoken by the Riffis inhabiting the mountains of the north coast,
from the south-west of Tetuan to the French frontier of the province
of Oran; (iii.) Susía, spoken from along the Atlas and the Sus
valley to the south, from where Shelha proper terminates, about
due south of Marakesh, to the Atlantic coast; and (iv.) Drauía,
the common tongue all along the valley of the Wad Draa from Mesgita,
where the junction of the Dads and Idermi form that river to where
it flows into the Atlantic. So various are these dialects that,
although my Riffi servant could catch the gist of the remarks
of the Shloh amongst whom we travelled, and was with difficulty
understood in return, he found it impossible to comprehend the
Haratin of the Draa, who speak Drauía, though the Shloh of Dads
and the intermediate _oases_ can do so.
I was able only to learn of one feast celebrated amongst the
Berbers which had not been adopted from the Arab calendar, so
completely have they embraced the religion of the latter. This
feast appears to be a kind of harvest-home, and is known as the
_Ayur Nûgûrûmûn_, the meaning of which not even the Berbers seem
to know. Curiously enough, it is held in the Shahr el Fukra, which
points out that it is annual only according to Arab ideas—that is
to say, counted by lunar months—whereas one would have expected,
if it were a survival of great antiquity, that it would have been
at a fixed period in the solar year. The programme of the feast
is simple. Guns are fired during the day, and great dishes of food
are brought into the streets and there partaken of, the poor being
asked to join. One other custom only differing from the Arabs was
I able to hear of—namely, that the bride remains three days in
her husband’s house before the marriage is consummated.
That some civilisation had reached the Berbers long before the Arab
invasion is certain, but, as far as we know, the Romans never crossed
the Atlas. Yet, curiously enough, all foreigners are known to-day
amongst them as _Rumin_ (sing. _Rumi_), though this may be owing not
a little to the fact that it was not until the Arab invasion that
the Berbers were driven to the remote districts they now inhabit, but
were spread all over the country; for it was principally through the
prowess of these men, whose desire for booty the Arabs stirred up,
that Spain was invaded and conquered. Therefore it must be certain
that the Berbers of Morocco knew the Romans as well as the Romans
knew them, and that they carried away with them into the Atlas and
the districts beyond the traditions of the forefathers who had been
in actual contact with the Roman colonists. Yet there is no doubt
that remains of even pre-Roman date exist in the Atlas and the
Sahara, and I think it is risking but little to suppose that they
were erected by Phœnician colonists. That the Phœnicians were
strong in Morocco at one time is shown by the ruins of the great
colony of Lixus, on the river Kûs, near El Araish, and I can see no
reason why they should not have pushed much farther afield. And to
them, I think, may be put down the workings of former mines in the
Atlas and Anti-Atlas, and the building of the stone remains which
are found in more than one spot—and invariably without mortar—in
those ranges. One may go even further, and ask the question, whence
the Berbers obtained their existing architecture; for the great
_ksor_, with their many towers, have no resemblance to any Arab
architecture that I have ever seen, either in Arabia or Africa,
while they do most strangely resemble the elevations given in such
works as those of Messieurs Perrot and Chipiez of Phœnician castles.
The change on passing from Arab Morocco into Berber trans-Atlas
Morocco is in no way more marked than in the architecture. One leaves
behind one the mud huts and tents to enter an immense district,
every habitable portion of which is thick with great castles, often
over 50 feet in height, and with richly decorated towers, unlike
anything else I have seen elsewhere in the world, either with my own
eyes or in the works of other travellers; and I see no reason why
one should not at least surmise that the style of building in vogue
to-day amongst the Berbers of trans-Atlas Morocco is not a remnant of
their conquest by the Phœnicians. Another instance, slight though
it may be, may help to form a link in the chain, that at Dads I saw
children modelling in clay little figures of men on horseback, the
very image of the Phœnician figures, which no Arab or Moor either
could or would do. Excellently modelled they were too. I asked a
native, and he laughingly replied, “We all did that when we were
small.” Yet in all my travels in Morocco, and in the inquiries I
subsequently made, I have never seen or heard of modelling of human
figures or animals amongst the Moors. An idea of the artistic talent
of the Arab youth, in comparison to that of these young Berbers,
can be gathered from the drawings they have learned to make in
Tangier on the walls of the houses, &c.; and this only from seeing
artists at work. However, they confine themselves to ships, which
are just recognisable and nothing more, whereas my Dads friends’
models of men and their steeds were excellent in every feature,
even the bits and reins and stirrups being represented. In short,
it is my belief that when the regions I passed through come to be
diligently explored and excavated, remains will be found of a large
former civilisation which will be proved to have been Phœnician. In
the case of the one ruin I was able to take any notes about at all,
it corresponds almost exactly, so far as the general idea, to some
of the plans of buildings given in books upon Phœnicia and its
colonies; but unfortunately, travelling in disguise as I was, it
was impossible for me to take measurements, or anything, in fact,
more than the most scanty notes of this curious ruin.
As to the general character of the Berbers, their manner of living
and their looks, I have retained my remarks upon these subjects in
the places in which they were originally jotted down, for reasons
already given in this chapter, that there is such great divergence
of appearance and costume in the different parts of the question. It
is for that reason that I have given at this spot only such notes
as can be safely applied to the tribes in general amongst which I
travelled during my journey.
CHAPTER V.
THE DESCENT FROM THE ATLAS.
Having digressed for a chapter from the account of my journey,
I take up again the narrative from where it was broken off—when
on the morning of November 5 we had reached the summit of the Tizi
n’Glawi, and were resting after our exertions.
The Glawi Pass scarcely deserves such a name, for there is in reality
no pass at all. One ascends to the very summit of the mountains to
descend as suddenly on the south side, the narrow strip of footing at
the top being only a few yards wide. It is true that the surrounding
mountains on either hand rise to a very considerable elevation above
that at which we found ourselves—8150 feet; but the road merely
crosses a connecting line of quartzite, overlying the shales,
which runs from Jibel Glawi on the west to Adrar n’Iri on the
east, the flat-topped snow-capped mountain that gives its name to
the stream up the valley of which we had been ascending. The views
in either direction were fine, but totally different; for while
to the north our eyes wandered over the valley of the Tetula, and
lower down the Ghadat, with the steep mountains densely wooded on
their lower slopes, before us to the south lay range after range of
broken limestone mountains, bare and bleak, and without a single
sign of vegetation. But one exception there was, the circular
valley of Teluet lying 2000 feet below us; but at this dry period
of the year, for as yet only the very slightest rain had fallen,
it looked as bare and dried up as did the hills that surrounded us.
The descent could be seen twisting in and out the escarpment of
the mountains, amongst boulders of rock from which here and there
unsightly wind-bent trunks of evergreen oaks appeared.
A few villages dotted the little plain below, whose flat roofs
upturned to our gaze had a strange appearance as we peered down
on them from so far above. For the most part they were perched
upon rocky eminences, raised slightly above the level of the small
valley. It is here that the great castle of the Kaid of Glawa is
situated, but from our vantage-point it was indistinguishable,
being hidden in the slight descent that leads from the valley to
the course of the Wad Marghen. This _kasba_ of the Kaid of Glawa,
Sid el Madani, was the last point at which, should I be discovered,
my return would be insisted upon, for beyond this the Moorish
Government holds little or no real jurisdiction, so it was not
unnaturally that we gave the place as wide a berth as possible. On
my return journey, when disguise was no longer necessary, I spent
a night at the _kasba_, and when the time comes shall describe
this mountain fortress, which even in Europe would be considered
a building of great size and strength.
Descending the 2000 feet that led to the valley of Teluet, we met
at the bottom almost the first large caravan we had as yet come
across. They were bound upon the same road as ourselves, though
their destination was Dads, while I hoped to push on as far as
Tafilet. The men forming the caravan were one and all Berbers, and
natives of Dads, added to which they were friends of the old Shereef
whom I was accompanying. Therefore I had nothing to fear from them,
and the little Arabic they spoke was so mixed up with Shelha that
there was no possibility of their detecting my foreign accent. Some
twelve men there were in all, with as many mules and donkeys. The
cheerfulness of this augmentation of our little caravan was damped
by the news they gave us, for from them we learned that the road
_viâ_ Warzazat was blocked, owing to the tribes being in
[Illustration: _A Pass on the Road._]
revolt, and that they had been obliged to turn back only some six
hours from where we met them. It had been my particular desire to
proceed _viâ_ this route, as there are rumours of ruins in the
valley of the Warzazat; but I at once perceived that we must follow
the inevitable and pursue the road _viâ_ Askura, which possessed
this attraction to the explorer, that it had never before been
traversed or described by any traveller. It was good luck that
brought us in contact with the Dads’ caravan, for in these wild
lawless regions there is safety in numbers, and I noticed that
the old Shereef especially cheered up at the sight of the dozen
antiquated flint-lock guns the men bore.
We at once decided to join company and pursue the road together,
and for the five following days the Dads tribesmen and their little
mules formed part of our caravan. Good sturdy fellows they were,
always laughing and running races, in which the brisk cold often
tempted me to join them. At this they were much amused, for my
slender—not to say thin—form and limbs, as yet but slightly
tanned with the sun, led them to suppose that I could ill stand
the hardships of the road. That I was a European in disguise never
once crossed their simple trusting minds, and amongst this wild
band I obtained a reputation of very considerable sanctity, on
account of the fact that I said my prayers in orthodox style with
the old Shereef, and that I wore suspended round my neck, over my
torn and ragged _jelaba_, a string of wooden beads, the insignia
of the sect of the Derkaua, or followers of Sidi Ali el Derkaui,
who may be almost said to be the patron saint of the Sahara.
With one of these caravan men, Hammu by name, I made great friends,
and one of my pleasantest recollections of Dads was the feast
he gave me in his house, to which half the village was invited,
and which lasted from somewhere about mid-day to somewhere about
midnight. He was a simple gentle fellow this Hammu, but as good as
could be; and many a time when we lay huddled together of a night
for the sake of warmth he would cover me up with his thick _haidus_
of black goats’-hair as I slept, and swear in the morning that he
had not done so—that it was merely owing to the fact that he had
kicked it off in my direction that accounted for his having slept in
only a light cotton _chamira_ while I was warm and comfortable. Poor
Hammu! he never learned, so far as I know, that I was a European
in disguise,—not that I believe he would mind much, for the
friendship that sprang up between us would break through all such
barriers as this. He eventually finished, on the day I departed for
Tafilet, by embracing me and asking me to return with him to Dads,
and share his home, with his sister as my wife. He even promised
her a dowry of a few yards of blue cotton, a pair of bracelets, and
a cow. My Riffi man nearly exploded with his attempts to conceal
his laughter, but I took the compliment as in the manner meant,
and clasped his good strong hand with a grip of real friendship,
for I could not but recognise that the wild tribesman, with his
handsome face and fine bearing, meant every word he spoke.
But I digress from the narrative of my travel. It being out of the
question that we should pursue the route _viâ_ Warzazat, there was
no option about the matter, and we turned to the east across the
plain of Teluet, fording the Wad Marghen, or Wad el Melha, some two
or three miles above the Kaid of Glawa’s _kasba_. The stream is
not a very large one, but clear, fresh, cold water flows from the
snows of the western slopes of Jibel Unila throughout the entire
year. Although slightly brackish the water is drinkable to cattle,
but the inhabitants rely for their supply upon the many streams
and springs that form its tributaries. The river flows along the
Teluet valley from east to west, and at the south-west corner of the
plain passes out through a gorge to flow into the Idermi, which,
eventually joining the Wad Dads, forms the Wad Draa, the largest
and most important river of trans-Atlas Morocco. The second name
of the river, Wad el Melha, or salt river, is the local title of
every stream the waters of which are brackish.
Ascending by the dry bed of a torrent on the south side of the
river, we skirted the eastern end of Jibel Teluet, which forms
the southern boundary of the valley, and descended some four miles
farther on to the larger stream of the Wad Unila. The ascent and
descent we had crossed forms a small watershed for the tributaries
of the two rivers, though apparently these mountain torrents only
flow in the wet season. At one spot, rather more than half-way, we
passed extensive salt-mines, where quite a number of natives were
engaged in working rock-salt. The scene was a wild one, the half-nude
men with their rough picks hewing away and singing the while, as
others piled the salt in native panniers on to the backs of their
sturdy little mules. The power of these mountain-mules in overcoming
difficulties in the roads is extraordinary, and at one spot we saw
a couple literally descending a precipice, followed by a man who
only kept his footing by the aid of a sort of alpenstock. The manner
in which both man and beasts succeeded in descending seemed to us,
as we stood and watched, incredible, yet we were told that he made
the journey every day to this spot in the face of the precipice,
to collect rock-salt from a small deposit that existed there. At
one place where an unusually large supply of the precious mineral
existed, a roughly constructed fort had been built, for the mines
had been the cause of war for generations amongst the tribesmen
living near, their value being, for the arid bleak district,
extraordinary. No doubt to more or less reserving to himself the
monopoly, as is the case, is owing to a great extent the wealth
to-day in the possession of Sid Madani, the Kaid of Glawa. The soil
at this part consists principally of shales, strewn with boulders
of limestone, no doubt portions of the peaks above, which time,
water, and glacier have carried to their present position.
The Wad Unila, where our path struck its course, flows nearly due
north and south, issuing from a gorge 100 or 200 yards above,
and descending for half a mile through a narrow valley before
reaching the district of Tiurassín, in which we spent the night
of November 5.
This settlement of Berbers of the Imerghan tribe is a large place,
lying on the banks of the river where the valley is sufficiently
wide to form a small triangular plain, which is again bisected by a
torrent, at this period waterless, which flows from the east. The
_ksor_ are many and large, and present a remarkable appearance,
each a castle, or sometimes several castles, with high towers at
the corners, the summits of which are roughly decorated in sun-dried
bricks and white-wash. The great size and solidity of the buildings
struck one as extraordinary, after the hovels the Arabs erect as
habitations, and a rough measurement of one of the towers gave an
altitude of at least 70 feet, no mean height when it is taken into
consideration that they are built without any of the appliances we
know in Europe, and altogether without mortar or lime. The plain
I alluded to as formed by the valley may be perhaps half a mile
across, and consists of gardens of walnut and almond trees, with
a few other varieties of fruits.
The Wad Unila, the river of the place, rises to the north-east at the
summit of Jibel Unila, from which the stream takes its name. This
mountain forms one of the finest of the Atlas peaks, and is said
never to lose its cap of snow. The summit, the natives told me,
consists of a circular lake of great depth, from which the river
takes its rise. So important to the land through which it flows
are the waters of the Unila, for the natives are entirely dependent
upon its supply for irrigating purposes, that this lake, which is
said never to vary its level, has become a place of pilgrimage and
veneration, and in the spring of each year sheep are sacrificed
to its patron saint. Before uniting with the Wad Marghen (Wad el
Melha) at Aït Zaineb, four districts are watered—namely, taking
them from the river’s source, (1) Unila, (2) Assaka, (3) Tisgi,
and (4) Aït Zaineb; but the valley throughout is a narrow one,
shut in by high mountains, and only at its widest parts, such as
Tiurassín, is it inhabited. But very little wheat is grown, maize
and turnips taking its place as the articles of subsistence amongst
the natives. The walnuts and almonds, however, flourish to such an
extent that a large quantity are yearly exported to Morocco City,
being taken by the road we had followed across the Glawi Pass.
[Illustration: AT THE BASE OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS.]
The only traveller who had preceded me at Tiurassín was De Foucauld,
the French explorer, but from this point our ways separated—he
having continued his journey south along the river’s course,
while I turned off to the east, _en route_ for Askura and Dads. He
followed the river as far as its junction with the Idermi, which,
joining the larger stream of the Dads at Kheneg el Tauria, form
together the Wad Draa.
A few of the inhabitants of Tiurassín belong to the tribe of
Unila, which geographically occupies the slopes of the mountain
of the same name; but the larger proportion is formed of members
of the powerful tribe of Imerghan, which is found split up into
many divisions scattered all over this portion of trans-Atlas
Morocco. The constant state of warfare existing amongst the Berber
people has no doubt caused this disintegration of the larger tribes,
by the changing, acquisition, and losing of territory. The people
of Dads were the sole exception, and their position, offensive and
defensive, has prevented their being so divided, a fact that adds
not a little to their strength and importance.
We spent the night of November 5 at the large _ksar_ of Aït Yahia u
Ali, pitching our one little tent in a walled-in yard, which answers
the purpose of a caravanserai for passers-by. A great number of
natives crowded about, offering to sell us barley for our animals,
and chickens and eggs for ourselves; and though the last we found
to be unprocurable, in spite of all their protestations to the
contrary, our mules and donkeys fared better than usual. It was not
long before one of the reasons of these visits was discovered, for
the opportunity was not lost to the pilfering Berbers of stealing a
fine powder-horn belonging to one of my men, and formed of the horn
of a Barbary wild sheep (_muflon_), set in brass and silver,—a
tempting bait to these mountaineers, who set great store upon such
highly decorative articles of warfare. The cold was extreme, and
it was as much as we could do by crowding together in the tent to
keep warm. Although many natives visited us and paid their respects
to the old Shereef, not one for a moment eyed me with suspicion,
and Arabic seemed scarcely spoken at all amongst them. I found the
elevation of our camp to be 5480 feet above the sea-level. The small
caravan with which we had fallen in on the plain of Teluet camped
with us, and we were not sorry to have increased our numbers, for
the inhabitants of Tiurassín seem to be a hungry lot of devils on
the look out for loot.
Our companions were loudly regretting the fact that they had
been obliged to abandon the route _viâ_ Warzazat, as that road
is considered much the safer, the Arab tribe of Askura, whose
district we were to pass, being much dreaded on account of their
lawless depredations. Nor do they deserve much else but discredit,
for this very little caravan was pillaged under our own eyes by the
robbing Arab tribe, whose reputation is the worst of all the peoples
of this portion of the country. No love is lost at any time between
the Berbers and Arabs, and this curious settlement of the latter,
in the very midst of the strongholds of the former, does much to
keep the hatred alive.
The next morning by sunrise, and in bitter cold, we were threading
our way up the dry torrent-bed that I mentioned as bisecting the
little plain formed by the junction of the rivers at Tiurassín. As
we proceeded the steepness of the climb increased, and it was not for
some five or six miles that we found ourselves at the summit of the
spur of the Atlas that our road crossed. Reaching quite suddenly a
level piece of country some half a mile in extent, a magnificent view
met our eyes as we turned and looked back. Stretching away before us,
a panorama of a hundred miles of snow-capped peaks met our view,
and glorious they were in the early sunshine, one and all glowing
pink and gold. Beneath we could see far down into the shadows of
the gorge that we ascended, steep clay and shale slopes crowned
with pines and evergreen oaks. Certainly the Atlas range presents
as fine a view from the south as from the other side, but the great
plain of the Tensift was missing to add to the effect of their great
altitude. In return, however, for this, there is a foreground of
far wilder appearance, broken crags of limestone rock rising range
above range until the snow capped the whole. The peaks, too, do not
bear from this vantage-ground the same look of equal altitude that
forms so prominent a feature from the north, but each rises singly
and is easily recognisable could any definite system of naming be
discovered. Such, however, is not the case, and often a mountain
known here by one title is a few miles farther on spoken of by an
entirely different one, the nomenclature being purely local. So it is
with the rivers all over Morocco, with but one or two exceptions,
and these only the largest, for the smaller streams often take
their names from the villages they pass through or near, and I know
one river in Northern Morocco, the length of which cannot be more
than some twelve to fifteen miles from its source to its mouth,
which boasts no less than six separate names. I could identify,
however, every peak to which some more or less recognised title
seems to pertain. On the extreme west, and to the south somewhat of
the others, was Jibel Sirua, a snow-clad peak, which lies slightly
away from the main chain, forming the base of the valley of Wad Sus,
between the districts of Tifinut and Ras el Wad. It is the principal
elevation of the chain that divides the basins of the rivers Sus
and Draa. Then, taking them from the west, Jibal Miltsin, Tidili,
Glawi, Taurirt or Adrar n’Iri, Adrar n’Deren, and lastly Unila,
of all the most beautiful in form, adding almost a proof to what
the account of the deep circular lake had forced one to believe,
that it forms the cone of an extinct volcano. Even from here, and
far more so from the north, one could not but be struck by the
equality of altitude presented by the view of the range, a fact
proved by the altitude of the Glawi Pass, the lowest at this part
of the chain, and yet 8150 feet above the sea. Supposing, then,
that the average height of the peaks reaches 12,000 feet, it will be
seen that only at one spot is the altitude below 8500, and probably
in few others reaches much below 9000, and where the exception is
found, probably only in cases of tortuous gorges entirely hidden in
a panorama such as presented itself from where we stood ourselves
at an altitude of 6800 feet above the sea-level. Jibel Sirua, it
is true, is connected with the main chain by a low ridge of peaks,
and Unila stands more alone than any of the rest; but neither of
these can reach the altitude of Miltsin and Tidili, which can be
roughly estimated at some 13,000 feet.
Although but very little snow was reported to have fallen as
yet this winter, all the peaks were well covered, and judging
from the altitude at which we were, and the fact that the
_arar_—calitris—and evergreen oak abounded, I should estimate
the snow-line at this particular period at 10,000 feet. However,
as a general rule, no true estimate can be formed as regards the
snow on the Atlas, for so much depends upon the severity of the
winter or the heat of the summer; and to the best of my belief,
based upon statements made to me on the spot, snow altogether
disappears from the Atlas in very dry seasons, with the exception
of sheltered spots and crevices. Probably the least snow is found
about the end of October, after a previous dry winter and a hot
summer. In May and June, before it has had time to melt, I have
seen a far greater expanse of snow-capped peaks than I did on my
return from Tafilet in December. Generally speaking, the deepest
snow is found in March and the least in October.
Descending from this elevation of 6800 feet by the bed of a now dry
torrent, we continued our journey in an east by south direction,
passing through one or two narrow gorges between rocks that were
remarkably fine. It is no difficult matter to see that in winter and
wet weather this road must be impassable, for the sole track is in
the bed of the stream, and there were signs on the rocks of the water
having risen to some six feet above the level of its stony course.
Here one began to notice the first clear signs of the fact that
while the valleys of the northern slopes of the Atlas run almost
due north and south, those of the side on which we were take an east
and west direction, parallel, in fact, to the backbone of the chain;
the intermediate hills forming a small range along the foot of the
southern side, such as is found, only at a greater distance away,
on the north. I refer to the hills of Jibeelet and Rahamna.
The system of the Atlas at this part of its chain may be said
to consist of five distinct ranges, all running east and west
and nearly parallel. To the extreme north are those I have just
mentioned, Jibeelet and the hills of Rahamna; then the main chain
of the Atlas itself; then the hills at its feet on the south, to
which no distinct name seems to pertain, and which are so close to
the range as to form part of itself; then again the Anti-Atlas, or,
as it is more properly called, Jibel Saghru; and farther south still,
the unexplored line of Jibel Bani, which leaves the Wad Draa near
where it turns to the north, and not far from the _zauia_ of the
Shereefs of Tamgrut—Ulad Sid ben Nasr—and extends as far as
the southern limits of the oasis of Tafilet, near the hills known
as Jibel Belgrul.
Following the course of a valley, our road proceeding nearly due
east, we passed the ruins of a _ksar_, or more properly a fortress,
known as the Teherumt of Majdáta, the latter being the name of
this inhospitable and nearly uninhabited district. The fort is in
bad repair, half of it tumbling down, but in what remains a few
poor Berbers have taken up their residence, and managed to till an
acre or two of the soil in the immediate neighbourhood and plant
it with turnips. Although a tolerable amount of vegetation is
visible, we saw no herds or flocks, though it was stated that in
spring a few goats are grazed hereabouts. Almost immediately after
passing the Teherumt—“fort”—two small rivers are forded,
the easternmost of which is known as the Wad Igurian, while I
was unable to find the name of the other, only an insignificant
stream. Both appear to unite after reaching the plain, from which
only a low range of hills now separated us. The valley we were
following, though scarcely deserving of being called a valley,
for its watercourse was dry, descended to the western of these two
rivers, only a few hundred yards of hill dividing the two streams,
and after passing the Igurian one commences to ascend again by the
course of a dry torrent, the hills on the south taking the form of
high perpendicular cliffs of remarkably fine appearance. But little
vegetation was to be found here, a few oleanders along the bed of the
stream being almost all there was. Again passing a small watershed,
we descended toward the river of Agurzga, parallel to the two we had
passed, both of which crossed the road, which proceeded between the
parallel ranges of mountains on the north and hills on the south, at
right angles. I could hear of but few inhabitants in these districts,
though our men said that a small tribe of Aït Minzeru lived higher
up in the mountains, near the eastern slopes of Jibel Unila.
Where the road runs under the high cliffs the name of
“Kaiseríeh” has been given to the spot, the same implying the
narrow streets of the bazaars of a town.
At Agurzga, on the banks of the river of the same name, we spent
the night of November 6.
Of all the picturesque and romantic spots we passed on the entire
journey, I think Agurzga deserves to be
[Illustration: _Agurzga._]
considered the first, for not only is its situation, shut in
with high precipices of bare stone, fine in the extreme, but the
hand of man has done much to add to the scene by perching strange
great castles, rich in decorated towers, on every pinnacle of rock
that juts up in the narrow valley, and by terracing a sufficient
quantity of land to allow of a strip of gardens along the edge
of the river. The stream enters this portion of the valley by
a narrow gorge, between precipices some thousands of feet high,
and taking a semicircular bend, still between high walls of rock,
opens out into a stony bed, one bank rising sheer in broken boulders
to some height, while on the other side are the gardens of walnut,
almond, and fig trees, terraced one above the other. Rising again
high above these gardens are rocky eminences on which the great
castles are perched, in one case the summit being crowned by a huge
block of building, in others by tier above tier of strange yellow
_ksor_ and white square towers, the summits of the latter richly
decorated in brickwork and turreted. Just as the Wad Agurzga enters
the district to which it has given its name, so does it leave it
again, flowing out to the level country through a gorge in the
range of hills along the northern slopes of which we had been
travelling. Through this narrow gorge, guarded by a ruined fort,
we could catch a glimpse of the wide plain beyond, across which
the rivers flow before entering themselves into the Idermi or the
Dads, as the case may be. This plain, of which I shall have more to
say anon, forms the centre of the Draa basin, and extends from the
foot-hills of the southern slopes of the great Atlas range as far as
the northern extremity of Jibel Saghru, the so-called Anti-Atlas,
to the south. The river of Agurzga, flowing from the snow-level,
is always well supplied with excellent water, which whirls and
eddies along in crystal clearness over its stony bed, here in deep
blue pools, and there in tiny rippling rapids. In winter-time it
is liable to sudden floods, and often entirely unfordable.
We pitched our tiny tent at an elevation of 4850 feet above the
sea-level, just opposite a large _ksar_, near a few solitary trees,
and sent to the village for supplies, which we found difficult
to obtain. However, without my knowledge, my men made out a tale
that I was a poor Shereef on my way to make a pilgrimage to the
tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef at Tafilet, and accordingly we obtained
what money alone had failed to do, an excellent supper of boiled
turnips and almonds and walnuts—not very nourishing, it is true,
but hot and satisfying to those who had tasted nothing all day,
as had been our case. The poverty existing in this spot is extreme,
for the small quantity of land under cultivation is only sufficient
to sustain the life of the inhabitants without allowing them to
sell food, and all along the road we found the greatest difficulty
in purchasing provisions. The money we offered was to them a large
sum, but its acceptance in return for what little they had of grain,
eggs, fowls, or turnips would have eventually placed them in the
position in which we found ourselves—namely, in possession of
money but unable to purchase food with it. It is extraordinary upon
occasions like this how one realises the worthlessness of money in
places where there is nothing to be procured with it; and our little
hoard of silver, small as it was, seemed but to mock our hunger.
However, my supposed sanctity did more for us than coin could
do, and we supped after all. It was not until the following day
that I learned the ruse by which my men had been obliged to obtain
provisions. I felt but little remorse, however, as the villagers had
been paid for what they brought in small presents to the children,
and would no doubt find an opportunity of rechanging the few pesetas
we had given them into food in course of time.
Early on the morning of November 7 we left Agurzga, and proceeding,
still almost due east, crossed a line of hills and descended some
two hours later to the valley of the Ghresat. The highest point of
this five or six miles of road reaches an altitude of 5800 feet,
where a small watershed is crossed, from which the streams flow east
to the Ghresat and west to the Agurzga. For a mile or two after
striking the river the road follows its course, almost due south,
and passing between some undulating hills, the large settlement of
Ghresat, with its picturesque _ksor_, lies before one, and beyond
it the wide plain that lies between the Atlas and the Anti-Atlas.
We had finished with the mountains, and with a sigh of relief
emerged from the valley to the level country, feeling that at
last the weary work of continual ascent and descent was done with,
for a time at least.
CHAPTER VI.
GHRESAT TO DADS.
A few words must here be written regarding the country now about
to be traversed—that is to say, from Ghresat, the spot where
we emerged from the valley of the southern slopes of the Atlas
Mountains, as far as Dads. Not only does my sojourn in the latter
place make it a fit opportunity for my description of the road,
but the physical features of the country before us also render
it expedient, for it is immediately to the east of Dads that the
watershed lies that separates the rivers flowing south and west
to the Draa, more especially the Wad Dads itself, and those the
course of which is east, and which form the basin of the western
tributaries of the Wad Gheris. This river, after uniting with the
Wad Ziz at Tafilet, is eventually absorbed by the desert at the
marsh of Dayet ed Daura, to the south of that oasis. This long strip
of country lying between the great range of the Atlas Mountains and
Jibel Saghru, or the Anti-Atlas, consists of a plain some sixty miles
in length and averaging about thirty wide, rather more at Ghresat
and somewhat less at Dads. This plain, with an elevation of roughly
4800 feet at Ghresat and 4700 at the southern extremity of the tribe
of Dads, near Aït Yahia, slopes slightly from north to south and
from east to west, the rivers which leave the Atlas flowing mostly
almost due south until they meet either the Idermi or the Dads, where
these two streams have an easterly and westerly course respectively,
before uniting near Mesgita to form the more important Wad Draa.
The soil of this plain consists for the most part of sand strewn
with small stones of almost black colour, with here and there
large boulders, sometimes of limestone, at others of black igneous
formation. The peculiarity, however, of this strip of desert—for,
with the exception of the immediate river banks and oases, it
consists of little else—is the manner in which the river beds
are sunk below the level of the surrounding country. Usually on
approaching a river one first perceives a flat-topped range of low
hills crossing the plain from north to south. These hills passed,
one comes, generally from half a mile to a mile farther on, to a
steep descent, leading to the bed of the river in question, the same
formations being found on the opposite side. At Dads and in other
spots the cliffs that have to be descended before the bed of the
river is reached are of considerable altitude, and the number of
the population of all the districts hereabouts varies according to
the breadth of the valleys between the cliffs, for on this depends
the amount of land that can be put under irrigation and cultivated,
and accordingly the quantity of life the soil can support by its
products.
The effect is a curious one, for often when one is approaching a
settlement on the river-banks, the fact that the watercourse and
its cultivated surrounding land is far sunk below the level of the
plain renders it invisible until one reaches the very edge of the
decline. Up to that point one’s eye ranges from the level plain
on which one is to where it commences again beyond, its barren
appearance and uniform colouring presenting the effect that both
join, and it seems impossible that a large colony with gardens
and irrigated lands can exist in the neighbourhood. It is easy to
see that the whole formation of the country is due to the streams
poured down from the greater Atlas, which, flowing south as far
as the parallel range of Jibel Saghru, are there obliged to seek a
common outlet by following the direction of the mountains as far as
Mesgita, where the united force of the rivers has formed a passage
through the range.
All the _ksor_ of Ghresat are situated upon the east bank of the
river, and at some height above it, while the west bank is occupied
by a few gardens, where fig and almond trees seem to thrive well. The
stream is clear, and even in this dry season we found a couple
of feet of water in the ford, which was perhaps some sixty yards
across. The river-bed is stony, with larger boulders of limestone
strewn here and there, no doubt carried to this position from the
mountains above.
Several of the _ksor_ are handsome buildings, one, just above the
ford, being particularly so, the decoration and turreted towers
giving it a most imposing effect. The inhabitants, like those of
Agurzga, are a subdivision of the Imerghan tribe of Berbers, who are
continually at war, not only with the surrounding tribes but also
amongst themselves. Sometimes a feud arises between neighbouring
_ksor_ within easy range of one another, when a strict watch
is kept from the roof of each, and shots exchanged whenever the
opportunity presents itself. We were pointed out two _ksor_ where
this unsatisfactory state of affairs was progressing, both in a sad
state of disrepair from constant attack, and from the fact that no
opportunity could be found to reconstruct the damaged portions on
account of the builders being fired upon by their neighbouring
enemy. The only parallel case we can well imagine would be a
blood-feud between two houses exactly opposite one another in a
street. While a bullet from the tiles would lay low the footman
who answered the door on the one side, the host returning from an
evening party would be struck in the back on the other, and so on
until possibly no male member remained in either family.
After following the course of the river for perhaps half a mile,
the road takes a more easterly direction, and one enters upon fifteen
miles of stony desert, which extends, without water at this period,
as far as the Wad Mdri, the easternmost of the rivers of Askura. This
strip of dreary country is known as the “Sebaa shaabat,” or
“seven undulations,” from the fact that such exist. No vegetation
was to be seen but bunches of wild thyme, a few thorny bushes—the
_sidra_ of the Arabs—and a little dry rank grass, and the latter
only where there were signs of water collecting in the rainy season.
The absence of animal life was most noticeable, and scarcely a
bird was seen. From the summit of the Atlas this had been so,
and a few red-legged Barbary partridge, a magpie or two, and a
couple of ravens, were all I had come across. Of four-legged beasts
still less, for though both gazelle and _muflon_ are to be found,
we saw neither, and I can remember having perceived no other signs
of animals than a couple of jerboa.
Anything more dismal than the scene which presented itself could not
be imagined. The two parallel ranges of mountains that bounded the
plain on either hand were clearly visible, though here, I daresay,
some thirty miles apart. The Great Atlas presented an appearance of
grandeur certainly, but of little or no beauty, merely an unbroken
line of immense limestone peaks, here and there capped in snow,
while the Anti-Atlas, more broken and fantastic in character,
loomed up to the south, a forbidding series of black and dark-red
rocks. Nor did the country we were travelling through provide any
relief to the eye, for what little vegetation there was to be seen
was stunted and sun-dried.
A pleasure, indeed, it was to descend by a rocky path to the valley
of the Wad Mdri, the easternmost of the rivers that water the
large and important oasis of Askura, and enters the gardens that
line the bank of the stream. Here the palm-tree, which we had not
seen since leaving Morocco, again appeared, adding an additional
charm to the scene, which boasted, against a background of blue
sky and snow-peaks, a number of betowered and decorated _ksor_
of great size, the largest and most ornamental we had as yet come
across. The gardens, however, showed signs of being neglected,
and the rough walls of loose stone had in many places half tumbled
down. Again an ascent, and again another four miles or so of dreary
stone-strewn desert; but over the latter portion of this we were
cheered by the sight of the long line of palm-trees ahead, that
marked the commencement of the larger portion of the Askura oasis
and our night’s resting-place.
We pushed on quickly, tired though we and our poor animals were, and
an hour or so before sunset entered the groves of palm-trees, which
commence quite suddenly, so that in a minute or two one has lost
sight of the desert and is threading one’s way amongst a forest of
trees. For an hour we passed through the oasis before arriving at the
spot where we were to camp. Often our road led us amongst gardens,
above the top of the walls of which appeared palms, pomegranate,
apple, pear, peach, and other fruit-trees, while clusters of roses
and jasmine spoke of the love of the natives for flowers. A tree
we had not as yet come across, and which I here noticed in large
quantities, was the tamarix (_senegalensis_), which attains a very
considerable size and has a handsome appearance. Large fields,
skilfully irrigated, now and then took the place of the gardens, in
which the natives rear crops of wheat, barley, and maize, the latter
especially. Through these openings one could catch glimpses of the
great _ksor_ of the place, some of which are not only of great size,
but also possess a most imposing appearance, with their decorated
upper storeys and tapering towers. Everything seemed in excellent
repair, which spoke not only for the agricultural character of the
people, but also of their wealth—for, comparatively speaking,
Askura is one of the richest, if not quite the richest, of the
oases in Morocco south of the Atlas Mountains.
We forded two more rivers, the Wad bu Jhila—“father of
madness,” so called on account of its floods and swift current
after rains in the mountains—and the large Wad Askura, from
which the oasis takes its name. Both these rivers contained,
at the time of our passing through, a plentiful supply of water,
flowing in many channels over wide stone-strewn beds. In the centre
of the easternmost—the Wad Askura—on what was at the dry period
an island, a weekly market is held, which in winter is removed to
another and more sheltered spot, for the island is often flooded. The
object of its situation is that the spot is the only one clear from
the forest, and therefore attack and fighting is less likely to
occur than would be the case amongst the palm-groves; for, ignoring
their constant wars with the Berbers of the surrounding country,
the tribes and even villages of Askura are continually fighting
amongst themselves.
A steep bank brings one to the eastern bank of the second river,
and a mile farther on, still amongst palm-trees and gardens,
we pitched our tent for the night in a square _tabia_ enclosure,
used as a caravanserai. But though tolerable immunity from plunder
was secured by the walls around us, a number of the natives crowded
into the place, and it was only owing to our continual vigilance
that we did not lose articles of our baggage. I found the elevation
of our camping-ground to be 4200 feet above the sea-level.
De Foucauld, whose extensive travels south of the Atlas did not
bring him to Askura, merely mentions the place under the name of
Haskura; but, as in the case of all names, I obtained the word
written by native scholars in their own language, and I found none
who placed an aspirate before the word, in all cases the spelling
being identically as I write it here.
It is impossible to give any estimate, except the vaguest, as to
the population of the place or the extent of the oasis; for on
both points great divergence of opinion and universal exaggeration
appeared to exist. Probably, roughly speaking, the total population
is from 25,000 to 30,000 souls, and the extent of cultivated soil
some 20 miles long—_i.e._, north and south—with an average
of 10 wide, giving the result of some 200 square miles, the whole
of which appears to be irrigated and under palm-cultivation. The
dates are not nearly so fine as those of Tafilet, but are largely
exported to Marakesh, as are also almonds.
Four tribes of Arabs inhabit the district; respectively—(i.) Kabyla
el Ostia, (ii.) Kabyla Mzuru, (iii.) Ulad Yakub, and (iv.) Ulad
Magil. Each is governed locally by a sheikh, under the jurisdiction
of the Kaid of Glawa, Sid Madani, whose _kasba_ at Teluet we had
so carefully avoided.
It is curious to find here, in a country almost entirely populated by
Berbers, so large and important an Arab tribe, and I could discover
no tradition extant as to how they came to have remained at this
spot, or whether it was conquered by them at any comparatively recent
date. The most probable solution of the question seems to be that
they are the descendants of the original invaders of North Africa,
amongst whom the name of Ulad Magil, still a tribe of Askura,
is found. Certain it is that the deadly hatred still existing
between the two races is keenly alive to-day, and were the Arabs
less strong, or their position more open to attack, there is no
doubt that they would have been ousted long ago from so fertile and
rich an oasis. However, being surrounded as they are on all sides
by desert has added much to their security; added to the fact that
every man of means—that is to say, every man who can by
[Illustration: _A Village Scene._]
honest, or dishonest if necessary, labour scrape together the
money—possesses a horse and a gun, while almost without exception
the Berber tribes are mountaineers, and in this part of the country
own very few horses. An attack upon the place is thus almost an
impossibility, the Berbers on foot having no chance against the
mounted Arabs, who, by scouring the desert plains, can easily cut
off all retreat.
The inhabitants appear to be well-to-do, and many were handsomely
dressed in spotless _haiks_ of wool. The men are, as a rule, small of
stature and wiry, with keen hungry eyes and fine features, and form
a strange contrast in their appearance of cupidity and rascality to
the honest open countenances of the Berbers. The odds being so vastly
unequal in open warfare, the latter race have almost desisted from
attacking the place—though the innate hatred of the two peoples
finds ample scope in plundering one another’s caravans. Yet,
rascals as are the Arabs of Askura, one cannot help admiring the
immense labour with which they have dug the thousands of canals that
irrigate the gardens, and the excellent manner in which these are
kept in repair. The love of gardening is found all over Morocco;
but the temperament of the race for sudden fits of economy, or
laziness, puts a stop on all progress in this direction, and on many
occasions I have known Moors sink wells and build irrigating canals,
plant fruit-trees and hedges, only to allow the whole to fall into a
state of ruin as soon as completed; and where one year I have seen
flourishing gardens, the next the orange-trees are dried up from
want of water and attention, and cattle are feeding on the leaves
of the young fruit-trees. But there is also another reason for the
constant ruined gardens one is continually passing when travelling
in Morocco—namely, the fact that after the death of the owner
the property is divided, according to the _sherá_ or native law,
amongst his heirs, who each singly wish to reap the entire benefit
without sharing in the expenses of keeping the place in repair. I
knew one most beautiful garden, not twenty miles from Tangier,
which was once the pride of the neighbourhood, and which from the
above cause is to-day a barren field, with here and there the dried
trunks of what were once orange-trees appearing from the soil. At
Askura, however, things are different, and the excellent state of
the gardens, the walls, and means of water-supply was astonishing,
and none the less creditable to the hardy desert-people.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF DADS.]
Our passage through the oasis, though I felt nervous lest amongst
Arabs my foreign accent should lead to my detection, was a delightful
relief after the weary days of barren mountain and still more barren
plain. Leaving the spot where we had camped before daylight, we
fell, just outside the caravanserai, into the hands of thieves; and
although the presence of the old Shereef saved our personal property,
the caravan of Dadsmen suffered considerably, and we left them behind
trying to regain possession of their stolen mules and merchandise.
Just as some fifteen miles of desert separate Askura from Ghresat
on the west, so some twelve miles more intervene between the oasis
and the next spot where water is to be found—namely, Imasin. Like
the Wad Mdri, the Imasin, from which the district takes its name,
is sunk considerably below the level of the plain, and bounded
east and west by a low range of flat-topped hills. Here again we
were amongst Berbers, the inhabitants belonging to the tribe of
Imerghan, a division of the same tribe as are found at Agurzga and
Tiurassín. This same people own a large territory along the lower
portion of the Wad Dads, from the south-west corner of Aït Yahia
almost to Mesgita, near which the Dads, uniting with the Idermi,
becomes the Draa. Although entirely Shelha-speaking people, the
inhabitants of Imasin claim to be Shereefs—that is, descendants
of the Prophet Mohammed, and therefore of Arab origin. One is
constantly coming across these so-called Berber Shereefs, and a
few words are necessary to explain the incongruity. When first
the descendants of the Prophet reached Morocco, either at the
same time as the first invasion, or later with Mulai Idris, the
founder of the original dynasty of Sultans, they spread themselves
over the country, settling down amongst the Berbers, who, with the
exception of the Arab invaders and their children, were the sole
inhabitants. These Shereefs, or “nobles,” as the word implies,
soon became much respected, the more so as Islam spread, though no
doubt their superior education and surroundings of civilisation had
much to do with it. However it may have been, they in time became the
arbitrators in cases of dispute, the propounders of the new faith,
and as such, with but little difficulty and objection, married into
the Berber families. The result of this is apparent. Separated from
Arab people and brought up solely amongst Berbers, their children
and descendants forgot the language of the forefather’s country,
and spoke solely that of the people amongst whom they lived. Every
circumstance led to their living the lives of Berbers, while still
professing the religion of Islam. Their wives were taken from
the tribes-people of their mothers, and to all practical purposes
they lapsed back into Shloh tribesmen. Still the blood of the Arab
ancestor had instilled into their veins the strain of the Prophet,
and the male descendants, according to the rights of Islamic law,
which recognises only paternity in this respect, still continued—as
they had
[Illustration: _A Berber Family at Dads: Woman mealing Corn._]
every possible authority to do—to call themselves Shereefs;
and many of these “noble” Berber families, to whom Arabic is
an unknown tongue, possess probably no more than the original Arab
blood of their first Shereefian ancestor. In the same way many of
the Berber tribes south of the Atlas are tainted with Arab blood,
and the most powerful of all, the Aït Atta, are proud of claiming
descent from the tribe of the Koreish, which gave to the world the
Prophet Mohammed.
The principal and best known Berber Shereefian families are without
doubt the descendants of Sid Ben Nasr of Tamgrut, on the Wad Draa,
and those of Mulai Brahim, and Mulai Abdullah Ben Hoseyn of Tamslot,
to the north of the Atlas, and some ten to fifteen miles south
of Marakesh. In each, too, are visible the traces of the effect
their surroundings has had upon them; for both in appearance and
dialect the Shereefs of Tamgrut resemble the Haratin population of
the Draa, amongst whom they reside, while those of Tamslot bear a
greater resemblance to the northern Atlas Berbers. The _zauias_,
or sanctuaries, of both attract a large number of pilgrims, that
of Tamslot being of course far more accessible, and therefore much
richer. Mulai Brahim, who lies buried on the northern slopes of
the Atlas, above Agorgoreh, shares with Sid bel Abbas, the local
saint of Marakesh, the title of patron saint of southern Morocco;
and the present representative and head of the family, Mulai el Haj
ben Said, is one of the best known and richest men in that part of
the country. His palace at Tamslot is a large place, and though sadly
wanting in repair, is still a building of considerable magnificence,
while his stable of horses is certainly the finest in the south.
Probably of far purer origin than the Berbers of the trans-Atlas
portion of Morocco are those of Aït Yussi, Ghiata, and Beni Mgild,
on the northern extremity of the same range, to the south and east of
Fez. They seem to have lost none of their pristine fierceness, and
to have adopted none of the manners and customs of their conquerors
beyond their religion; for the brown tent in which they moved from
place to place long before the Arab invasion is still found amongst
them, and their traditions, pre-Arab, are still handed down from
mouth to mouth. Inhabiting the immense forests of that district,
they live a wild gipsy life, at war with all men, and paying no
more than the most nominal obedience to the commands and laws of
the Sultan. In the south, however, it is different; and when,
after having reached Tafilet, I found myself in the Sultan’s
camp, surrounded by Berber and Arab tribesmen, not only I, but
natives of the country, often found it impossible to distinguish
between them, so greatly did they resemble one another in feature
and dress. In the other case, that of the northern Berbers, the
type is quite distinct, the high cheek-bones and narrow eyes and
reddish colouring distinguishing the Shleh from the Arab at once,
and showing clearly his Hamitic origin.
Imasin is a poor little place enough. The few scattered _ksor_
are all more or less in a state of ruin, and the gardens seemed
uncared for and empty. Fording the river, we did not stop, but
pushed on for another ten or twelve miles of desert, until a steep
descent led us to the bed of the Wad Dads, at the point where the
tribe of Aït Yahia is settled, and where the Imguna empties its
stream into the larger river.
The tribe of Aït Yahia are a division of the Berbers of Seddrat,
who, like all the other tribes, are much split up. The junction
of the Wad Imguna and Wad Dads forms a triangular plain about
two and a-half miles across, shut in on all sides, except on the
actual course of the rivers, by high cliffs, on the summit of which
stand numerous _äudin_ or watch-towers. While the Wad Dads forms
the base of the triangle, the Imguna bisects the plain, on which
are to be found some four-and-twenty _ksor_, forming the district
of Aït Yahia. The spot where the waters of the Imguna flow into
the Dads is known as Tagnit bu Hammu. A few words must be said
about the Wad Imguna. Rising on the southern slopes of the Atlas,
near the snow-capped peak of Jibel Trekeddit, its upper valleys are
inhabited by a small tribe called Aït Sakri. A few miles lower down
the stream leaves the mountains, its banks at this spot being peopled
by the Aït Ahmed, who in turn give place, as the river descends,
to the tribe of Imguna, through whose territory for some twenty
miles it flows, and from which it takes its name, or _vice versa_.
Choosing the village of Idu Tizi for our halting-spot, for the old
Shereef had friends there, we pitched our little tent in a walled
enclosure adjoining the _ksar_ in which our hosts lived, for they
had come out to meet us, and soon made us welcome. Poor though they
were, they brought us an excellent supper of _kuskusu_ and boiled
turnips, the first hot food we had tasted for some days—and very
welcome it was. In return we were able to entertain our host and his
companions with sugar and tea, both luxuries far beyond the reach
of ordinary man in this far-away part of Morocco—the carriage
alone, with its physical difficulties of road, not to mention the
constant plundering of caravans, rendering the price demanded for
such luxuries exorbitant, even to our extravagant European ideas. The
people knew but little Arabic, so I ran no fear of detection, and
poured out the sweet green tea in true native fashion with great
success. Askura passed—the only Arab settlement between the Atlas
and Tafilet—I began to feel far more certain of the success of my
journey, and thought nothing or little of my disguise. So accustomed
was I becoming to my _rôle_ that I found it no exertion to keep the
part up, and became most orthodox and regular in saying my prayers,
&c., with the rest of our little band. It is only fair to state
that I had lived for considerable periods of time in the interior of
Morocco previously, and the various customs and habits of the people
had gradually become part and parcel of my life, so that I performed
the necessary duties without any anxiety or mental exertion.
The gardens of Aït Yahia have a poor appearance, and the irrigating
canals in many places were dry, a sure sign, as was the case, that
the people were constantly at war with outside enemies and amongst
themselves. The soil, too, is not suited for cultivation, for it
consists entirely of patches of a poor yellow clay interspersed
with rocks. Fig-trees seemed to thrive best, and even these were
small and wretched, while the date-palm was absent altogether.
Although up to now the direction of our road had been almost due
east, we had gradually been leaving behind the main chain of the
Atlas and approaching Jibel Saghru,—the Anti-Atlas,—both of
which ranges, parallel to one another, take a slightly northerly
direction as they proceed east; and here at Aït Yahia we found
ourselves with only the river and a few miles of sloping plain
between ourselves and the southern range. It is at Aït Yahia,
in fact, that the Wad Dads, having flowed south from the Atlas
across the plain, meeting the lower northern slopes of Jibel Saghru,
alters its course to a westerly one.
Anything more unlike the Atlas than this parallel range could
scarcely be imagined, for in place of the long line of limestone
cliffs there presents itself a chain of peaks of no very great
altitude and of every colour and shape, the whole torn and twisted
by volcanic action, and of an alternately deep red, purple, and
black hue. Probably none of the peaks of the range that I saw are
above 2000 to 3000 feet above the level of the plain, which would
give an altitude of from 6000 to 7000 feet above the sea-level,
for I found that we at Aït Yahia were at an elevation of 4700
feet. In one respect only was any resemblance noticeable between
the two ranges—namely, the utter absence of vegetation on each;
and anything more dismal than the intervening strip of desert, shut
in by grey limestone and snow-capped mountains on the north, and
dreary black hills on the south, it would be difficult to imagine.
We crossed the Wad Imguna before daylight on the morning of November
9, and ascending the cliff to the level of the plain which we had
left the evening before, turned slightly to the north, and for two
or three hours travelled over the dreary barren plain. It was most
curious to note the suddenness with which one comes into sight of,
and loses again, the settlements in the wide valleys of this part of
the country; for no sooner had we reached the summit of the cliff
than Aït Yahia was entirely lost to view, the plain seeming to be
one with the gradual slope of Jibel Saghru, on the farther side of
the river. Ten minutes later not a habitation was to be seen, the
_äudin_, or watch-towers, along the line of the valley being the
only signs of any inhabitants in the dreary surroundings. Except
for these we might have been in the centre of the Sahara, and even
the half-ruined towers seemed the work of a long-departed people.
The news of the coming of the old Shereef and members of his family
had travelled before us, and one forgot all the weariness of the
landscape in the pleasant reception that awaited us. An hour or two
before we arrived at Dads we caught sight of little bands of people,
black specks in the bright sunlight, and as they recognised their
relations they ran toward us. The old man dismounted from his mule
and proceeded on foot, the better to embrace the ever-increasing
flow of welcomers. It formed one of those charming pictures which
one now and again comes across in travelling in Morocco,—the old
man, the centre of a little crowd of men, women, and children,
all laughing and singing, being escorted after years of absence
back to the home of his ancestors. I came in for my share of the
welcome—for was not I one of his party?—and I shook hands with,
and was kissed by, a score of men and women and children, before,
just as suddenly as we had lost sight of Aït Yahia, the wide
valley of Dads burst into view. Here at the summit of the cliffs
more friends awaited us, and as we descended, all happy that a stage
at least of our journey was over, our band formed quite a caravan,
the children laughing and tumbling over one another in their glee,
the men alternately singing and crying out words of welcome, and
the women, with their hands to their mouths, uttering the shrill
cry of the _zakerit_.
So our little procession turned and twisted down the steep path,
every moment being met by more people, one and all eager to welcome
us, until, surrounded by a rejoicing crowd, we entered the narrow
streets of the village of Zauia Aït bu Haddu, and reached the
dwelling of the old Shereef.
CHAPTER VII.
DADS.
It seems so long since I have found an opportunity of writing of
my personal experiences, and those of the good men who accompanied
me upon my journey, that it is quite a pleasure to abandon for
a time things geographical, and to enter for a chapter into the
less important but interesting details of my stay at Dads, where
a sojourn of five days in the Shereef’s house, with innumerable
kind but indigestible feasts elsewhere, allowed me to see much more
of the Berber home-life than would otherwise have been the case.
The first new experience was to look upon the interior of one of
these strange castles that the natives build themselves, the outsides
of which had so impressed me by their size and the manner in which
they are built. No sooner had we arrived at the Zauia Aït bu Haddu
than the opportunity I had all along been wishing to find occurred,
and on alighting from my donkey at the door of the Shereef’s house,
he bade me welcome with all the grace and rhetoric that the Arabs
know so well how to use.
A stable-yard, a large enclosed space, divided the house from the
street of the village, and, passing through this, a walnut-wood
door, of roughly-sawn planks, gave entrance to the house. Within
all was darkness, and it was only by striking a match that I could
perceive we had entered a wide and dusty passage which seemed to
lead nowhere. Groping along a gradual ascent, which took the place
of stairs, we reached the first floor, on which most of the living
apartments were situated, the remainder of the ground-floor serving
as stabling, and opening by another entrance into the yard we had
already passed through. Still ascending, we entered at length a
large unfurnished room some 30 feet square, the whole black with
smoke. Here we found a number of women, mostly accompanied by babies
in arms, attending to the household affairs. Some were cooking the
meal that was being prepared for our reception over fires of inferior
and smoke-giving charcoal, while others were weaving on hand-looms
a heavy woollen material, to serve eventually for the _haidus_ or
cloaks of the Berbers. The walls of the room were of rough _tabia_
and the floor of plastered mud, while the ceiling consisted of trunks
of walnut-trees supported on pillars of _tabia_, and covered with
brushwood and clay above, the latter forming the floor of the next
storey. A few huge copper cooking-pots and a rough unstained box
or two formed all the furniture visible, together with a heap of
dishes of considerable size, each a segment of the trunk of large
walnut-trees skilfully hollowed out. Some of these were already
filled with the steaming _kuskusu_ and boiled turnips that were to
form the staple _pièce de résistance_ of the coming feast. Again an
ascent of clay, supported on walnut beams fastened into the wall,
led us to a second chamber of much the same dimensions as the
first, only in place of the narrow loopholes which allowed a dim
light to enter in the lower storey there were here round holes in
the roof, serving at once for windows and chimneys, and decidedly
unsuccessful at either, for the heavy smoke of fig-wood charcoal
hung like a cloud in the air, obstructing what little light might
otherwise have entered. In other respects the rooms were in every
way identically the same, the walls black with smoke, and covered
with cobwebs near the ceiling, but with these exceptions tolerably
clean. Again we ascended, this time emerging on to the flat roof,
in the centre of which stood a highly decorated room built of
mud bricks, with a door of the usual walnut-wood and two or three
small windows with shutters. We were a great height up, probably
some 50 to 55 feet from the ground; but towers rose still higher,
though their only purpose seemed to be the defence of the _ksar_,
for they contained no rooms, but only galleries with narrow loopholes
in the walls. The door of the room was thrown open, and we entered
the clean and comfortable _minzah_ and threw ourselves down on the
rough rugs and carpets, delighting in being able to rest at last,
and in a cool atmosphere, after the heat of our journey—and with
every promise, too, of escaping the rigorous cold at night.
The old Shereef remained below in a small room, which in his
younger days, when he resided at Dads, he had built himself, with
plaster walls and some rough Moorish painting on the ceiling, and a
horseshoe window opening on to the street, some 20 feet above the
roadway. Here, no doubt, he interviewed the members of his family
that he had abandoned for so long, and doubtless, too, listened
to the reproaches of the wives he had deserted for nine years or
so. However, all the male relations and a number of friends of the
house trooped up to our quarters, and as most of them knew Arabic
well, the conversation flowed cheerily enough over the excellent
hot dishes of food that they brought us. Then came Moorish tea,
with quantities of sugar and mint, I presiding at the tray, in the
seat of honour, for I was the stranger of the party, and therefore
the most honoured. A splendid handsome group of men they formed,
these hosts of ours and their friends, and clean withal, which
added very considerably to the pleasure of their company.
What questions they asked!—not the rude personal questions the Arab
pesters one with, but as to what was going on in Morocco, and how our
little party had fared on the way; and even more general than their
interrogations were their protestations of welcome. Very welcome
they made us too, bringing from their various houses great dishes
of food—plain stuff enough, but none the less acceptable—and
keeping the day as a sort of holiday.
It may seem to the reader that almost every page of this book
contains references as to what we obtained to eat; but on a journey
in which one tasted meat only twice in a month, and when often we
walked forty miles with nothing more than dates or inferior dried
figs to dine and sup and breakfast on, it is wonderful how important
a _souvenir de voyage_ is the remembrance of the rare occasions
on which we satisfied our hunger, or, as on our arrival at Dads,
we did more, and actually had enough to eat and to spare.
I quickly made friends with the natives of the place, and before
our guests departed, so as to give us an opportunity to sleep after
our weary journey,
[Illustration: _Inside the Village of Aït bu Haddu, at Dads._]
we had arranged to meet again later in the afternoon, and walk
about in the gardens which line the river-banks.
Meanwhile, I think some description ought to be given as to the
appearance of the men I found myself among and their womenkind.
Certainly of all the tribes and peoples that I have come across
in Morocco, those of Dads far exceed the rest in good looks and
handsome build. As a rule, all the men are well above average height,
gracefully and strongly formed, withal possessing an appearance of
athletes. In colour they are fair, the eyes sometimes blue, but
generally dark, while the eyelashes and eyebrows are black. The
nose, contrary to the general Berber type, is aquiline, and the
mouth finely cut and well shaped. Although they follow the rule of
shaving the head, they do not, like the Arabs, allow the beard and
moustache to grow, but entirely shave off the latter, and leave only
a small pointed beard on the extremity of the chin, which extends to
the ears in a fine line of closely cut hair on either side. Their
hands and feet are small and well shaped, the former showing no
signs of manual labour, all of which is performed by the women,
the men being the warriors, as it were, and, unless employed as
caravan-drivers, spending their time in idleness or bloodshed.
It is impossible in such a description as this to really reproduce
the type of the Berber of Dads, for his charm, and undoubtedly he
possesses much, is owing more perhaps to his manner and innate
politeness than to his outward form, though even in the latter
respect he is superb. Fierce as they are in war, the people of Dads
are when at peace the gentlest of creatures, extremely devoted to
their children, and living a home-life absolutely unknown amongst the
Arabs. Just as in appearance, so in moral character, do they excel,
and the vices so common amongst the Moors are unknown in the homes
of the Berbers. They seem to possess none of that uncontrollable
passion that is so large a feature in the Arab character, and its
place is taken by affection and sincerity. Seldom marrying more
than one wife, prostitution is absolutely unknown, with the result
that the health of the tribe is excellent, and one never sees those
horrid disfigurements of feature so common in other portions of
Morocco. No doubt to a great extent the moral character of the
Berbers is due to the fact that their women are allowed entire
liberty, do not veil their faces, and mix on almost all occasions
with the men. One of the first things that struck me on my arrival at
Dads was the good-humoured and innocent chaff that passed between the
men and the girls of the tribe, even in the streets of the _ksar_,
and still more when they brought us our food to the _minzah_ on the
house-top. The women are distinctly pretty, with very fair skins and
clear complexions; but they detract much from their appearance by
the strange manner in which they adorn their features with _henna_
and _kohl_, the former a red dye, the latter antimony. Usually
five red streaks pass from the top of the forehead to the eyebrows,
while each cheek contains a triangular patch of the same hue. The
eyebrows and lashes are darkened with the _kohl_, a black patch is
put upon the tip of the nose, another at each point of the mouth,
and still another on the chin. The neck is often slightly tattooed
in a narrow design running from under the chin as far as the breasts.
The costume of the women of Dads consists almost entirely of
_khent_—indigo-blue cotton—the dress being formed of two pieces,
which fasten over the shoulder and hang as if “cut square,”
back and front. Under the arms the two strips of _khent_ are sown
together as far as below the knees. A girdle—usually a cord of
red wool wound several times round the body, and the ends hanging
down in long tassels—takes the place of the wide _hazam_ of the
Arab women, and is infinitely more graceful. Often a second strip
of _khent_ is worn as a shawl, being brought over one shoulder
and fastened below the other arm. Necklaces of silver beads and
pendants with coral and amber form the chief ornament; and often
the head-dress of _khent_ is decorated in silver, while bangles
and a few anklets are worn. The women usually go barefoot, a few
of the richest only seeming to wear shoes; while with the men the
sandal—generally of raw hide—is almost universal.
The men’s dress is picturesque. Over the long wide-sleeved shirt,
or _chamira_, is worn a _haidus_ of thick black woollen material,
or else the same hooded garment in white wool, often varied with
narrow stripes of cotton interwoven. On the head a small white
turban, leaving the crown bare, is the customary covering; but many
affect, too, the _kheit_, or soft wool string, and still more go
bareheaded. As is usual with all Berbers, no belt or sash is worn,
the long _chamira_ hanging ungirdled from the neck to the ankles.
All sorts and varieties of hairdressing are to be found amongst
the children. Some have the crown bare, and the hair on the sides
of the head long, just for all the world like the babies of Japan,
while others possess a regular patchwork design of hair and bald
spots all over the head. They seem a happy good-natured lot these
children of Dads, and spend nearly the entire day at play, seldom
fighting or quarrelling. The principal occupation of the boys seems
to be slinging, at which they are remarkably adept. The sling is
formed of a small net of close-woven string, with two long cords
attached, and even quite small urchins can send a stone to a great
distance. Another amusement, absolutely unknown to the Arabs so far
as I am aware, is the modelling of little figures out of clay. Some
that I saw were excellent, principally men on horseback, and most
creditable performances for children who have nothing but their
fingers to work with. The horsemen were generally stood up a few
yards off and pelted with stones until broken, the excited urchins
meanwhile shouting, “The Arabs! the Arabs!”—the common war-cry
of their tribe when fighting with the latter race.
In spite of the great size of the _ksor_ of Dads, with their
castellated towers and fortified walls, the place is an extremely
poor one, and little or no money circulates, except amongst the men
employed in caravan-work. Even in this case it is very few indeed
who possess more than a couple of mules, such being considered a
large capital, and the long and wearisome journey to Morocco City
and back usually brings only some five dollars or so of profit
per mule; that is to say, an absence of a fortnight, with some 250
miles of desert and mountain, the latter often snow-clad, may, if
robbers be escaped and favourable luck be met with, bring in some
sixteen shillings of English money. But, as a rule, the population
of Dads subsist upon the dried figs and other scanty produce of
their gardens, which are poor enough little fields, well irrigated
certainly, but with inferior soil and scanty products. The figs
are plucked ripe and laid out on to the flat house-tops to dry
in the sun, and eventually stored for the winter. So hard do they
become that we were obliged to crush them between stones before we
were able to make any impression upon them with our teeth. Very few
cattle are to be found, such as there are being entirely stall-fed,
_fsa_—a kind of lucerne—being grown for the purpose. There being
absolutely no grazing land, the cows seldom leave the yards of the
house. They are invariably fed out of mangers, built of _tabia_,
and raised about 12 to 18 inches from the ground. The women attend
to the cattle as to everything else, it being their duty to fetch and
carry water and firewood, in fact to do almost all the work with the
exception of tilling the soil, and in a few cases I saw them even
so occupied. As a rule, the cultivation is done by paid workmen,
who take piecework, the digging of an acre of soil preparatory
to its being sown with turnips bringing the labourer about two
shillings English money. These labourers are not of the Dads tribe,
for they think it below their station to dig, but usually come from
the banks of the Wad Draa, and are known, both amongst themselves and
all over Morocco, as “Haratin”—that is to say, “freemen,”
and not slaves. In type they form much in common with the negro,
and seem too not unlike him in good humour and docility. Their
language is a variety of Shelha, called “Drauia,” but is only
partially comprehensible to the tribes
[Illustration: _A Woman of Dads._]
speaking the pure dialect. Numbers of these “Haratin” are to
be found all over Morocco, where they usually pursue the calling of
water-carriers, and thus become members of the fraternity of Mulai
Yakub, to whose tomb, at the hot springs near Fez, they have to
make a pilgrimage before taking to the _guerba_ or “water-skin,”
from which they peddle the liquid to the crowd. They are usually an
honest and trustworthy people and excellent labourers, talking and
laughing while they dig or ply whatever trade they have taken to,
but they seem incapable of skilled labour of any sort.
Having now briefly sketched the character and manner of life of
the people of Dads, a few words must be written as to the country
their tribe inhabits.
The division of the Berbers which takes its name from the river
Dads possesses the entire banks of that river from the spot where
it leaves the valley of the main chain of the Atlas to where it
changes its course from north and south to east and west, a few
miles from the northern slopes of Jibel Saghru, the Anti-Atlas,
where the tribe of Aït Yahia, a division of the larger Seddrat,
commences. The distance thus in the hands of the Dads tribe is a
narrow strip of land on both banks of the river, some twenty-five
miles in length. The fact that their district extends from the Atlas
range to the Anti-Atlas gives them a power altogether beyond their
numerical strength amongst the Berbers of trans-Atlas Morocco, for
by their position they hold entire command over the caravan-roads
from Marakesh to Tafilet and the intermediate places. Whichever road
be chosen—whether it be by the valleys of the Warzazat and Idermi,
by the Glawi Pass, or by Demnat and Aït bu Gemmés—the traveller
is obliged to pass through Dads, and in order that caravans may
do so with immunity, it is necessary that alliances be made with
the tribe by the surrounding people. This, too, empowers the
inhabitants of Dads to trade with far more security than those
of the other districts, for the fact that they allow caravans to
pass through without plundering them gives them the same right
elsewhere; and should another tribe rob or attack a Dads caravan,
woe betide the next band of men of the tribe in question that
passed through Dads. Thus it was that I heard on my return from
Tafilet that a small caravan from Askura, coming from the east,
met with a reception that amply repaid the loss of the property of
the mule-drivers who had accompanied us through Askura, and whose
plundering we had witnessed. Again, the strength of Dads is owing,
no doubt, not a little to the fact that the tribe is undivided, and
collected at one spot, whereas, I believe without exception, all the
other Berber tribes are scattered over various parts of the country,
none inhabiting one district, as is the case with Dads. Although
continual blood-feuds are springing up amongst the inhabitants of the
various _ksor_, the tribe unites in the case of attack from without,
all intervillage quarrels being left until the enemy is driven
off. But so firm a position have the people managed to obtain for
themselves, and so renowned are they for their pluck and bravery,
that nowadays attack from other tribes is uncommon. However, a few
years since the powerful Aït Atta marched in force against the
inhabitants of Dads, accompanied by a large number of horsemen;
but the superiority in numbers, and the fact that the Dads people
possessed no horses, did not suffice to give them victory, and
they were, after a long struggle, eventually driven back to the
east across the plain of Anbed. A few Aït Atta _ksor_ which had
formerly stood at Dads, inhabited by friendly tribesmen, were
thereupon destroyed, and the Attauis driven out or put to the sword.
In all those wars and blood-feuds no quarter is given, any one old
enough to carry a gun or dagger, the two weapons of the country,
being considered fair game. Prisoners taken alive are stabbed to
death with the curved dagger of the place, powder and shot being too
valuable. Contrary to this barbarous custom, the women and children
are spared, the former being permitted to go free, and a strict
code of honour prevents their being violated. Immediately a _ksor_
is besieged the women and children are allowed to pass out untouched,
and are even helped on their way to safe quarters by the enemy. In
many cases of this sort strange incongruities are found amongst the
Berber people. In the case of the Arabs, prisoners of war might be
spared, but the women would be a prize too tempting to be allowed
to escape, and would one and all be outraged, and the children as
likely as not sold.
The river flows through the centre of the valley, flat gardens
extending from its banks to where the parallel cliffs rise to the
level of the plain east and west. The _ksor_ for the most part
lie immediately below these cliffs, though in the upper portion,
particularly in Aït Iunir, they are found scattered amongst the
gardens, rising most picturesquely above the tree-tops. These
gardens are usually walled, and contain little but figs, and these
of a poor quality, though they give large crops. The upper portion
of the valley seems to be far more fertile than near Aït bu Haddu,
for instance, for the fruit-trees reach a far larger size, and the
vegetation is richer altogether. Apples, pears, plums, and apricots
abound here, though below few are found, and pomegranates are not
uncommon. The date-palm is absent altogether.
As at Askura, one is struck by the labour that has been expended
in ensuring a continual supply of water for the gardens. This is
done by means of innumerable small canals. On account of the level
of the gardens being somewhat higher than that of the river-bed,
the water has in almost all cases to be drawn off from the main
stream far above the _ksor_ and gardens it is to supply, and this
fact is a constant cause of warfare; for when a village is separated
from the river by a couple of miles perhaps of canal, on which it
entirely depends for its supply, the enemy soon take advantage of
the fact and cut off their water, which raises the siege at once,
and a sortie has to be made by the defenders. Nor is it only during
war, for, more often still, the original commencement of the strife
is the fact that some one has drawn off the contents of some one
else’s canal, and a feud commences. The water, however, serves a
purpose in warfare other than raising sieges by being cut off, for
the very opposite policy is often resorted to, and water brought to
play upon the soft _tabia_ walls of the _ksar_, a channel being dug
right up to the building. Strong as it is to withstand the effects
of climate, _tabia_ is like blotting-paper before water, and almost
as soon as the walls are reached the building commences to crumble
away from the foundations, imperiling the lives of all within,
and necessitating a sudden flight, and probably the falling into
the hands of the enemy waiting without. In order to prevent their
enemies from approaching the _ksor_ and cutting off or turning on
the water, both equally disastrous, watch-towers are built along
the banks of the canals. The _äudin_, as the natives call them,
are usually square towers some 30 to 40 feet in height, and full of
loopholes. In case of war they are garrisoned with a handful of men
who are supplied with sufficient quantities of water and provisions
to stand a siege, and from them a guard can be kept over the canal
and its banks, while their position—the summit, as a rule, of
mounds—prevents the water being turned on to their foundations. The
whole of the Dads valley is sprinkled with these towers, which add
a by no means unpicturesque feature to their scenery.
Looking down from the tops of the cliffs upon the valley of Dads,
the district presents an appearance the like of which I have seen
nowhere else in the world. It is not that it is beautiful scenery,
or that its fertility calls for admiration; rather it is the fact
that in its curious position and architecture it is unique. The
valley, with the river flowing through its midst, is entirely shut
in on both sides by high cliffs of yellow soil. From amongst the
gardens crop up everywhere the _ksor_ with their battlements and
towers, each one of which would be considered a large building in
Europe. As a frame to this strange scene there is the barren desert,
bounded on the north by the rocky snow-clad peaks of the great chain
of the Atlas, and on the south by the irregular line of Jibel Saghru.
The district of Dads is divided into six portions, each of
which contains many _ksor_. These subdivisions of the tribe are
respectively, commencing from the south—
(i.) Arbaa miya. “the four hundred”;
(ii.) Iutagin;
(iii.) Aït u Allel;
(iv.) Aït Hammu;
(v.) Aït Iunir;
(vi.) Aït Tamuted.
Of these the first-named, Arbaa miya, is decidedly the largest,
strongest, and altogether most powerful. It contains some forty
_ksor_. It is at the north end of Aït Tamuted that the Wad Dads
leaves the valleys of the Atlas to enter the plain.
I spent five days at Dads, and very pleasant ones they were,
while the rest after the weary tramp refreshed men and beasts
wonderfully. During the heat of the day we would wander down to
the banks of the river, and saunter through the gardens, or sit and
talk under the shade of the fig-trees. So accustomed had I become to
playing the part of a native that my life with the Berbers caused
me no anxiety lest my identity should be discovered, and I even
became lax in my attentions at prayers, attending merely the noon
and sunset “services.” The mosque of Zauia Aït bu Haddu was a
small enough place, with a roof supported on heavy beams of rough
walnut-wood, and a minaret in bad repair. Water for the purpose of
ablutions had to be brought from the nearest canal, for the _zauia_
stands above the level of the gardens, almost immediately below
the cliffs. Being a sanctuary of Shereefs, it was not built on the
same plan of defence as the generality of the _ksor_, though its
entrances were mostly guarded with gates. No doubt the fact that
most of its inhabitants are descendants of the Prophet renders
it less liable to attack, and less likely to be embroiled in the
intertribal feuds which are of everyday occurrence.
Close to the village was a “Mellah,” or “Ghetto,” of
Jews, living by themselves in a separate quarter, which also was
undefended, from the fact that they do not in any way participate
in the wars. The Jews exist at Dads, as elsewhere among the Berbers,
under the system of _debeha_, or sacrifice, so called from the fact
that a sheep or ox is supposed originally to have been offered to the
Berbers in order to obtain protection. The families of Jews here too
live in a feudal state, each being dependent upon some Shleh family
for immunity from ill-treatment and robbery: in return for this they
pay a small yearly tribute to their protectors. As a rule they are
the skilled workmen of the place, being particularly renowned at Dads
for their guns, which are often gorgeously decorated in silver. The
shops, too, are almost entirely in the _mellahs_, though little
can be purchased except indigo-blue cotton—_khent_—candles,
and sometimes tea and sugar. Money is so scarce, however, that the
trade is very small, though large quantities of merchandise pass
through Dads en route to Tafilet, and dates on their way to Marakesh.
[Illustration: _Young Jew of Dads._]
The cliffs that bound the river east and west are in many places
fretted with caves, but all tradition as to their former use is
lost. I was told that some copper implements of agriculture were
found in one or two only a short time before my visit, but the manner
in which I was travelling prevented my making many inquiries upon
the subject. However, I was enabled to enter many of these caves,
and they appear to have been used as dwellings by their inhabitants,
a supposition much strengthened by the fact that farther up the
Wad Dads there are several settlements of cave-dwellers existing
to-day, known as Aït Iferi, “the sons of the caves.” I did
not enter these inhabited caves, though I passed them, but from
all outward appearance they seemed to resemble those near the Zauia
Aït bu Haddu, several of which I explored. These varied somewhat
in size and shape, but three chambers seemed to be the average
number. These rooms were all small, the largest I measured being
some 13 feet by 7 feet, while the smaller averaged some 7 feet by
6. The walls are very rough, pieces of rock often projecting a foot
or so, and in all respects they did not show nearly so much skill
in their excavation as those I had previously seen at Imin Tanut,
some two days’ journey south-west of Marakesh, near the residence
of the Kaid of Mtuga. Nor are the caves of Dads situated in the face
of the precipices as are these others; for whereas at Imin Tanut it
is impossible to enter any but a very few, those at Dads are easily
accessible, being one and all placed at the bottom of the cliff. One
larger than the rest lies at the back of the _mellah_ of Jews near
the _zauia_, and is used by them for a place in which to wash their
dead, and here their corpses lie for a night before burial.
With the exception of these caves I found but little signs of
antiquities, the ruins I had been told of before leaving Marakesh
turning out to be merely the remains of “_tabia_” _ksor_, the
age of which it was impossible to determine. Once allowed to fall
out of repair, it takes a very short time for these buildings,
constructed with such a soft material, to crumble away, though
when properly attended to, and the rain kept off, they seem to
last for a great time. One curious ruin exists near Dads, which
I was enabled to visit, but I refrain from giving any attempt at
a minute description here, as I was unable to take satisfactory
measurements. Suffice it to say that it stands on a circular hill of
bare rock, and is built of large blocks of stone, without mortar. I
attach considerable importance to this ruin, and hope to be able
to return on some future occasion and more minutely explore it. The
hill is known as Jibel Korah, and is well known to every native of
Dads. The ruin has a bad reputation, and is said to be inhabited by
devils. A similar building exists near Todghrá, on a rocky slope
to the south-west of that oasis.
As the roads ahead of us were reported to be infested with robbers,
especially deserters from the Sultan’s army which was now at
Tafilet, we thought it best to leave behind at the _zauia_ my two
mules, and proceeded on our way with only a couple of donkeys, one
belonging to the Shereef’s nephew, the other mine. Our party, too,
diminished in numbers. The old Shereef had reached his destination,
and was to go no farther; his son was a useless creature, and I
decided not to take him; while our pilgrim, the devotee of the sect
of the Derkauiya, turned aside to seek his home. A good fellow he
had been, and heartily sorry I was to lose his company, though he
seldom said much or intruded his presence upon us. Yet he was by
far and away the most interesting of our little band, and exhibited
the strange case of the fanatical devotee, all whose ideas had been
overthrown by his pilgrimage to Mecca. His loathing for Christians
had received a blow in the kindness of the captain of the steamer
he had travelled on, and, in spite of his religious detestation of
the “Nazarene,” he confessed to a secret partiality for their
character. Before leaving the Sahara, in fact, he had formed his
judgment of the whole world on his surroundings and the traditions
of his people; but now his eyes were opened, and he was sorely
bewildered. Had I dared, I would like to have made a more careful
study of this man’s mind and opinions, but it must be remembered
that I was passing as a Moslem, and therefore had to be guarded in
my conversation.
Our party from Dads to Tafilet consisted of five—the Shereef’s
nephew, to whom no words of praise could do justice; my Riffi
servant, Mohammed; the miserable cur of a negro whose conduct
caused us so much anxiety, but who paid for it on our return to
Marakesh; a Dads tribesman, who went as our _zitat_, or guarantee
against robbery and murder; and myself, still in my torn _chamira_
and _jelab_, barefooted, browned by the cold and sun, and as hard
as nails: and a merry little band we were, as—our two donkeys
packed with our scanty baggage, only a few pounds in weight—we
shook hands with all the friends who had been so kind to us at Dads,
and, receiving their blessing, set out. The last to leave us was
Hammu, my friendly caravan-man, and he accompanied us some way up
the valley, until, reaching a district with which his _ksar_ had a
blood-feud, he bade us “adieu” and turned back. For a quarter
of an hour or so we could hear his voice rising and falling in the
strange cadence of the Berber songs until it died away in silence.
CHAPTER VIII.
DADS TO UL TURUG.
Although we left the Zauia Aït bu Haddu on November 12, we spent
that night in the province of Dads, our road having merely taken
us some twelve miles up the river’s course, as far as a _ksar_
in the district of Aït Iunir, which I had promised to visit _en
route_, as it was from near this point that the main road to Tafilet
leaves the valley to cross the plain of Anbed. The path, for it
is no more, winds about amongst the gardens and _ksor_, every few
minutes crossing one of the small canals that irrigate the fields,
&c. These, where not too deep, are forded, but in many places are
crossed with little bridges—merely the trunks of trees laid across
from bank to bank, and covered with stones and soil. Only two places
of any note are passed on the way, the tomb and sacred groves of Sid
bu Yahia, and close to it the _sôk_, or market, of the Khamis, or
Thursday. The tomb of the saint is built of _tabia_, and consists
of two rooms, in one of which the remains of Sid bu Yahia lie,
while the other serves as a mosque. A pointed dome of green tiles
covers the former. Near by is the grove of trees, so common an
adjunct to sanctuaries in Morocco. They are silver poplars, and
of great size. The market-place is only an open space, and the day
not being Thursday, it was deserted. There is a second large _sôk_
at Dads—the Arbaa, or Wednesday—a little to the south of Zauia
Aït bu Haddu: we had passed through it when nearing Dads on the
day of our arrival.
Close to the Sôk el Khamis are the remains of seven villages of
Aït Atta, which were destroyed when that tribe made an unsuccessful
attempt to wrest the valuable strategical position along the river
from its present holders. Up to that date the Attauis had possessed
these seven villages; here they were allowed to live in peace,
but on the breaking out of open hostilities their _ksor_ were razed.
Sometimes our road led us close to the river’s banks, at others
almost under the cliffs that rise to the level of the plain. The
water in the river is clear, and of a brilliant blue colour. Fish
abound; but although the natives speak of three varieties, I was
able to see only one—the barbel. Nor do they keep to the main
stream; for the canals, even where only a few feet wide, often
contain large shoals of them.
At a large _ksar_, with frowning towers and battlements, the very
picture of the dwelling of a Berber chief, we stopped for the
night. Our host met us at the gate and welcomed us, taking our
donkeys to a stable, where barley was given them to eat, and then
leading us within. We ascended innumerable steps until a small
suite of rooms, opening on to a piece of flat roof, was reached;
here we were installed. It was a charming spot, for far more care
and art had been expended upon the building than in any other _ksar_
we had seen; and the walls were clean with whitewash, while the
ceiling consisted of a layer of canes, stained red and black,
in strange designs, the whole supported on neatly cut beams of
unpolished walnut wood. A few rough rugs lay strewn over the floor,
and a semblance of comfort was given to the place by some shelves
containing a teapot, some bright little cups and saucers, and a
brass tray and kettle. Food was soon brought us, the usual _kuskusu_
and boiled turnips, with the extra luxury of a chicken—no small
honour in these parts—then tea and dates.
The view from the flat roof on to which the window of the room opened
was a very charming one. The vegetation in Aït Iunir is far better
than that of the lower districts, and big trees, especially cherry,
pear, and walnut, abound. From the summits of the trees rose the
surrounding _ksor_, one and all crowned with towers, and of very
considerable size. The house in which we were must have covered a
couple of acres of land. Yet even here were apparent the signs of
the constant state of warfare in which the people of Dads exist,
for the walls of the _minzah_ were perforated with bullet-holes,
shots from the next-door neighbour, whose castle stood only a couple
of hundred yards away. It was on this account, that the feud was
still proceeding, that our host made us sit down under the parapet
of the wall to eat our meal, lest our appearance might bring down
upon us a volley from the people over the way.
In this house I again noticed what I had already seen at the Zauia
Aït bu Haddu—namely, the manner in which bees are hived amongst
the Berbers. A hollow space is left in the wall of the house, opening
into a cupboard within, from which the honey can be removed. A
small hole, often only a hollow cane, on the outside of the wall,
allows a means of ingress and egress for the bees.
Altogether, the _ksar_ in Aït Iunir where we spent the night of
November 12 showed far more signs of prosperity than any we had as
yet visited. Not only was it very extensive, but the women wore far
more jewellery, their necks being hung with large silver necklaces
and coral and amber beads, while the clothes of the men were newer
and of better material than usual. Added to this, the presence of
such little luxuries as tea-trays and cups spoke of better living
than the usual hard fare of the people.
In spite of the long march before us we sat up late, our host
insisting on not leaving us until past midnight, and I was only
able to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before we were told that
it was time to be off.
Miserably cold it was when we girded up our loins and packed our
little donkeys for the start, and at such moments as these I almost
felt inclined to abandon my risky journey and turn back. The thought
that all these hardships would have to be gone through on the return
journey, and in far colder weather, was no pleasant one; but I felt
I could face them rather than fail to accomplish my object, and so
I persisted—until at length my efforts were crowned with success.
In the cold grey dawn we forded the river and ascended the steep
slope on its eastern bank, reaching at the summit the commencement
of the plain of Anbed, which forms the watershed between the rivers
flowing east and west—that is to say, between the basin of the
Wad Todghrá, which joins the Gheris near Ul Turug, some ninety
miles to the east, and the Wad Dads, the chief tributary of the
Wad Draa. Not a vestige of vegetation was to be seen beyond the few
dried-up tufts of wild thyme, but a distant view of gazelle and a
flock of _muflon_ show that there must be some pasture, probably a
little rank grass in the hollows where water lies in the wet season.
The tramp across the dreary desert of Anbed is some fifteen miles in
length. The whole way one proceeds almost due east, parallel with
the range of Jibel Saghru, and distant from it some eight or ten
miles. The same dreary outlook presents itself as did in crossing
the strips of desert before arriving at Dads—stone-strewn barren
plain and verdureless mountain-ranges on either hand. The peep we
obtained of gazelle and _muflon_—Barbary wild sheep—was the
only time that, beyond domestic animals, we saw any mammal, with
the exception of a striped jerboa, and of these only one or two,
during the whole journey from the foot of the Atlas to Tafilet. Hyena
I heard of, however, and several of the graveyards we passed were
heaped with large stones to prevent their scratching up the bodies.
About twelve miles east of Dads a valley opens up in the plain
of Anbed, descending by which one reaches the Wad Imiteghr,
which crosses the end of the valley at right angles. There were
appearances that the torrent in the gorge must be large in the
rainy season, or rather after heavy rainfall—for there is no
regular wet season, rain being very scarce, but at this period it
was quite dry. A few caves on the north side are used for housing
sheep in, at such times as moisture allows of a little grass to
grow. The road was very rough, and the bleaching bones of animals
showed clearly enough that the boulder-strewn path had proved
fatal to many a beast of burden. The descent from Anbed by this
valley brings one to a continuation of the plain at a lower level,
which extends, falling the while, as far as the valley of the Wad
Gheris. On the farther (east) bank of the Wad Imiteghr are a few
_ksor_, with an attempt here and there to raise a garden amongst
the boulders. The most prosperous of the castles, and that a poor
enough place, was pointed out to me as Ighir.
My road from this spot onwards diverged from that usually pursued by
caravans between Dads and Todghrá, for while the principal track
takes a slightly more northerly direction, we turned a little to
the south and followed the course of the Wad Imiteghr, about half
a mile from its north bank. The river was at this period tolerably
well supplied with water, though the rains had been very scarce and
not a drop had fallen since we had left Marakesh three weeks before.
During a long way we only passed two sets of habitations—the
settlement of Imiteghr already mentioned, and a few miles further on
the still poorer village of Timatruin. In this name, as in so many
others amongst the Berbers, the prefix _T_ is only a contraction of
the Shelha word _Aït_—“sons of”—and therefore the literal
spelling of the name of the place should be Aït Imatruin. The same
fact exists in the word Tafilet, which, derived from the Arabic
Filàl, a district in Arabia, has received from the Berbers the
initial _T_—the contraction of _Aït_; while in this case the final
_lt_, or _lat_ as it should be spelt, is a feminine termination.
Ten miles after fording the Wad Imiteghr near Ighir, we reached
a group of _ksor_ lying under a spur of Jibel Saghru, which here
juts out into the plain, although the river has worn a passage
through it by a narrow gorge which divides it from the main range
of the Anti-Atlas. The district is inhabited by Aït Mulai Brahim,
descendants of the famous Shereef Mulai Brahim, whose tomb is a
place of pilgrimage, and is situated above Agregoreh on the northern
slope of the Atlas. The same family has given another great saint
to Southern Morocco, Mulai Abdullah ben Hoseyn, who lies buried at
Tamslot, a few miles south of Marakesh. These tombs, with their
large offerings made by pious pilgrims, have much enriched this
branch of the Shereefian family, and the present representative,
living at Tamslot, Mulai El Haj ben Said, is perhaps the wealthiest
man in Southern Morocco.
We were kindly received by the Shereefs, and shown into the mosque,
a large building for so small a collection of _ksor_, with a tank
for ablutions, and a domed _mihrab_ or niche toward the east.
A few of the Shereefs spoke Arabic, and what with half a dozen
other travellers who had sought the mosque of the _zauia_ for a
night’s rest, we were a pleasant little party. Sunset prayers
over, we sat down on the clean matting and passed the evening in
conversation. The topic turned more than once on Christians—for
such the natives call all the European peoples, though amongst
the Berber the term _Rumin_, or Romans, is more common than
_Nazarani_. The ignorance of the Shereefs on all questions out of
their own particular sphere was astonishing. They seemed to lack all
the brightness and rapidity of thought that I had noticed at Dads,
and to have sunk into a sort of sleepy indifference to everything
beyond their own immediate surroundings. They asked if Christians
were like men and women, and I think doubted my men and myself when
we told them they were. I could not venture to point myself out as
an example, as not only would I have run a risk of getting my throat
cut anywhere in the country, but here in the sacred precincts of
the mosque death would have been a certainty, so I satisfied their
curiosity by telling them that I had often seen Christians, and
that they much resembled “true believers” to look at, but that
their language was not the same, but sounded like the gibberings of
apes. The conversation took many directions, and I was not greatly
surprised to find these far-away Shereefs as ignorant of their own
religion as they were of the Christians. I took the opportunity of
giving a little discourse on Islam, a by no means difficult task,
filling in the gaps with romances as to the doings of Moorish saints,
whose histories, or rather, I should say, the traditions relating
to whom, are nearly all known to me. Such a good reputation did
I obtain for theological knowledge and religious devotion that
the Shereefs felt bound to bring me supper from their _ksar_,
and my men and I feasted merrily on boiled turnips, while several
“true believers” went to bed supperless,—and the infidel and
his wicked associates filled themselves with the offerings of the
pious. This was by no means the first time on the journey that my
knowledge—slight though it is—of Islam and its traditions stood
me in good stead, and I am proud to say that wherever I spent a night
I left behind me an impression of extreme religious fervour—which
must have been sadly upset on my return journey, when, protected
by a strong guard against insult or attack, I made my nationality
and my disguise known. But of this I shall have more to say anon.
Leaving the _ksor_ of Aït Mulai Brahim before dawn on November 14,
we entered, close by, the gorge through which the Wad Imiteghr
flows. It is only a mile and a half in length, and ends just
as abruptly as it commences. No doubt its formation is owing to
the river having forced its way through the projecting spur of
Jibel Saghru, which is now separated by this valley from the main
chain. The gorge is known by the name of Imin Erkilim—_imin_
(Arabic _fûm_) meaning “a mouth,” while Erkilim may or may not
be Hercules, for on my inquiries as to who Erkilim was, I was told
that Erkili was a great man, a sort of god, who did something no
one quite knew when. From the name given me being Erkili, I presume
the final _m_ to distinguish the genitive case; but this is merely
a surmise.
One emerges from the narrow valley, with its cliffs of rock on either
hand, close to the village of Aït bu Kanifen, the inhabitants of
which are celebrated robbers, often attacking any caravan that may
chance to use this route in the valley the end of which their _ksor_
commands. A few hundred yards of desert beyond and we entered the
luxuriant palm-groves of Tiluin, or Aït Iluin, where is a large
and flourishing _ksar_. These were the first palm-trees we had come
across since Askura, for at Dads and the other oasis we had passed
through they were entirely absent. Issuing from the pleasant shade
of the groves, we crossed again a couple of miles of desert, at
the termination of which we entered the southern extremity of the
oasis of Todghrá, the immense palm-groves of which were clearly
visible winding for many miles up the river of the same name. It
is close to this spot that the Wad Imiteghr empties itself into
the Todghrá at an elevation of 4250 feet above the sea-level.
We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an
hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our
night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district
of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on
we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand,
black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in
sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern
slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the
river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises
the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known
as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen
of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more
suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible,
but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way.
The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east,
but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say
some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north,
continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of
Ferkla is reached.
Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on
foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too
hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens
over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and
jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused
as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every
direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief,
for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been
very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in
a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst,
there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary
and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in
fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to
render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all
level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of
the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe
being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of
the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the
natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting
only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes
with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot,
nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally
painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened
by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to
abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused
me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it
became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.
We wandered on for what seemed to me an interminable distance amongst
the palm-groves, passing many _ksor_, at each of which I hoped in
turn we were about to take up our quarters for the night, and each
of which we passed by without entering. I had placed myself and my
plans entirely in the hands of the _zitat_—our guarantee—from
Dads, and left everything to him. He was an excellent fellow,
and his opinion of myself seemed to increase when he found I could
trudge my forty miles or so a-day with an appearance—though by
no means a true one—of little inconvenience. He was a typical
Berber this latest addition to our party, some 6 feet in height,
with a fair white skin and dark eyes and eyebrows. His face was clean
shaven except for the small pointed beard on the end of his chin,
and a remarkably handsome face it was. But his heart was better even
than his looks, and more than once, as we tried to sleep of a night,
our teeth chattering with the frost, he would cover me with his warm
cloak, sharing it with me until I slept, when he would give up his
half so that I might be warmer—and in the morning tell a dozen
lies, saying that he had been so hot he had kicked it off, and it
was only by accident that I had found myself warm and comfortable,
and him half frozen.
I think the only qualms of conscience I felt at being in disguise
were with this good fellow, for as yet he had not the faintest idea
of my identity. So much did this trouble me that I took advantage
of our lying huddled together under his warm cloak that night to
tell him the whole story of my journey, whispered, lest we should
be overheard. He said but little, but I knew full well that I could
trust him, and in the morning I was warm, wrapped up in his _haidus_,
and he, only in his _chamira_, shivered with the frost. If anything
his attention to my comforts increased after I had confided to him
the fact of my disguise; and every now and then he would burst
out into the merriest of laughs as we trudged along, thinking
the whole affair a tremendous joke, and reiterating his approval
of my venturing where none had ever trod, and where my life if
discovered was worth probably about half-an-hour’s purchase. Nor
was his astonishment at my knowledge of Arabic—imperfect though
it is—a small one; for, himself a Berber, he too spoke it as a
foreign tongue, and if anything not so fluently as myself.
At length after dark we reached the principal _ksar_ of
Ferkla—Asrir by name—where we put up for the night. It was the
largest village we had as yet come across in the Sahara, enclosed
in high _tabia_ walls, and boasting a number of well-built houses,
and even a few shops. It lacked, however, the picturesque appearance
of many _ksor_ that we had seen upon our road; for the tall towers
with their decorations and battlements and turrets were absent, the
style of architecture resembling far more that found in the towns
of Morocco. In fact, Asrir may be more fitly described as a town
than a _ksar_, for within its walls it is divided up into streets,
many of them of the same tunnel-like formation as one is so used to
in Fez, for instance, the houses meeting overhead. In a large square
near the gateway—for there is only one entrance to Asrir—were
collected a number of soldiers on horseback and mules and camels,
almost the first signs we had as yet come across of the proximity
of the Sultan’s army, which had a few days previously reached
Tafilet. These soldiers consisted for the most part of mounted
messengers returning to Morocco, and it was piteous to hear them
asking questions as to the length of the road before them, and the
state of the pass over the Atlas; for after their weary wandering of
some eight months in the fastnesses of the mountains and the desert
beyond, both they and their poor horses were well-nigh starved. I
came across one little party of five or six men, all of whom were
well known to me, servants of one of the Kaids, or governors, of a
district in North Morocco. The recognition gave me at first a start;
but I quickly realised that it was scarcely likely to be mutual,
and that it was by no means probable they would discover under
the dirt and rags of a donkey-driver the man whom they had known
travelling with a large camp in European costume. None the less I
gave them a wide berth, and was glad to hide myself away in the
darkest corner of a caravanserai, where we took up our quarters
for the night. The place consisted of an open yard surrounded on
all sides by a covered arcade, the roof of which was supported on
pillars of _tabia_. Quite a crowd was collected here for the night,
for not only were there a number of soldiers from the Sultan’s
camp, but also camp-followers returning homewards, and Jews bound
for Tafilet to see what they could pick up in the oasis, where
Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan, was, accompanied by some 40,000 people.
Several tribes hold districts of Ferkla, a state of affairs that
leads to constant warfare. The principal divisions are members of
the (i.) Aït Merghad, (ii.) Aït Isdeg, (iii.) Aït Yafalman, and
(iv.) the Arab tribe of Alh Ferkla. There are also several _mellahs_
of Jews.
The oasis, which is very extensive, is watered from the Wad
Todghrá, which flows through its midst, supplying innumerable
canals. Altogether it is said to contain upwards of forty large
_ksor_, one or two of which, I was informed, can put as many as
from 300 to 400 men into the field in time of war. I found the
elevation of Asrir to be 3260 feet above the sea-level.
Stowed away in the corner of the _fondak_, or caravanserai, I ran no
risk of detection, and was able to watch the scene around me from a
point of vantage offering not only safety from detection, but also
some shelter from the frosty night-air. The crowd, illumined by the
lanterns that many of them bore, passed and repassed, struggling for
barley for their animals and food for themselves. Near us was a rough
extemporised oven of earth, at which a number of half-nude Haratin,
natives of the banks of the Wad Draa, were cooking _shua_—boiled
mutton—in tiny, and none too clean, wooden bowls. We procured
a couple of these for a small price, and enjoyed the luxury of
real meat.
One fact that I had been noticing all along the road here thrust
itself before me more than ever—namely, the entire absence of
the camel. One would naturally expect to find him in this portion
of trans-Atlas Morocco, but except for a few coming from the
camp at Tafilet, I saw absolutely none. The fact is, the Berbers
have never taken to the camel, and for some reason or other highly
disapprove of him—why, I was unable to discover. However, on more
than one occasion I have heard the Berber in chaff call an Arab a
camel-driver—no doubt a term of reproach in his eyes. For beasts
of burden the small mules of the district seem to have taken their
place, and no doubt they are more economical with food. The camel,
it is true, is easily fed where there is grazing to be found;
but in these dry districts where all its fodder would have to be
grown for the purpose, his keep would be far more heavy than that
of the tiny mules in use, which scarcely eat more than a donkey,
and subsist largely on dates.
We left Asrir at dawn on November 15, passing out of the _ksar_ as
soon as the gate was open, for it is kept closed during the night,
a custom in practice all through these districts.
Our road lay for an hour through the palm-groves, ever crossing
the little canals of clear water. We picked up a good supply of
dates from beneath the trees for one day’s provisions for the
march, and a handful or two were given us now and again by the
natives, many of whom were engaged in harvesting the fruit, and who,
evidently attracted by the string of big wooden beads round my neck,
mistook us for a party of wandering devotees of the sect of the
Derkauiya. Whatever may have been their object in bestowing upon
us charity, it was welcome enough, and for once we set out on our
day’s tramp with the certainty of a mid-day meal.
We forded the Wad Todghrá, first, at a spot where it flows over
its wide bed amongst the palm-groves, and then again near where
it issues from the oasis to pursue its course to the east. Then
desert again, only here a scrubby bush covered the arid waste,
thorny mimosas for the most part, called by the Arabs _sidra_, with
spikes all over it that tear one’s clothes as one proceeds. To the
north-east the horizon was bounded by a low line of yellow cliffs,
close beneath which we could distinguish the oasis of Gheris,
to which De Foucauld, after leaving Ferkla, pursued his journey
of exploration. Our roads had been parallel, and in some places
identical, from Dads to this spot, but from here on to Tafilet I had
an untrodden and unmapped way before me. To the east again of Gheris
the palm-trees of Tiluin—Aït Iluin—were to be descried. This
oasis is said to be the original home of the tribe, which we had
already come across near the southern end of Todghrá, and through
another territory of which we were to pass the following day.
A few miles outside the limit of the palm-groves of Ferkla the
road passes between two conical hills, of no great altitude, that
on the right (south) being, however, the larger of the two. On
the slope of the smaller one a ruined saint’s tomb stands; but
I was unable to find out the name of the man whose bones lie in
this desolate spot. On my return journey from Tafilet we followed
another road more to the south, which passes to the farther side
of the southernmost of these two hills, near the small settlement
of Islef, a division of the tribe of Aït Merghad.
Half a mile to the east of these two hills is a ruined _kasba_,
or residence of a governor, who is said to have shared the same
fate as his castle—to have been pulled to pieces.
[Illustration: _Saint’s Tomb on the Road to Ul Turug._]
Ten miles from Ferkla the road takes a turn to the south, and enters
a valley of Jibel Saghru, to which range, since leaving Dads, we had
been travelling parallel. Through this valley the Wad Todghrá flows,
dividing the range into two parts, that on the east being known as
Jibel el Kebir, “the great mountain,” though why it is difficult
to say, as both in extent and altitude it is considerably smaller
than the hills of Saghru on the west and south. It was with no little
pleasure that we entered the valley, barren though it was in most
parts, for any relief was acceptable after the interminable arid
desert we had been crossing for the last six or seven days of our
journey. Two villages lie near the northern end, Igli and Maroksha,
both inhabited by the Berber tribe of Aït Khalifa, representatives
of whom we had not as yet come across. Igli is a most picturesque
spot, crowning a knoll in the very centre of the valley, the summit
surmounted by a huge tower. With this exception the village is not
fortified, though its position above the level of the surrounding
land renders it easy of defence. Maroksha lies on the level ground,
half-hidden amongst groves of palms, irrigated from the stream of
the Wad Todghrá. From Ferkla this river flows slightly to the north
of east, the road being some miles on its south side, until almost
due north of Igli the stream takes a directly southerly course to
enter the valley between Saghru and Jibel el Kebir, half a mile
perhaps to the east of the village.
A mile to the south of Igli we crossed the dry bed of a
tributary of the Todghrá, flowing from Jibel Saghru, and,
fording the main stream a few hundred yards farther on, entered
the groves of Milaab, which are protected on the west by a tower
perched on a rocky projection. The road at the ford resumes
its former easterly direction, the river flowing a little more
to the south. Although Milaab is but a small place, I think I
saw nowhere else such attention paid to the cultivation of the
soil and the date-palm. The road for the mile and a half that it
threaded the groves was delightful. On either side of the straight
level track ran little canals of fresh clear water, beyond which
stretched away a forest of feathery palm-trees. The whole scene
resembled more a botanical garden than a desert oasis, so evenly
were the trees planted and so well tilled the soil, which, green
with _fsa_—lucerne—resembled a level lawn. The exact distance
between each palm seems to have been carefully measured, so that,
look which way one would, one’s sight wandered down long avenues
of the straight stems and luxuriant leaves.
However, pleasant as was the half hour or so of cool and shade, it
was soon over, and once more we issued into the barren glare of the
stone-strewn valley, not without many regrets for the fertile tract
we were leaving behind us, and much admiration for the people who
had raised so luxuriant a grove in so dreary a spot. The inhabitants
of Milaab belong to the Berber tribe of Aït Iazzer.
The valley of the Todghrá here takes an almost circular form,
being shut in on all sides by dreary black peaks, torn and scarped
apparently by volcanic action. Away a mile or two to the south-east
was visible the narrow gorge by which the river issues to the valley
of the Gheris. The road does not follow the course of the Todghrá,
but, maintaining its easterly direction, crosses by a weary track
over the brow of a range of black hills, descending again into the
wide open valley beyond near the immense fortified _ksar_ of Ul
Turug, the principal stronghold of the Aït Atta tribe of Berbers.
It had been a shorter march than usual, and though nearly some
thirty miles had been accomplished, we were able to rest under the
shade of some trees near a small stream before entering the _ksar_,
which we did not desire to do until dusk, so as to run less risk of
discovery; for we knew well that so near had we now come to Tafilet
that the place was likely to contain a large number of Arab tribesmen
from the Sultan’s camp, to some of whom I might be known.
We feasted that afternoon, for we had dates in plenty, and our
Berber who accompanied us fetched us a few grains of green tea and
a little sugar from the _ksar_, with a kettle to brew it in and a
tiny glass to drink it out of, and we made merry in the shade of
the tree, enjoying our rest and the pleasant coolness
[Illustration: _Ul Turug._]
that precedes the bitter cold of the winter nights in the Sahara. Our
journey was nearly accomplished now: this one night in Ul Turug, a
long march on the morrow, and we would sleep on the soil of Tafilet,
if not actually in the Sultan’s camp—and all our weary adventures
would be over.
But there was yet another reason that made me desire to push on,
and rejoice that the termination of our journey was so near. The
bitter cold at night, want of food and clothing at all times, the
scorching rays of the sun by day, and the long marches made barefoot
over the hot sand, had sorely taxed my strength, and I already
felt in my throat the sure signs of a coming illness, with which
I had a couple of years previously lain long prostrate. Already,
to swallow had become an exertion attended with pain, and I knew
well what to expect. Yet I could not allow my spirits to sink,
ill and weary though I felt, for there was so little now between me
and success, and retreat was out of the question. So I laughed and
talked as gaily as I could with my men, sipping the weak solution of
hot green tea by turns, and promising ourselves no end of luxuries
when once the great camp of the Sultan should be reached, and a
day and a half of travelling at the most lay between us and it.
Between the spot which we had fixed upon to rest at for a while and
the large _ksar_ was the cemetery, a flat piece of ground covered
with the low mounds which the Berbers raise over their graves,
with here and there a high-domed building, or _kubba_, marking the
last resting-place of some Shereef,—for Ul Turug is a _zauia_, or
sanctuary, and many of its inhabitants Shereefs. The _ksar_ itself
is situated partly on the steep slopes of Jibel el Kebir and partly
on the plain, where the palm-groves commence, the whole settlement
being surrounded by a wall of considerable defensive powers. Every
50 or 60 feet along the wall is a large tower, of the same height
as the wall itself, but projecting slightly from it. One gate alone
gives entrance to the _ksar_, situated under a heavy buttress in
the centre of the east side of the stronghold. Seen from where we
stayed for an hour or two before entering, the place presents an
appearance of great solidity and strength, which is by no means
belied by its interior.
Shortly before sunset we passed in, being scrutinised closely by
a group of guards at the gate; but a word from our Dadsi sufficed,
and we entered unmolested.
The gate, like so many others in Morocco, takes a turn half-way,
this form being the easiest in case of defence being necessary. From
the outside, as well as from the interior, a dead wall meets the
eye when looking in or out as the case may be. Within we entered
a large square, surrounded on two sides by buildings, while the
two others were faced with the outside wall, along which a covered
arcade had been built where animals and goods, as well as human
beings, could find shelter from rain—whenever that rare event
happens—or sun. From this square streets lead between the houses
to the different parts of the _ksar_. Many of the dwellings are
extremely well and solidly built, one and all of _tabia_, but with
arched windows of wood, and doors of the same material,—not the
rough planks we had seen at Dads, but showing considerable signs of
skilful carpentry. We found provisions obtainable, even eggs, a fowl,
and some bread, and in every respect Ul Turug resembles more a little
town than a desert _ksar_. We took up our position under the high
wall of a house, and, tying our donkeys to a couple of tent-pegs,
lit a small fire of wood we had collected outside and supped.
Quite a number of people were passing the night at Ul Turug. Not
only were groups of Berbers to be seen hurrying to and fro, but
Arab soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, many of them with their
horses, and Jews and negroes, all either coming from or going
to Tafilet, a sudden impetus having been given to trade by the
presence of the Sultan and the vast multitude that follows him
in his marches. Camels and mules laden with grain from Marakesh
there were too, all horribly lean and sore-backed after the long
march over the Atlas and the desert. In the crowd our little band
escaped observation altogether, and very few took any notice of us:
one or two Berbers, more friendly than the rest, shared our little
blaze of sticks, bringing us in return thin strips of flabby native
bread, which when toasted became quite crisp and good.
A few words must be said as to the powerful Berber tribe of Aït
Atta, a stronghold of which Ul Turug is. Probably no division of the
Shloh people south of the Atlas is so well known as this tribe, and
deservedly so, for by their bravery and warfare, by their constant
extension of territory, and the fear in which their name is held,
they have become a byword for all that is fierce or strong.
Professing an Arab origin—for they claim descent from the
famous tribe of the Koreish, that gave to the world the Prophet
Mohammed—they have lapsed by time into essentially a Berber people,
speaking the Shelha tongue, and adopting the Berber manners and
customs, and to a great extent dress and appearance. Almost the
sole reminder of their Arab origin to-day is the fact that they
are great horsemen, and still greater robbers and plunderers. As
a rule, the Berbers seem to be constantly at war without the
idea of plunder, their feuds being far more often matters of
revenge. With the Aït Atta, however, this is different, and they
seem to retain from the time of their Eastern ancestors the love
of going afield for conquest and booty, with the result that there
is little land of the eastern portion of trans-Atlas Morocco which
has not at one time or another been overrun, or at least attacked,
by their hordes. Not only to-day do they hold sway over the immense
wastes of Jibel Saghru, but even a large portion of the Wad Draa
has fallen into their hands, the natives, Haratin, paying to their
conquerors an annual tribute, in return for which they are protected
against attack from other quarters. On the banks of the Wad Ziz,
the principal river of Tafilet, they hold the districts of Ertib
(Reteb) and Medaghra, and it is members of their tribe who plough
the banks of the Dayet ed Daura, far to the south of Tafilet, the
great marsh formed by the rivers Ziz and Gheris. To the north their
influence extends as far as the southern slopes of Jibel Ayashi,
near where the caravan road from Fez to Tafilet passes, and to the
east they hold much territory in the desert.
In appearance they differ much from the Berbers of Dads, for
instance, being, as a rule, men of short build, thin and very wiry,
with sunburnt complexions, and lacking the handsome features and
bearing of many of the other Berber tribes. Although, like the
other Berbers, they shave their moustaches off, and leave only
the pointed beard on the extremity of the chin, they resemble
far more the Saharan Arab tribes than the kinsmen with whom they
claim relationship. Their costume much resembles that of Dads,
though generally far dirtier, and modified to suit horsemen. In
addition to the _chamira_ and _haidus_, they often wear the _haik_,
the toga-like garment found through-out Morocco. Curiously enough,
while the dress of the men has no particular points different from
the other tribes, that of the women is unique in this portion of
the desert, for they cover their shoulders with a shawl of red,
black, and white stripes, closely woven of native wool and imported
cotton. These shawls are longer than they are wide, and are held
in their place by two short strings near the centre of one of the
longer sides, the shorter ends being fringed in the same colours
as the material is made of. With this exception, the rule is to
find the rest of the costume of _khent_. The hair, too, is quite
differently worn to the usual mode in vogue in these regions, being
parted in the middle and drawn back under the ear in heavy plaits,
held in position by a head-dress of _khent_. A few I noticed wearing
silver ornaments on the front of their dark-blue head-dresses. The
women offer none of the attractive features of those of Dads,
being heavily built and clumsy, dirty and slovenly.
I had more than once been interested upon the road at watching the
various games practised by the boys of the different oases. At Dads
_kora_, or football, was the general favourite, apparently identical
with the game so common amongst the _tolba_, or “scholars,” of
Morocco. At Ferkla it had been a kind of hockey, one boy armed with a
stick endeavouring to keep out of a hole in the ground a hard small
ball which some half-dozen others were trying to hit in. For clubs
they used the centre stem of the palm leaf, from which the fronds
had been cut. Held by the thin end with the knob at the bottom,
they formed an excellent weapon. Here, however, at Ul Turug we saw
neither _kora_ nor hockey, the whole youth of the place having taken
to stilts, on which some were very skilful in getting about. The
stilts resembled exactly the kind in use amongst boys in England, and
one could not help feeling a sort of brotherly love with these desert
urchins when one found them playing games identical with our own.
However, the tranquil state of affairs in Great Britain has not yet
necessitated one practice, common amongst the youths of the Aït
Atta tribe, which we saw going on outside the _ksar_. This consisted
in practising escape from an enemy by holding on to the tail of a
galloping horse, the rider urging his steed meanwhile to its full
pace. It is marvellous what speed can be made in this manner, and
it was a sight well worth seeing to watch an old ruffian of the
tribe galloping about on his handsome desert horse, with a youth
holding on to each stirrup, and another to the tail, and scudding
over the ground beside and behind him respectively. This means
of retreat is in common practice amongst the tribe of Aït Atta,
and soon puts their foot-soldiers, no match against many of the
Berber tribes in running, out of distance of their pursuers.
We spent the night of November 15 at Ul Turug, and though I found
the elevation of the place to be only some 2850 feet above the
sea-level, we experienced a sharp frost, and suffered not a little
from the cold. In the grey dawn we rose, and, packing our little
donkeys with their light burdens, left the _ksar_ as soon as the
gates were opened; nor was I sorry to get safely out of a spot
that has the reputation of being one of the most fanatical in this
portion of the Sahara.
CHAPTER IX.
OUR ARRIVAL AT TAFILET.
With light hearts we set out briskly upon the march, for although
we had no hopes of reaching the Sultan’s camp that night, we were
determined, unless some unforeseen mishap occurred, to sleep in the
district of Tafilet. Our Berber from Dads, whose heart and soul
were centred in my success, which I owe not a little to his good
management and fidelity, sang loudly as we pushed on through the
palm-groves that lie to the east and south of Ul Turug. Pleasant
enough the walking was in the cool of the morning with the shady
forest of trees around us, but experience had taught us that these
oases are never of any very great extent, and surely enough we had
soon left cultivation behind and set out upon a twelve-mile trudge
over barren desert. It was just at the commencement of this arid
plain of Maghrah that we forded the Wad Todghrá, and we could
see the spot where it issued by a gorge from the mountains only a
mile or two away on the west. Our road lay almost due south now,
the corner of Jibel Saghru having been turned; for the track
to Tafilet skirts its northern and eastern slopes, where oases
exist, in preference to crossing the barren range where water
is scarce and food unprocurable,—for there are no settlements
in the northern part of Saghru, the valleys only being resorted
to after the occasional rains by the shepherds of the Aït Atta
tribe. Otherwise the mountains are free to the _muflon_—the Barbary
wild sheep—which wander in large flocks over the steeps, safe
from molestation alike of sportsmen and wild beasts—for, with the
exception of a very occasional leopard, there are none of the latter
large enough to attack them. The reason that the lion is not found
here is no doubt the fact that scarcely any covert exists. However,
were the region one that could be reached by sportsmen, unlimited
bags of _muflon_, antelope, and gazelle could be obtained, as the
natives seldom if ever hunt. Unfortunately, long before a European
could obtain a shot of his quarry, he would probably have fallen
to the rifle of some native sharpshooter; for so intense is their
hatred of Europeans, that a journey without disguise, or perhaps
the company of some great Shereef, would be absolutely impossible. I
believe, however, that there are possibilities of much exploration
being done amongst the Berbers if one could only get to know them
personally; but of doing this they would scarcely give one time
or opportunity, for they would probably make an end of one before
learning to appreciate the fact that one’s intentions in entering
their country were harmless. So many traditions still remain of
the _Rumin_ and the treasure they have left buried in these parts,
that one’s actions would always be looked upon with suspicion,
which it would need much skilful diplomacy to allay.
But to return to my journey. The plain of Maghrah is bounded on
the west by the steep black slopes of Jibel Saghru, while to the
east it extends across the Wad Gheris to the low line of cliffs
and hills that separate the valley of this river from that of the
Wad Ziz farther to the east. The plain is quite level except for
one low barren hill about five miles south of Ul Turug. In spite
of the absolute barrenness of the surrounding country, one was
struck with admiration at one feature that presented itself as we
proceeded—namely, the great subterranean aqueducts that carry
water from the Wad Todghrá to Tiluin, the next oasis to the south,
a distance of some eleven miles.
This vast labour deserves some minute description, in order that the
extent of the work may be realised. The aqueducts are formed by the
sinking of pits at intervals of about 25 yards apart, each some 30
feet deep and 10 feet in diameter. Then from pit to pit a tunnel is
excavated, through which the water flows. These tunnels appear to be
sufficiently high in most parts to allow of a man walking upright
to pass through them. Had there been but one row of these pits
and connecting tunnels it would have been a work of vast labour,
but I counted no less than eleven, all running parallel with one
another, and no great distance apart. A very simple calculation
gives the result, that to bring water from the Wad Todghrá to
Tiluin no less than 9000 of these shafts have been sunk and the
intervening channels excavated—and this with the most primitive
of picks and spades. Their existence will remind the reader of the
value of water in the desert.
Leaving the plain of Maghrah one enters the oasis of Tiluin,
a branch of the tribe of Aït Merghad. Twice previously on the
way hither we had seen other settlements and oases belonging to
these people, once near the end of the gorge of Imin Erkilim,
near Todghrá, and again to the north-east of Ferkla, not many
miles from Gheris. Here, just on the northern extremity of the
oasis, are the ruins of a large _kasba_, or possibly _ksar_,
the bare high _tabia_ walls of which wear to-day a melancholy
appearance. Opposite, on the top of a rocky hill, once apparently
stood a large village; now nothing but crumbling heaps of stones
and _tabia_ mark its site. A few hundred yards only beyond this
spot, and amongst the palm-trees, stood some saints’ tombs, the
largest whitewashed and in good repair. Nothing could have been
prettier than the picture they formed—the white domes against the
rich green of the trees. At a stream of running water, on the very
banks of which the tombs were situated, were a party of soldiers
bivouacking. They had lit a small fire and were cooking tea, the
sunlight falling in bright spots on their polished trays and brass
kettle, the crimson and scarlet saddles of their tethered horses,
and their bright clothing. The bit of colour was charming, for all
through the desert one longs for something brilliant. It is quite a
mistake to imagine that colour is to be found in such countries—in
fact, the whole of Morocco is almost devoid of it. In the desert
especially the absence of anything bright becomes almost oppressive
in time. The sky takes a heated white appearance, only a shade or
two different in colour from the white glowing sand. Any figures,
or life of any sort that may appear, but alters the tones of the
landscape; for so covered is everything with the white dust, and
so fierce is the glare of the sun, that at a distance the shadows
only appear, and they as hard black patches. The natives, with the
exception of the indigo-blue cotton of the women, wear no coloured
garments, and even the women’s costume appears black against
so light a background. It may be imagined, then, how to our weary
eyes the little group of soldiers formed a pleasing picture; but,
tempting as it was, we did not dare accept their cordial invitation
to join them in their meal, lest my disguise should be discovered;
for it is a very different matter to deceive the Berber, who has
never seen a European, and generally imagines him to be some kind
of a wild beast in appearance, to attempting to do so in the case
of Arabs of Morocco proper, who know well the Christian type,
and would discover at once the presence of a foreign accent in
one’s speech. So with many regrets to be obliged to refuse the
proffered drink of tea and hard-boiled eggs and bread, we pushed on,
driving our little donkeys before us with sharp cries. Through the
palm-groves we passed, until issuing again, we crossed the narrow
strip of desert that separates the oasis of Tiluin from that of
Fezna, and entered the palm-groves of the latter.
Fezna showed far more signs of prosperity than Tiluin, for whereas
in the latter we passed only one _ksar_ that was in good repair,
the former boasts many, while, too, the cultivation of the palm
is much more carefully attended to. Water flowed in tiny canals on
every side, while the soil was green with _fsa_, on which the natives
are entirely dependent for fodder for their few horses and cattle,
the soil in the oasis being entirely cultivated, and without its
limits all is sand, and sand capable not even in the rainiest times
of bearing grass. The inhabitants of Fezna belong to the tribe of
Aït Yafalman, members of which we had first come across in Ferkla.
Again only a narrow strip of desert divides Fezna from Jerf—“the
cliff”—which owes its name to a low line of hills ending abruptly
in a precipice, that extends from Jibel Saghru into the valley of
the Wad Gheris. This point forms an excellent landmark from almost
all directions, and was visible from the hill above Dar el Baida,
where the Sultan’s camp was pitched, to the east side of the
oasis of Tafilet, in the district of Tanijiud. Jerf is a large and
flourishing oasis, and the two _ksor_ near which we passed were
not only of considerable size but also strongly fortified. Very
different were these _ksor_ of the valley of the Gheris to those
we had been accustomed to at Askura and Dads, for here there were
none of the ornamental towers, but only the level walls of _tabia_,
protected at intervals with flanking towers. In fact, the style of
architecture resembled much more the walls of a Moorish city than
the picturesque Berber residences of the country directly south of
the Atlas Mountains.
We had now approached, and been travelling parallel to, the
course of the Wad Gheris; but until after we had left Jerf some
little distance behind we did not actually catch a glimpse of the
river. From here on, however, to our night’s resting-place, the
Wad Gheris was continually coming into sight, whenever almost an
open space presented itself in the long string of oases that line
its western bank.
The first of these cultivated districts is Bauia, but the soil
is poor, and though attempts at fields appear now and again, the
sand has in places almost obliterated them. After Bauia one passes
near the Kasba el Hati, where quantities of grain were being stored
against the Sultan’s arrival. Very little of this grain was the
produce of the soil, for the crops of barley and wheat are very
poor in this part, and far the larger quantity had been brought on
camel-caravans from Morocco.
Between Bauia and Kasba el Hati we passed the only unwalled and
unfortified village we had as yet seen—the only one I saw, in
fact, during the whole of my travels south of the Atlas Mountains. I
was told that it was only used in spring, and then only for herding
cattle in, for the soil round yields, if rain happens to have fallen,
some scant grazing for cows and goats.
A mile or two beyond Kasba el Hati one passes Ulad Hanabu, which,
like all this string of oases, is inhabited by Arabs of Tafilet,
though the name Hanabu is without doubt a Berber one, and probably
the same as Hannibal.
Here at last we began to see signs of fields and cultivated land,
and very attractive they were in our eyes, so weary were we with
the everlasting desert. The country was green with turnips, maize,
and lucerne, with intervals of long narrow strips of sand-dunes,
running east and west, carried, no doubt, to their present position
by the dominating east wind of summer, that, blowing across the
whole area of the Sahara, comes up like the blast of a furnace,
and laden with fine particles of sand. So far the desert we had
been crossing had been principally composed of gravel and stones,
but here we commenced to catch glimpses of the great expanse of
sand-hills that lies to the east and south of Tafilet.
We were now following the immediate bank of the Wad Gheris, and a
few words as to this river must be written here.
Rising in the main chain of the Atlas Mountains, it waters on its
downward courses the following districts, commencing at the north:
(i.) Mtrus; (ii.) Aït Merghad, the main settlement of that large
Berber tribe; (iii.) Semgat; (iv.) Taderught; and (v.) Gheris,
whence it flows almost directly south, watering the string of small
oases we had passed through between Jerf and the cultivated land on
[Illustration: _Wad Gheris._]
the north-west of Tafilet, known as Beled el Unja. Thence it
flows through the two districts of Tafilet proper, Sifa and Wad el
Melha, and uniting with the main stream of the oasis, the Wad Ziz,
eventually is absorbed by the sand at the great marsh of Dayet
ed Daura. The water of the Gheris is brackish, but though very
unpalatable, our donkeys drank it, as do also the cattle of the
neighbouring district.
The river at this part flows some considerable distance below the
level of the surrounding country, in a bed varying from 300 to 350
yards in breadth, while the actual ford where we crossed it the
same evening at El Meharza was about 60 yards across. High banks of
clay, the soil deposited by the river, line its bed on each side,
the palm-trees above growing close up to the edge of these cliffs.
Descending to the course of the river, we waded across, and climbing
the steep bank on the east side, found ourselves at the great _ksar_
of El Meharza, the capital of the district of Es-Sifa, soon after
sundown on November 16.
Tafilet was reached at last, and only a few hours’ journey lay
between me and the camp of the Sultan of Morocco, on the east side
of the oasis. The illness I had felt coming on for the last few days
was now well upon me, and not only did I find it impossible to eat,
but even to swallow liquid was a process of pain, so large had the
swelling in my throat become. However, this of all the nights of
our journey was the one on which I could afford least to give way;
for not only was my desire to reach Tafilet accomplished, but there
were still weightier reasons why I should keep all my wits about
me. We had left the Berber country now and had entered amongst
Arabs, and though most of them little knew the looks of a European,
for nearly thirty years had elapsed since the last traveller had
visited Tafilet, yet they would be sure to recognise my foreign
accent, and though it might not necessarily lead to my identity,
it would at least cause an unpleasant amount of questioning
as to whence I came. We had therefore invented a pretty little
story about my coming from Syria to pray at the tomb of Mulai Ali
Shereef, who lies buried at Tafilet; but, happily for the sake of
our consciences, we were not obliged to make use of it, though I
rather regretted not being able to address the little crowd with
the speech, every word of which I had prepared, and which not only
showed my great religious zeal, but was poetically expressed, and
I am sure it would have pleased my hearers equally well. But, as I
said, we were spared this, for no question was put to me directly,
and our men did all the talking that was necessary in order to obtain
admittance into the _ksar_—for so constantly are the Berbers and
Arabs at war, that no stranger is allowed to enter unless he can
give a satisfactory account of himself to the gatekeepers, and this
custom is general throughout the oasis. However, it was dusk when
we entered, for the sun was already set, and a few words explaining
that we had come from the north—a vague term generally used of all
Morocco north of Fez—and were on our way to the Sultan’s camp,
sufficed to gain our admittance.
Nor was my presence the only difficulty that might have caused us
to come to grief, for the company of our Berber from Dads might by
no means have aided us, and he was really nervous of entering into
an Arab stronghold, lest some inhabitant of whom a relative had
been killed by a Berber—a by no means uncommon occurrence—might
think right to revenge himself upon an innocent passer-by merely
because he happened to be of the same race. Guiltless as our Dadsi
was on this occasion, I had gathered from his remarks on the road
that he had by no means neglected opportunities when they presented
themselves of putting Arabs out of the way.
However, all our fears were needless, and with but the shortest
of delay we found ourselves within the great double gateway that
protects the _ksar_—for so constant is warfare in the district,
that the natives have thought it necessary, or at least expedient,
to have two gates, one within the other, and separated from one
another by an open piece of ground, surrounded with high walls,
so that should their enemies force the outer gate, there would be
every chance of annihilating them from the ramparts as they assailed
the inner one.
Proceeding by a wide street with high houses on either hand, we
at length found a large _fondak_, or caravanserai, where we took
up our quarters under an arcade that ran along two of its sides;
and to commemorate our safe arrival in Tafilet, we bought some tea
and sugar and a candle, hired a kettle, and enjoyed ourselves as
far as was possible in the cold.
Travel had left its mark on all of us. I felt ill and weak, and my
throat gave me much pain. Poor Mohammed had a most unbecoming cold
in his head, and no pocket-handkerchiefs. The negro—upon whom
many curses—worried us by his constant demands for more food, and
enraged us by insisting on riding our little donkey the whole way,
while Mohammed and I walked. The old Dadsi Shereef’s nephew, too,
was thin and tired, and one and all were begrimed with desert sand
and with our clothes torn by desert thorns, while our bare legs and
feet were fretted over with scratches. Yet we thought of none of
these things that night; we merely huddled together in the cold and
laughed and chatted, and congratulated each other that now, at long
last, after some seventeen days’ weary march, and often from thirty
to forty miles a-day, our goal was reached and success attained.
I little thought then that the greatest hardships of my journey were
yet to be borne, for I imagined that the Sultan and his Viziers,
though doubtless not pleased at my coming, would extend to me some
small form of hospitality, and at least not refuse to me the only
request I had to make to them,—a few yards of canvas, the smallest
of the soldiers’ tents, as a place where I and my few faithful
men could rest in. But I was wrong.
Near us, spending the night in the _fondak_, were a few Haratin
of Wad Draa, short in stature, of deep copper colour, and with
faces showing much of their negro origin. Cheery fellows they were,
and we invited the three or four of them to our dinner-party; and
though they spoke but little Arabic, their laughter added to our
amusement. They, like myself, were travellers, wandering apparently
for no particular object, though the principal cause of travel
amongst these Draa natives is, that the cultivated banks of the
river produce only sufficient to support a certain number of lives,
and thus the excess population, for it is a largely increasing one,
seeks its livelihood elsewhere. This no doubt accounts for the
large number of Haratin, &c., found throughout the entire country
of Morocco.
We were up before dawn, and, loading our donkeys by the light of
the remains of the little candle we had bought overnight, set out
on the last stage of our journey. Entering the thick palm-groves,
we presently joined a larger track than usual, and, taking a
south-easterly course through the district of Es Sifa, forded the
Wad Ziz, the principal river of Tafilet, some four miles from El
Meharza. The water of the Ziz, unlike that of the Wad Gheris, is
fresh, and it is on it, therefore, that the natives are principally
dependent for their supply for irrigating purposes. The actual
course of the river, and the flow of water, was by no means equal
to that of the Gheris at this period; but this may have been owing
a good deal to the fact that a large quantity is drained off from
above, for so deep does the river lie below its banks, that water
for cultivation of the land immediately adjoining any part of its
course has to be brought from many miles higher up.
The district of Es Sifa, through which we had been passing between
the Wads Gheris and Ziz, except in the immediate vicinity of El
Meharza, does not show any great fertility, though palm-groves
exist in comparatively large quantities. The soil is sandy and
the gardens ill-cared for and almost untended, most of the _tabia_
walls that we saw being more or less in a ruined condition. From
where we forded the Ziz, entering just to the north of the ruins
of Sijilmassa—or, as it is more generally called now, Medinet el
Aamra—far more attention is given to the cultivation of the palm
and other trees; while the carefully walled gardens of Wad Ifli,
for so this district is called, show signs of much care and attention
on the part of their owners. Canals of water run in every direction,
the largest and deepest we had as yet seen, especially the one which
flows to the north of Sijilmassa, and which no doubt supplied that
once great city. Even to-day the channel is in good order, with
carefully banked walls of bricks, and crossed in many places by
arched bridges. Of Sijilmassa I shall have more to say anon. Then
on through the thickening palm-groves, by bewildering tracks that
turn first in one direction and then in another, over innumerable
fast-flowing streams of water; past the great _ksar_ of Rissani,
the seat of whatever government can be said to exist here, with its
strongly fortified walls; then in sight of the market of Mulai Ali
Shereef, with its beehive-like domed stalls in which the natives sell
their goods; then again in sight of Abu Aam, the trading centre and
seat of learning of the oasis, where the merchants of Fez reside,
until at last the ending of the palm-trees brought us into open
desert again.
Issuing almost suddenly upon the great waste of sand, a strange but
welcome sight met our eyes. Stretching away for a couple of miles
along the edge of the desert, white against white hills, the whole
dancing and shimmering in the heated air, lay the great camp of
Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan of Morocco. It was a welcome sight
indeed, for whatever reception I might meet with from the Sultan
and his officials, I knew this at least, that my life was safe.
We stood still in silence and gazed upon the imposing scene
before us. Amongst the white tents, many decorated in designs in
blue, passed the soldiery, mounted and on foot, and the crowds of
camp-followers and natives who accompanied his Majesty upon his last
fatal expedition into the desert. Horses galloped here and there,
many of the riders engaged in the picturesque sport of _lab el
barud_, or powder-play. The smoke of hundreds of camp-fires curled
almost imperceptibly into the air, and above all was heard the dull
hum of human life.
We had not breakfasted, and already we had been marching some three
or four hours, so we sat down in the shade of a few palm-trees and
cooked the last drops of our little packet of green tea, and rested
for a while. Then a little later I sent my Riffi servant into the
camp to announce my arrival to the Sultan’s Minister of Foreign
Affairs, Sid Mfdhul Gharnit.
CHAPTER X.
WITH THE SULTAN AT TAFILET.
Mohammed the Riffi was a long time before he gained an interview with
Sid Gharnit, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and when he did so it
brought no promise of a pleasant reception for myself. In fact, my
unlooked-for arrival caused that elderly gentleman no little concern,
for though I was well known to him personally, and bore a firman from
the Sultan to travel in his dominions, he seemed much upset. There
was, however, one item of news that my man brought me on his return
that cheered me much. Kaid Maclean, the English officer attached
to the Sultan’s suite, was in the camp. Had he not been there,
it is difficult to say into what straits I might have fallen, but,
fortunately for me, he was; and with everything else against me,
his pleading, as will be seen, eventually much bettered my condition.
A few words must be said here to explain the presence in this
remote corner of the Sahara of the two European officers who were
accompanying the Sultan; and I am sure that Kaid Maclean will
forgive my meddling in his affairs and writing a few words about him.
Some seventeen years ago Mulai el Hassen asked the then British
Minister, the late Sir John Drummond Hay, to find him a young
English officer to drill his troops. Maclean, then a lieutenant
in a line regiment, had previous to this applied to Sir John for
some such post, and was speedily appointed. Entering upon his work
with much zest and spirit, he soon discovered what good stuff was
in the Moors as soldiers, and they in turn began to appreciate
cleanliness and smartness, so that in a year or so the men placed
at the Kaid’s disposal reached a stage of competence in drill,
while he gained their respect and admiration. But jealousy at Court
put an end to the disciplined army, and with little exception
drill was discontinued. Meanwhile, however, Maclean had become
a trusty servant of the Sultan, useful to him in a thousand ways;
while his British moral standard, so different to that of the Moors,
had forced his Majesty to perceive his probity in all matters, and
he bestowed confidence and affection upon the British officer. From
that time Kaid Maclean has continued in the Sultan’s service,
and is perhaps as well known as, and certainly more popular than,
any official at Court. His position throughout has been a difficult
one; but so carefully has he avoided entering into any duties beyond
his own, so skilfully and openly has he shown no desire to encroach
upon the prerogatives of others, and so steadfast throughout has
been his wish to do nothing that did not further the interests of
the Sultan and the Government he has allied himself to, that he
has been able to keep himself free from the jealous quarrels that
are of everyday occurrence at the Moorish Court.
On the Sultan’s leaving Fez in April of the year in which I made
my journey, 1893, he took with him as far as Sufru, a small town
some few hours’ journey south of the capital, all his European
staff—that is to say, the military missions of France and Spain,
some three officers of each, attached to his Court. But from Sufru,
for reasons which are not quite apparent, he ordered the Europeans to
return to Fez, with the exception of the French officer, Dr Linares,
who was commanded to accompany him throughout his journey. Kaid
Maclean returned with the rest; but shortly before my leaving Saffi,
he, without my knowledge, had proceeded to Tafilet to join the
Sultan’s camp, as usual accompanied by his guard of troops. Yet
in spite of the fact that he was in his Majesty’s service, wore
the Sultan’s uniform, and was accompanied by troops and bore a
special firman from his master, he was several times roughly treated,
and was more than once in danger of his life upon the road. He
had arrived some ten or twelve days previous to myself at Tafilet,
and I look back to the fact that he was there to urge my cause with
the Sultan and the Viziers with no little feeling of thankfulness
and pleasure. To Dr Linares, too, I owe a word of thanks. Had not he
been present to perform an operation on my throat, in all probability
this book would never have been written, nor I have returned to tell
the tale of my journey. Fortune, which has never deserted me in any
of my long journeys, stood by me then, to ease my suffering and, I
think I may almost say, save my life. But I have progressed too far.
At length Mohammed returned with the welcome news of Kaid Maclean’s
presence, and a couple of soldiers to bring me into the camp, where
some shelter would be afforded to me until the Sultan’s opinions
and wishes as to myself should be known. Meanwhile I was told to
“lie low,” and that no communication must pass between myself and
either of the European officers, or even the native officials. In
a few hours’ time, when Mulai el Hassen should leave the privacy
of his tents for his office, my fate would be known.
So I followed my guides into the great camp.
It was a sight well worth seeing—worth almost the long journey to
Tafilet; for, though not the first time I had intruded my presence in
the camp of the Sultan of Morocco, I had never previously witnessed
a following of so large a number of troops and others, or so vast
a quantity of tents.
Threading our way through the camp, we at length arrived at
a spot near which I recognised the European encampment of Kaid
Maclean. There, with a few words of welcome from my guides, I was
shown into a small and much-dilapidated bell-tent, of the fashion
in use in the Moorish army for the soldiers, of whom it was already
half full, and a place was made for me by its occupants—a rough
set of men, it is true, but none the less ready to make me as
comfortable as the circumstances would allow. In that little tent
I spent five days, of which I shall have more to say, and I learned
that the Moorish soldier, be he never so ill paid and ill clothed,
be he dirty and rough in his language, can when he likes show a
solicitude and kindness far greater than one would ever expect
from such; and my five days of illness and watchful care from the
handful of men who shared my little quarters—or rather, I shared
theirs—was an experience gained in the strange character of the
Arab people. Scanty as were their rations, the best of everything
was specially cooked for me, notwithstanding the fact that I
could not even swallow water for the greater part of the time;
and these great rough fellows, brought up and trained to every
crime and brutality, became like nurses in a sick-room. With voices
lowered lest they should wake me when they thought me asleep, with
no noise in setting their tiny tea-tray or stirring the little fire
of charcoal, they spent their time in trying to amuse me and stir
up my wretched spirits. I met two of them this last summer in Fez,
whither I had proceeded to meet the young Sultan on his way thither,
a month after his accession, and we spent a riotous night of revelry,
laughing over the hardships we had shared in the camp of the late
Sultan at Tafilet, and amusing ourselves in a way than which we
ought to have known better; for so pleased was I to be able to repay
in a small degree their kindness to me, that we must have kept the
neighbourhood of my residence awake all night with music and singing.
Soon after my arrival I received a message from Kaid Maclean saying
he could not see me until the Sultan’s wishes were known; but
that if I wanted anything I could send to him surreptitiously,
for he had received strict orders to have nothing to do with me
at present. Meanwhile I made a written request to Sid Gharnit
that a small tent might be found for me and my men to lodge in,
and that was all I asked. Toward evening I received a reply. The
Sultan had been informed of my coming, and was very indignant,
absolutely refusing to give me a tent or anything else, and I was
to remain where I was until further orders.
There was nothing to be done, so each hour growing sicker and sicker,
I lay down in the dirty little tent, unable to eat or sleep. Hearing
that my health was bad, the French doctor was sent to me, and
prescribed a gargle, which, though it temporarily relieved the
pain, did not prevent the swelling increasing. Then four days of
great suffering, often struggling for breath, unable to lie down
for fear of choking, or to swallow even a drop of water to quench
my thirst. What clothing I had was insufficient, and the cold at
night was as intense as the heat of the sun, beating through the
thin and tattered canvas of the tent, was by day. Kaid Maclean had
received orders not to see me, and he knew better than to disobey
them, yet he did everything in his power to ease my suffering, and
constantly saw my servant, Mohammed Riffi, as to my condition. At
length things grew serious; at times I became unconscious for short
periods, and the indignation of my men and the soldiers in the tent
knew no bounds, for nothing was done to relieve me.
Poor Mohammed at length broke through every law of Moorish etiquette,
and with a burst of expostulation—and I doubt not a little
abuse—forced his way into the Viziers’ tent, and let them know
not only what he thought of them, but what would be thought of them
at Tangier should I die.
This changed matters. The French doctor was hurriedly sent to me,
accompanied by Kaid Maclean, and at sunset on the fifth day the
quinsy in my throat and the enlarged uvula and other swellings
were lanced.
The relief was instantaneous; but even greater than the relief
was the change in the bearing of the Moorish officials toward
me. Accompanied by Kaid Maclean, Dr Linares had an interview with
the Viziers, and made my condition known, asserting that he would
not be responsible for my life if I was not at once moved to other
quarters, and that I was in a most precarious state of health.
Terrified at what might be the results to themselves should I die,
and my death be laid at their door, they gave permission for me
to be removed at once, and a few minutes later, with the doctor
supporting me on one side and Kaid Maclean on the other, all of us
rejoicing at the turn of events, I was half carried, half led, into
the comfortable tent of the Kaid. A wash and a change of clothes,
a little wine, and an egg and milk, and I turned over to sleep for
the first time for four days and four nights.
It may be thought that I have spoken at too great a length on my
own illness; but I have felt, uninteresting as my personal case may
be, that it might serve as a warning to any other traveller who,
like myself, might think that in reaching the Sultan’s camp the
end of his sufferings had come, and that he would find, if not
hospitality, at least no hostility. What would have happened had
I been in good health I do not know, nor do I like to repeat the
rumours which were given me on the best of authority; but there is
no doubt that I would have been quickly despatched to the coast,
and that in a manner neither pleasing nor flattering. However,
enough; I have long ago forgiven those to whom I owe that period
of suffering. The Sultan died from the effects of his journey;
the then Grand Vizier lies in chains in Tetuan prison, together
with his brother the Minister of War, who throughout, owing to
Kaid Maclean’s entreaties, had shown every possible desire that
my condition might be bettered. Sid Gharnit and I have talked the
matter over, and he protested, as I have no doubt was the case,
that he was unable to do anything for me against the Sultan’s
order. Personally, he remarked with a smile, he would have lent me
a tent, if for no other motive, that he thought I should probably
have brought him some little present from Europe next time I visited
the Court; and with this touch of humour we buried the hatchet and
supped together, talking over the great changes that had come to
pass since then, and ever and anon referring to the turns of fortune
that the Moors look upon as predestination. The great men of that
day were dead or in prison, while I had returned to health,—and
all in the short space of some six months.
Ay! “How are the mighty fallen!”
I recovered more quickly than I had fallen ill, and in a day or two,
under Kaid Maclean’s care, was able to leave my bed and sit in one
of his easy-chairs and watch the ever-changing scene that presented
itself to me in the heart of the Sultan’s camp.
No one who has not seen the great _mahalla_ of Morocco on the march
and pitched can form any idea of the strange mixture of boundless
confusion and perfect order that succeed each other in such quick
succession. A few words as to how the Sultan travelled and how
he lived cannot but prove interesting, and my stay in his camp at
Tafilet allowed me to see much of both.
[Illustration: KASBAH OF SEKOURA.]
First of all, in order that some idea of the size of the expedition
which Mulai el Hassen led to Tafilet may be obtained, let me begin
by stating that there were nearly 40,000 persons in his camp at the
time of my visit, including the members of the surrounding tribes
who were attending the sovereign on his march through their country,
and this entire crowd was living under canvas. But in order that
the manner in which the huge camp is arranged may be realised, it
will be easier to commence with its pitching, which, as far as the
ground allows, is regularly repeated upon every occasion—and at
Tafilet the absolute level of the edge of the desert showed off the
system to perfection. Allowed that all the baggage-animals carrying
the immense number of tents and quantities of baggage have arrived
at the spot chosen for the night’s encampment, the site where
the Sultan’s enclosure is to be placed is chosen, and until his
tent is erected none other can be. At length the golden ball that
crowns the great _kubba_ is raised into the air, and a moment later
from all sides rise up a multitude of tents great and small, each
one of which has its regular spot,—for from the time of choosing
the situation of the Sultan’s encampment men have been employed in
marking out the sites. This is done by a soldier pacing the diameter
of a circle, with the Sultan as its centre, and from this diameter
a complete circuit is made of the camp. This outer line of tents is
divided into various lengths, a certain part of the circumference
being allotted to the soldiers of each tribe—that is to say,
the conscripts of each district of Morocco—for the regular army
with the commander-in-chief form a separate camp.
A large open square space is left to the east of the Sultan’s
tents, which is surrounded by the field-guns and other artillery,
and leading from this square to the outer line of tents is left
an open roadway. Between the circumference of the circle and the
Sultan’s tents spaces are allotted to the governors of districts,
the officials of the army and the Court, the Viziers, and the
Shereefs and relations of the Sultan.
His Majesty’s encampment is in itself a large camp. Surrounded
entirely by high walls of white canvas decorated in patterns of dark
blue, it is divided into two portions, in one of which the women
are kept, while the other contains his Majesty’s private tents,
which are many, and some of huge dimensions. At Tafilet I counted
from the hill above the camp no less than between fifty and sixty
tents within the canvas walls. None but the most trusted servants
and slaves enter the enclosure at all, and then not the women’s
portion while they are present. The entrance into the Sultan’s
quarters is formed by the two ends of the walls overlapping for a
considerable extent and running parallel to one another, and curved
as they proceed, so that there is no possible chance of any one
seeing within, while the height of the canvas prevents anything
but the tops of the tents being apparent from without.
Immediately outside, and within the square formed by the cannon,
is pitched the office-tent in which his Majesty transacts his
business. It is a small square tent of red and green cloth,
supported on four poles with gold tops. One side is left completely
open. Within it boasts no furniture but carpets and matting and the
divan on which the Sultan sits to transact business. Close by is
another large tent, of dark canvas, and of the form of a _ghima_,
the common dwelling of the Arab. This serves the purpose of a
mosque, and there the Sultan, surrounded by the Shereefs, Viziers,
and _tolba_, leads the prayers at the regular hours.
It was Mulai el Hassen’s custom to leave his private camp at
sunrise, and, walking to his office-tent, give audiences to the
Viziers, &c., and transact business until nine or ten, when he
would retire to the privacy of his own quarters, to reappear again
during the cool of the afternoon, generally from four to sunset;
and often of a night I could see him sitting there, with members
of his Court standing before him taking down his commands. Tiring,
indeed, must be the work of a Vizier, for he must always stand in
his master’s presence.
Mulai el Hassen may be said to have transacted the entire business
of his country himself; for although the different Viziers are
known by such titles as Ministers of War, and Foreign Affairs, &c.,
&c., they were in reality little more than private secretaries,
and the actual organisation and welfare of his country, as well as
its relations with the foreign Powers, rested with the Sultan alone.
The course usually pursued is as follows. Long strips of paper are
prepared with a _précis_ of all the matters of importance written
upon them, in as few words as possible. On having an audience the
various Viziers hand these to the Sultan, who scans them through,
asks questions on any point on which he may wish to learn further
particulars, and pencils the answers on the margin. I have on several
occasions seen these slips after they had left the Sultan’s hands,
and they are masterpieces of _précis_ writing, often a few inches
of narrow paper containing a list of pending affairs that would
necessitate many meetings of a Cabinet Council in London. Even more
precise were the Sultan’s answers—the pencilled “Yes” or
“No,” or the short questions affixed.
The camp once pitched, a matter of but a short time for so many men,
the regular routine of camp-life begins. Fires are lighted, and the
cooking, &c., commences. A large number of traders accompany the
camp, who set up their tents, where tea and sugar—such necessaries
to the travelling Moor—can be procured by the rich, while _kiff_,
the chopped hemp-leaf, appeals to the soldiery, if they happen to
have anything to buy it with. Bread, too, is sold, the ovens being
built upon the spot of stones and clay, or mud-bricks, as the soil
suits. Sheep are slaughtered, and _shua_—boiled mutton—can be
procured, each bringing his own dish or basket to take the meat
away in. Usually it is principally the mounted tribesmen, serving
only for a few months, and bringing some money of their own, who
indulge in these luxuries. The richer classes, the Shereefs and
Viziers, procure all their provisions from the Government, which
in turn procures them from the district if in a rich portion of
the country; but at Tafilet nearly all the grain, &c., was brought
from Marakesh and stored beforehand. These provisions, supplied by
the tribes through which the army is passing, are called _mona_,
and often amount to such a quantity as to cripple that portion of
the country for a year or more, so large a drain is made upon their
wheat and barley, their sheep, oxen, and fowls, to say nothing
of their pockets,—for the governor of the district, as well as
provisioning the Sultan and his troops for as long a period as
they stay in the country under his jurisdiction, has also to make
handsome presents. The _mona_, too, includes quantities of tea
and sugar, no light tax in far-away parts, where long transport
has added very considerably to the price. The soldiery receive
pay—irregularly—and with this have to purchase their own rations,
for which it is usually quite insufficient. At Tafilet the pay a
private was receiving would procure about a quarter of a small loaf
of bread per day; but with a few hundred square miles of palm-groves,
each tree richly laden with fruit, they did not fare so badly,
though on the journey back, where nature did not offer them such
assistance to the pittance the Sultan paid them, their sufferings
from cold and hunger were extreme. Only the riding and baggage
animals of the Sultan and his immediate officials receive fodder
from the Government, the various Kaids and the auxiliary troops—a
kind of yeomanry—that they bring with them being dependent upon
their own means; and as on a part of the Sultan’s route from
Fez to Tafilet barley cost no less than 5s. a feed for a horse per
night, the poor brutes fared ill. The camp at Tafilet, after three
weeks’ stay in one spot, though grain here was tolerably cheap,
was literally surrounded with dead mules and horses. The quantity
of baggage-animals was enormous. I was told by one who ought to be
well informed that no less than 9600 horses and mules were fed by
the Government each night, and there must have been 3000 or 4000
more belonging to the Kaids of districts and their retinues. A
rough calculation gave the result that the Sultan must be paying
some 3000 dollars—£500—per night for fodder, or rather the
cost of bringing it to Tafilet would have been as much as that;
for the merchants, who looked after their affairs far more keenly
than his Majesty could afford time to do, were able to sell it,
and make a small profit, at a price that gives this result, and
no doubt the Sultan was charged far more. Even if the transactions
necessary for purchasing it and bringing it this great distance were
absolutely honest, it could not have cost him less than the sum
mentioned. When one calculates the total amount spent on barley,
averaging rather less over the whole time, on an expedition of
nine months’ duration, and when one adds to this the pay of
the soldiery—for though often they do not get it the Government
invariably pays it out—and the food for the regular troops and the
Sultan’s immense retinue, not forgetting the presents that have
to be given on the road, and then to the total the vast amount of
swindling that takes place on every side, one will gather some idea
of the cost of such an expedition. As a rule in the more adjacent
portions of Morocco, so large are the levies of provisions, and so
much of the _mona_ is supplied by the governors of the districts,
that the summer march of the Sultan affords a profit to the treasury,
besides offering many opportunities for private pilfering. So poor
are these districts of the Sahara, however, that few of the spots
at which the army rested, with the exception of Tafilet and Askura,
could have afforded to keep them supplied for more than one or two
nights—and at Tafilet alone the Sultan remained three weeks.
A word of praise must be said for the organisation of, and order
maintained amongst, so large a number of men as are collected in
these vast camps. It must be remembered that every tribe and every
district is represented by a certain number of members, conscribed
by the Sultan previous to his setting out. These are often at open
warfare with the surrounding tribes, members of all of which are also
in the camp. Yet in spite of the fact that the men who have been
at war with one another for generations perhaps become neighbours
in the camp, few or no broils occur, and the general behaviour,
to the onlooker, is excellent. At night the stillness and quiet
were remarkable, considering the class of men, and the camp seemed
almost deserted, few moving about, though no doubt this is owing as
much to the fact that any man not carrying a lantern is liable to be
shot by a sentry as to anything else—for the price of a lantern is
beyond the reach of the ordinary soldier. From gun-fire at sunset to
that at sunrise one can rest in absolute quiet, except for the band
that plays at nine o’clock outside the Sultan’s tent, first on
the native _ghaita_ and then on European instruments—very badly
it must be acknowledged on the latter.
By day it is more lively: soldiers hurry hither and thither, bright
specks of colour in their gay, though often ragged, clothing;
horses and mules, kicking up the suffocating dust, gallop to and
fro; bugles sound; guns fire; and there is all the stir and bustle
of townlife. I never tired of sitting in front of Kaid Maclean’s
tent, under its awning, and watching the scene around me. As far as
the eye could reach in any direction extended the tents, some the
great circular _kubbas_ with their gilt globes and patterns in blue,
some two-poled _utok_, and many resembling the ordinary regulation
tent of our own army. From my vantage-ground I could watch the Sultan
himself, a white figure seated under the tent of red and green cloth,
and even recognise the Viziers as they stood before the open tent
listening to his commands. I could see him, too, as he left and
entered the private enclosure, and it was an interesting sight to
watch how the whole life of the camp depended upon that one figure;
how, when the time arrived for him to appear, the bodyguard ranged
themselves into long line and bowed their heads as he passed them,
crying, “_Allah ibarek amar Sidna!_”—“God grant blessings
and his ‘fulness’ to our Lord!” It was easy to perceive how
one and all, from the greatest of the Viziers to the least of the
soldiery, lived in terror of, and with it almost adoration for,
their Sultan. For of all autocrats there is none who holds power
as does the Sultan of Morocco. Life and death, imprisonment and
confiscation, as well as advancement and wealth, are all in his
hands. A nod of his head, and a man rises from poverty to riches;
another nod, and he dies secretly in prison. Yet in spite of the
immense power wielded by Mulai el Hassen, he was a man of justice far
above the general order of his people—a man who hated bloodshed,
yet brave and cool in danger. Now and again his acts were cruel,
but his cruelty was often justified by the crimes that had been
committed by his victims. Tolerant to an astonishing degree, no
people mourned his death more than the Jews, who, when he commenced
his reign, were harshly persecuted in Morocco, and to-day possess a
liberty far above that enjoyed by his Moorish subjects; and I doubt
not that their mourning was far more sincere than that of the Moors,
though, to tell the truth, they did not mourn to any very great
extent, being either too busy getting in their harvest, or else too
glad to pay off old debts and settle old blood-feuds without fear of
immediate punishment, to make many signs of grief. Yet those who held
the country’s welfare at heart must have sincerely felt the loss,
for it will be long, no doubt, before Morocco can boast as capable
a ruler, taking everything into consideration, as the late Sultan.
One curious custom in vogue in the law of Morocco came under my
notice while at Tafilet. This is the question of property left at
death by officials in the native Government—everything becoming
the property of the Crown. Unjust as this law may at first seem to
be, there is no doubt that there is at bottom a certain amount of
reason for it. A man, when appointed Kaid of a district or town,
is usually possessed of no wealth of any sort. The Sultan it is
who gives him his appointment, and any treasure or loot made out
of his office is all owing to the fact that the Sultan put the man
into the position to make it. It is, moreover, illegally made, for
the extortions of governors are supposed to go to the treasury,
with an allowance deducted for the maintenance of the Kaid and
his family and retinue. Of course it would be far more just if
the residue were handed back to the people from whom it had been
extracted; but in Morocco such a course would not be, to say the
least, considered at all a satisfactory method. During my stay in
the Sultan’s camp the Kaid of Shragna died, and before he had
quitted this life more than a few hours a cordon of soldiers was
drawn round his encampment and the entire concern brought into the
Sultan’s treasury—slaves, horses, mules, tents, furniture,
and a large sum of money. However, Mulai el Hassen behaved with
his customary leniency, and returned all the property with the
exception of the money, at the same time expressing his regret at
the death of so old and trusted a servant. There is no doubt the
Kaid had been a good governor—for Morocco—and the return of
his valuable women and slaves and horses and mules showed that his
Majesty could appreciate obedience to his word when combined with
a general system of justice and kindness to the tribe under him,
and could reward in the manner he did, as an example to others,
the men who practised it.
Very different was the fate of Kaid Ben Bu Shaib, one of the
governors of the tribe of Dukála, who owned a great castle not far
inland from Mazagan, on the Atlantic coast. The goings on of this
man’s sons had become a byword throughout Morocco, and no young
girl in the district was safe from their molestation. The old man
himself may have been innocent enough of all crime; but the native
Government very justly remarked that a man who could not govern
his own sons could scarcely be trusted to look after a tribe of his
fellow-men. So troops were despatched secretly to Dukála for fear
of his treasure being carried away by members of his family, and
the same day as he was seized at Tafilet his house was surrounded
and his property carried off. One of his sons, I believe, escaped;
the other was taken prisoner. The old man in the camp was seized
by a guard in the presence of the Grand Vizier, Haj Amaati—who
himself, only some six months later, was to share a like fate—and
received some rough treatment before the irons were adjusted to his
legs. It is said that during the years he had been governor he had
amassed a large fortune, and that 120,000 dollars were discovered
in his house; but for this I cannot answer for certain. He was
taken a prisoner to Marakesh and there incarcerated, much to the
joy of the people he had governed, for his extortion and the worse
crimes of his sons had drawn the hatred of the whole tribe upon
them. The law of responsibility for one’s relations’ doings is
by no means a bad law in Morocco, though in cases it may come hard
upon individuals. So largely do the Arabs congregate in clans,
and so easily can a single member of a clan escape after crime,
that if it were not that his relations were held responsible, no
punishment could ever be meted out. But to take an imaginary case. A
village contains one or more separate families—that is to say,
the village may be divided into two or three small clans, as the
case may be. A member of one commits a murder, and steps over the
boundary into the tribe governed by another Kaid. He thus escapes the
jurisdiction of his own governor, who is incapable of seizing him,
for fear of trespassing upon the prerogatives of his neighbouring
official. It is only the relations in this case who can accomplish
his capture, and wherever he goes he will probably be in touch with
them. Therefore when the Kaid puts a couple of his brothers, for
instance, in prison, it stirs up the remainder of his clan to obtain
their release by handing over the culprit to justice. They set off
and catch him and bring him a prisoner to the Kaid, who probably
lets the innocent men out of prison with a fine. At this they are
so much exasperated that they take good care to confiscate amongst
themselves the real culprit’s property, and when he is freed from
prison drive him out of the village, lest any more of his goings on
should bring them into the same unhappy circumstances on a second
occasion. Though not a very direct way of dealing out justice, this
interfamily law of responsibility answers its purpose extremely well.
I had not intended to enter at all into the ways and manners of
the natives of Morocco in this book; but the case of Kaid Ben Bu
Shaib suffering for his sons’ sins—as well, no doubt, as for
his own extortions—an example of the system in common practice,
was more or less forced upon me.
The sight of all others that I witnessed in the _mahalla_ at
Tafilet was the Sultan’s procession, when he went to pray at,
and returned from, the tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef, his ancestor,
who lies buried near Abu Aam, and of whom I shall have more to say
in my chapter on the oasis of Tafilet.
I have often witnessed the great pageants of Morocco; and since
this very one, which took place at the end of November 1893, I have
seen two others—the last entry of Mulai el Hassen into Marakesh
the following month, and the first entry of Mulai Abdul Aziz,
his successor, into Fez in July 1894. But for picturesqueness
neither approached the procession that accompanied the Sultan
from the camp to the tomb of his ancestor at Tafilet, for here
there was every feature to add to the oriental appearance of the
scene. The background of palms and desert, the thousands of tents,
the gay uniforms—though the word is ill applied to costumes
of every hue and colour—of the foot-soldiers, the long white
robes of the cavalry, the gorgeous velvet saddles and still more
gorgeous banners of gold brocade and embroideries,—all formed one
of those strange scenes that one can witness now and again at the
Court of the Moorish sovereign, so much in contrast to the usual
dull colouring of the country and its inhabitants.
Nothing more beautiful could be imagined than the long procession of
cavalry and infantry, of wild Berber and Arab tribesmen. A gentle
wind unfurled the banners to the breeze, and raised the dust under
the horses’ feet just thickly enough to cast a white glamour over
the whole scene, through which sparkled and glistened the flags and
the golden globes of their poles, the bayonets and rifles of the
infantry, and the heads of the spears of the guard. Then, mounted
on his great white horse, saddled and trapped in green and gold,
with the canopy of crimson velvet and gold embroidery held over his
head, rode the Sultan, while huge black slaves on either hand waved
long scarfs to keep the flies from his sacred person. In and out of
the city of tents, for such the _mahalla_ is, wound the procession,
the line of march guarded by troops on either side.
Another example of the kindness and solicitude of the Sultan was
manifested that day, for, on account of the heat, he countermanded
personally the order that the infantry were to accompany him on
his ride of two hours or so, and sent them back from a couple of
hundred yards beyond the limits of his camp.
Quantities of slaves were on sale in the _mahalla_, and it was a
pleasure to witness their absolute indifference to what was going
on. They were free to run about round the slave-traders’ tents,
and merry were the pranks they played upon one another and on the
Moors. Just opposite Kaid Maclean’s tent, where I was installed,
was a man who possessed seven, most of them young girls and boys,
and a happier band I never saw. They laughed and gambolled from
morning to night, and in their mischief often came and had a peep at
me, running away again half frightened at their temerity. No doubt
the freedom of the camp and the many strange sights it presented
formed a delightful contrast to the desert journey they had so
lately accomplished, for none of them had as yet learned to speak
Arabic. Poor little things! they had yet much to suffer in the cold
Atlas before they reached their various destinations in Morocco.
At last, after nine days, my fate was decided upon. I was to
return to Marakesh in the company of Kaid Maclean, and nothing
could have met my wishes more completely than this did. It was
by the Kaid’s own entreaties that this had been decided upon,
and now that I was sufficiently recovered in health to travel,
we were both anxious to start. The cold weather was setting in,
and already we were experiencing sharp frosts of a night, and we
dreaded that every day’s delay would increase the probability of
our being snowed up in the high passes of the Atlas.
Dr Linares dined with us our last evening, and he envied much the
fact that we were leaving the desert behind so shortly, with every
chance of making a quick journey, while he was to remain with the
Sultan and travel back by the short stages by which the _mahalla_
proceeded.
We could no longer claim the glory of being the only three Europeans
in Tafilet, for the camp had received an addition, in the persons
of seven French deserters from the “Legion étrangère,” who
had tramped all the way across the desert from Algeria, a march
which had taken them some two months to accomplish. They arrived
robbed of everything but their ragged uniforms, and half-starved,
to find but poor consolation in the Sultan’s camp, although, in
hopes of gaining employment, they became Moslems. Arabic names were
given to each; but possessing no knowledge of the language, they
could not remember them, or who was who, much to the amusement of
the native soldiers, who, ill-fed though they were, spared whenever
they could some trifle of food. On their arrival at Marakesh they
were sent to Mogador, and handed over to the French authorities to
suffer the punishment they had merited for their desertion. There
was still another Frenchman in the camp, a Mons. Delbel, who to
all intents and purposes was a Moslem, and was everywhere received
as such. He has since published his notes upon the journey in the
journal of the Geographical Society of Paris.
At length the day arrived, and long before dawn, by the light
of lanterns, we struck camp, and in the bitter cold turned our
horses’ heads to the north and set out for Marakesh.
CHAPTER XI.
TAFILET OR TAFILELT.
Tafilet, Tafilelt, or Tafilalet, is said to derive its name,
as already mentioned, from Filàl, a district in Arabia, and to
have obtained its present form by the prefix _Ta_, a Berber word
we know better in the form _Aït_, corresponding to the Arabic
_Ulad_—“sons of.” The final _t_ is again of Berber derivation,
and is also found under the form _at_ or _ta_, which appears to be
a feminine termination. Thus the whole name may be said to signify
“The sons of the Filàl (district),” the feminine noun being
used instead of the word “district” or some such term. This
addition of the prefix _T_ and the feminine termination I found to
be in common use amongst the Berbers.
The fact that the root of the name owes its derivation to Arabic
sources naturally tends to convince one that the oasis must previous
to this time have borne some other, and Berber, title—that is
to say, before the invasion of this portion of the Sahara by the
Arabs in 707 A.D. In seeking for an earlier name, one is at once
led to think of Sijilmassa, an undoubted Amazigh or Shelha word,
and which, even after the name Tafilet came into general use,
existed as the name of the capital of the district until that town
was destroyed toward the end of the last century. It was this double
nomenclature, no doubt, that originally gave rise to discussions on
the part of geographers from the middle ages until the latter half of
this century as to Sijilmassa and Tafilet; for with that haphazard
way in which natives use the name of a district for a town, and
_vice versâ_, the two became hopelessly confused, until the visit
of René Caillié to these parts in 1828 set matters somewhat at
rest, although over and over again since that date the discussion
has been revived. There is but little need nowadays to say much on
that point. Caillié’s and Rohlfs notes, scanty though they are,
yet valuable as being the only records we have of the visits of
Europeans to Tafilet, have satisfactorily decided the question; and
it is now well known that Sijilmassa, though the name often implied
the district, was in reality the capital of the oasis of Tafilet, or,
as it is more properly spelt, Tafilelt. Such geographers as Marmol,
who in his ‘Africa,’ published in 1575-1599, speaks of Tafilet
as a great city of Numidia, must have referred to Sijilmassa. Yet
the question only last year was revived in Tangier in connection
with the late Sultan Mulai el Hassen’s expedition to the Sahara.
Still, except from what we gather from medieval geographers, and
their evidence was mostly hearsay, there is not one atom of proof
which tends to show that such a town as Tafilet ever existed,
nor could I during my stay there gain any information to that
effect, my informants one and all stating that Sijilmassa, or,
as it is now called, Medinat el Aamra, was the sole and only large
town that ever existed in Tafilet. Although many of the _ksor_, as
the fortified villages are called, are of very considerable size,
there is none to which the term town can be aptly applied.
Before offering any description of Tafilet as I saw it, a few words
as to its history may not prove out of place.
Thanks to oriental historians, we are from time to time able to
obtain a glimpse of what was passing in this remote corner of the
dominions of Morocco, although Tafilet was until comparatively
lately a separate kingdom, and to-day figures as such amongst
the titles of the reigning Sultan of Morocco, who in summing up
his dominions styles himself “King of Tafilelt.” Originally
a settlement of the Amazigh or Shloh people—both terms signify
“noble”—it was not until the year 88 A.H. (707 A.D.) that
the Arabs appeared upon the scene, under the leadership of Musa ben
Nasr, who, according to Ibn Khaldun, founded the town of Sijilmassa,
though there seems every reason to believe that the name at least
had been in existence from a much earlier period. In all probability
the Berbers were dwelling there in thatch huts, and it was not until
the Arab invasion that buildings of _tabia_, or native concrete,
were raised, the sole material at hand at Tafilet, where stones are
not to be found. We find that the divisions of the Berber people at
this time (88 A.H.) inhabiting that and the surrounding district
were the Beni Mgil, who to this day are a powerful tribe on the
plains of the Wad Muluya, and the Dhu Mansur, though the second
name is distinctly Arabic, and is probably a translation into that
language of the Berber name, now unfortunately lost. Tafilelt itself
was in the possession of an _ahlaf_, or confederation, the principal
families of which were the Monabat and Amana. “At this time,”
says Leo Africanus, “the oasis was a great emporium of trade,
a number of Moorish and European merchants being settled there,
while a king governed and took taxes at the _douane_.” It would
be interesting to learn more of the European merchants, and one is
inclined to think that foreign would have been a more appropriate
term, possibly meaning Turks, Algerians, Tunisians, and Egyptians.
With varied local history, of which there is no need to make
particular mention here, Tafilet maintained its trade importance
throughout the middle ages, its rulers reigning under the title of
Sultans of Sijilmassa. It was no doubt owing to the caravan-routes
that so inhospitable a spot became so important a trading-place,
for the extremes of heat and cold are cruel.
In 1536 the then King of Fez captured Tafilet for the Beni Merins,
his own dynasty. In 1620, however, Ali Shereef arrived upon the
scene from Yembo, in Arabia, bringing no doubt with him such a store
of oriental knowledge and such a holy reputation from his life in
Mecca that in a very short time he became a great man at Tafilet,
and was appealed to as arbitrator in all questions. On his death
his son, Mulai esh Shereef, succeeded to the holy birthright,
styling himself King of Tafilet. Both lie buried near Rissani,
in the district of Wad Ifli in Tafilet, and their tombs to-day are
held in great reverence as founders of the present Fileli dynasty.
The third of the line, Mulai Reshid, in 1668 seized the throne of
Morocco and became the first Fileli Sultan, Mulai Abdul Aziz, who
commenced his reign on the death of his father, Mulai el Hassen,
in June last (1894), being the fifteenth ruler of this same dynasty.
Affairs in Morocco necessitated the residence of the Sultans being
fixed there; but we hear of Mulai Ismail having made a journey
to Tafilet, founded the still important _ksar_ of Rissani, and
rebuilt Sijilmassa; while in later times the Sultan Sidi Mohammed
ben Abdullah visited Tafilet (in 1783-84). Curiously enough, the
two Sultans who made this long journey, Sidi Mohammed ben Abdullah
and Mulai el Hassen, lie buried in the same tomb at Rabat.
In local wars that occurred at the end of the last century Sijilmassa
was destroyed, and nothing remains to-day of the great town but
acres, almost miles, of shapeless ruins, with a mosque still in
tolerably good condition. These ruins extend for some five miles
along the east bank of the Wad Ziz.
Tafilet may be said to consist of a long strip of irrigated
land extending along the parallel beds of the Wad Ziz and the
Wad Gheris. Although the northern districts of Ertib (Reteb) and
Medaghra are often included under the name of Tafilet, they seem
in the eyes of the natives to be in reality separate districts,
and as such I shall treat them.
Before discussing the actual oasis, some words ought to be written
describing the means by which this portion of the desert is rendered
capable of cultivation. I have elsewhere briefly described the
course of the Wad Gheris; it now remains to briefly trace that of
the Wad Ziz.
The Wad Ziz rises in the Atlas Mountains, near that portion of the
chain to which the natives apply the name Jibel Ayashi, near the
Zauia Sidi Hamza, situated close to the pass of Tizi’n Telremt,
where the trade-road from Fez to Tafilet crosses the main chain
of the Atlas. Thence the Wad Ziz takes a southerly course, which
it pursues with but the slightest deviation throughout. This upper
district, the slopes of the Atlas which form the basin of the river,
is known as the province of Wad Ziz. Some thirty miles from its
source (“one day’s journey”) it is joined by the Wad Guers,
flowing from the Atlas, and rising some twenty miles to the west,
on the western slopes of Jibel Ayashi. The Berber tribes of Aït
bu Hadidu, a division of the Aït Atta, and the Aït Ishak inhabit
these slopes. The united rivers, flowing south and passing through
Tialallil, drain the district of El Khanek, south of which the Wad
Ziz irrigated the oasis of Medaghra, then Ertib, and finally, _viâ_
Tizimi, Tafilet is reached, where by a wonderful system of irrigation
some 400 square miles of desert are put under cultivation. It is
only after rains that the Wad Ziz and Wad Gheris, which unite at
the southern end of the Tafilet oasis, ever reach the great lake,
or marsh, Dayet ed Daura, where the sand exhausts the water.
The Wad Ziz at Tafilet, although so large a quantity of its waters
is drained off to irrigate the oases of Medaghra and Ertib, was
at the time of my visit in November 1893—after a very hot and
dry season—still well supplied with water. The channel is deeply
sunk between high clay and sandy banks, the actual stream occupying
perhaps one-third of the river-bed, and averaging from 60 to 100
feet in breadth; the depth at the ford where I crossed it, at the
north end of the ruins of Sijilmassa, being some 2 feet. The water
is transparent, and very fast flowing, the river often splitting
up into a number of small streams in the course. That the fall in
altitude as the river proceeds must be large is easily perceived,
as otherwise the water, drained off no very great distance above,
could not be brought, except by artificial means, to the level
of the high river-banks, which must be from 30 to 40 feet above
the level of its course. With regard to the system of irrigation,
I shall have more to tell farther on.
If one asks a native where he is going, and he replies to Tafilet,
one may generally make certain that he is on his way to one of the
seven districts of the oasis which I am now about to enumerate,
and not to either Ertib or Medaghra, which both lie farther north,
though it seems that by Europeans they are included in the district
of Tafilet.
These seven provinces are—
(i.) On the north, Tizimi.
(ii.) On the west, Es Sifa.
(iii.) On the south-west, Wad el Melha.
(iv.) In the centre, Wad Ifli.
(v.) On the south, Es Sefalat.
(vi.) On the east, El Ghorfa.
(vii.) And to the north-east, Tanijiud.
To attempt to correctly estimate the extent of ground under
cultivation would be too hazardous to be of any value, for the
oasis varies so much in width from place to place, according as the
irrigating canals are taken far afield or not, that nothing short
of a careful survey could give a satisfactory result. Again, it is
impossible to state with accuracy the southern limits of the oasis,
for much of the land situated south of the junction of the Wad Ziz
and the Wad Gheris is only capable of cultivation after exceedingly
heavy rains, when natives of the Aït Atta tribe till the banks as
far as the Dayet ed Daura. From the northern limit of the oasis of
Tizimi to the junction of the rivers Ziz and Gheris may be safely
estimated at from forty to fifty miles, the average width of this
portion of the oasis being about ten miles. All this district of,
say, 450 square miles, is under dense palm cultivation. By this,
however, one must not understand the whole oasis, for I have
purposely ignored all that lies south of the meeting of the two
rivers, a district which depends greatly upon floods and the melting
of the Atlas snows for its varied supply, and what might be true
of one year might be a gross exaggeration or underrating for any
other season.
I have above enumerated the seven districts into which the oasis
of Tafilet is divided. It now remains to make a few notes about
each of these divisions. To take them in geographical order.
(i.) _Tizimi_, or Aït Izimi, is a large district extending along
the west bank of the Wad Tizimi, as the main channel of the Wad Ziz
is called at this part of its course, from the name of the district
it passes through. The inhabitants of Tizimi are Arabs, though
the name is essentially a Berber one, leading one to think that
the original Berbers must have been displaced by Arab tribes. The
present inhabitants are the Tizimi branch of the Ahl Subah Arabs,
though one or two _ksor_ belong to Shereefian families. Constant
fighting is occurring in this part, owing to the proximity of the
Berbers at Medaghra and Ertib. Tizimi contains a great number of
palm-trees and several large _ksor_, the principal being Kasbat el
Barania, Kasbat ben Ali, and Ksar bel Hassen. To the north-west of
Tizimi, a mile or so across the desert, is the oasis of Mulai Brahim,
where is the tomb of the saint so named, a place of pilgrimage. The
oasis properly belongs to Tizimi, and is in the hands of the Shereefs
and the Ahl Subah. I saw the tomb when passing through Tizimi. It
is a large, domed, square building, painted white, and surrounded
by a few smaller tombs of less important Shereefs.
Separating Tizimi from the two nearest districts, Es Sifa on the
south-west and Tanijiud on the south-east, is a strip of desert
varying in extent from two to five miles, through which the Wad Ziz
flows in a sandy bed, a few oleanders and coarse herbage being the
only signs of vegetation on its banks.
(ii.) _Es Sifa_ is the next district, forming the west side of the
oasis. It lies between the Wad Gheris and the Wad Ziz, which are
here some four to five miles apart, their courses being almost
parallel. The district is, however, irrigated almost entirely
from the Wad Ziz, the Gheris being too salt for the purpose. This
part of Tafilet is poor enough. The palms do not flourish well,
the irrigation canals are in ill repair, the water-supply is very
poor, the garden walls are broken down, and the _ksor_ are few
and far between. The immediate surroundings of El Meharza, in
which I spent a night, and of which I have already given a short
description, appear the best kept portion of this district of the
oasis. El Meharza lies high above the Wad Gheris on its east bank,
and is a place with pretensions to size and importance.
(iii.) _Wad el Melha_, or salt river, so called from the Wad Gheris,
which forms its western boundary, is the next district, forming the
south-western province of Tafilet. Like Es Sifa, it lies between the
Wad Ziz and the Gheris, and though a smaller district than this last,
it is more fertile and better irrigated. Taghranjiut is its principal
_ksar_, situated in a portion of the district known as Beled el Riad,
or “garden-land,” about equidistant from the two rivers.
(iv.) _Es Sefalat_ forms the southern boundary of the oasis proper,
and is a large and fertile district, bounded on the west by the
Gheris, while it extends to the east considerably across the Wad
Ziz, which almost bisects it. This district possesses the largest
_ksar_ in the whole oasis—namely, Tabuassamt, which lies on the
west bank of the Wad Ziz. Although so large, the _ksar_ is of no
great importance, though it forms a caravanserai for the caravans
going to the Sudan and Draa valley. However, little or none of
the merchandise which passes through it is exposed for sale there,
the caravans usually arriving late at night and leaving before dawn.
(v.) _El Ghorfa_, or Ghorfa, lies to the east and north-east of
Es Sefalat, and extends from that district to the desert. Although
its western portion is well watered and cultivated, the east seems
to have suffered from the drifting sands, and boasts no great
fertility. It contains many _ksor_, but being subject to attacks on
the part of the Berbers and Arabs of the Sahara, no great trade is
possible. The southern boundary of El Ghorfa is the Sebkhat Aamar,
a large salt lake, the monopoly for working the deposits of which
rests with the Shereefs, who send most of the salt to the great
market near the tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef in the district of Wad
Ifli, some fifteen miles distant.
(vi.) _Tanijiud_ is the north-east province of Tafilet, and, like
Ghorfa, is bounded on the east by the desert. Its water-supply, like
that of the last-mentioned district, is brought by canal from the
Wad Ziz, diverging from the main channel of that river at Iniyerdi
in Medaghra. The cutting off of this water-supply by the Berbers
higher up the valley is a constant cause of warfare. Several other
small channels from the Ziz reach Ghorfa and Tanijiud, all eventually
becoming exhausted in cultivation or in the desert. The principal
_ksar_ of Tanijiud is that of Ulad Yusef, who are, as their name
implies (“sons of Joseph”), Arabs. This _ksar_ is situated on
the extreme edge of the oasis, and almost in the desert, amongst the
bare stony hills found on this, the north-east portion of Tafilet.
(vii.) _Wad Ifli_, the sole remaining district to be mentioned, forms
the centre of the oasis, and is surrounded by the six others of which
I have just given a brief description. All the religion, trade,
and interest of Tafilet centres in this district. Its position,
surrounded as it is by friendly people, ensures safety against attack
from without, and it is no doubt as much owing to this cause as any
other that Wad Ifli forms the most prosperous part of Tafilet. No
attack could be made upon it until the outlying districts had been
passed, and these, if not to protect the centre state, at least for
their own safety, would offer a very stubborn resistance. It was
no doubt largely on this account, and also as its position allows
of its being easily and well irrigated, that the ancient Amazighs
founded there the city of Sijilmassa, on the banks of the Wad Ziz,
which, to judge from its ruins, must in its most flourishing days
have extended some five miles along the river-bank. It is in Ifli,
too, that nowadays, when Sijilmassa has ceased to exist, the life
and soul of Tafilet are found. Here is interred Mulai Ali Shereef,
founder of the Fileli dynasty, while near by is the domed tomb of
Mulai Esh Shereef, his son, King of Tafilet. In Abuaam, the richest
of its many _ksor_, congregate and live the merchants of Fez,
in whose hands is practically not only the entire local trade,
but also that of the Sudan beyond. It is the influence of these
merchants that has brought about improvements in the building
of the houses, and luxuries within. Close by is the large _ksar_
of Rissani, the official residence of the governors of Tafilet,
where some fifty soldiers are permanently quartered, though any
attempt to interfere with local affairs would cost them their
lives. Here too in large _ksor_ live the Shereefs, existing in
luxury compared to their neighbours, for they receive a subsidy
in money and kind from the reigning Sultans. The great market,
too, of Tafilet is there, the Arbaa, or Wednesday market, of Mulai
Ali Shereef, which I shall describe anon. In fact it is in Ifli,
with its well-kept canals and limitless supply of water, with its
bridges and walled gardens, its large _ksor_ and saints’ tombs,
that all that is prosperous and wealthy in Tafilet is to be found,
and it is little wonder that the inhabitants of this quarter of the
oasis give themselves airs above the rest of the population. Gurlan,
which Caillié mentions as the capital at the time of his visit to
Tafilet in 1828, no longer plays a part of any importance in the
oasis, though it still exists as a large _ksar_.
Having briefly described the different districts of the oasis,
mention must now be made of the system of irrigation employed in
the cultivation of so large an extent of soil. Fortunately the lie
of the land is such that water has not to be raised by artificial
means, the gradual slope of the valley allowing of the drawing of
inexhaustible water-supplies from the Wad Ziz. Innumerable canals
and conduits pierce the oasis in every direction, some of them as
much as 15 or 20 feet in width and of considerable depth, while
the water is pure and transparent, and flows very fast.
Near the ruins of Medinat el Aamra, or Sijilmassa, is the largest
and deepest canal I saw, the channel bricked and bridged wherever
the road or a track crosses it. This channel must be from 20 to 30
feet in breadth, and although my visit was made after a long and
exceptionally dry summer, the water was some 4 to 6 feet in depth,
flowing very swiftly. Although Sijilmassa stood on the actual brink
of the river, the banks are so high that no water could be raised to
the level of the town except on donkey-back, or by women in jars, and
this canal, which draws off so large a quantity of water from much
higher up the river, was no doubt built on this account. So numerous
and so connected one with another are the canals and conduits of the
oasis, that one crosses them almost at every 50 yards or so. These
watercourses are usually raised above the surface of the surrounding
ground by banks at each side, so that by cutting away a foot or
so of bank the stream can be turned on to the level of the soil,
and quickly floods the ground to be irrigated. The land between the
canals—that is to say, the plots of cultivated soil—are usually
divided into square beds, varying from 10 to 20 yards in length
and breadth, and divided from one another by low banks of earth, so
that one portion can be flooded without wasting water unnecessarily
on the ground or crop that may not require it. Often small channels
are cut on the top of these low earth-banks, so that the stream can
be carried here and there in every direction, and turned on just
where it is needed. Except to the western side of the Wad Gheris,
the crops are all grown under the palm-trees. In El Unja, however,
as the land in question is called, there are but few palm-groves.
It is seldom in the oasis of Tafilet that one’s view extends to
more than 100 yards or so in any direction. This is owing to the
extraordinary thick growth of the date-palms, which rise on all
sides a bewildering forest of straight stems. In Ifli, too,
[Illustration: _In Tafilet._]
the high walls of the gardens obstruct one’s vision in every
direction. These walls are built of the native concrete, _tabia_,
and are often so high that only the tops of the fruit-trees within
appear above them. The water from the irrigating channels finds
ingress into these gardens by subterranean conduits, while small
bridges cross the roads, generally formed by palm-trunks laid from
side to side and covered with sand. One comes quite suddenly upon the
high-walled _ksor_, which, until one has approached them nearly, are
entirely hidden by the gardens and palms. The outer portions of the
oasis are less thickly grown over with palms, but the line between
the desert sand and the alluvial soil and irrigated oasis is clearly
defined. One walks out of a green field of palm-trees ankle-deep into
soft yellow sand, and one’s vision stretches away over undulating
white hills the very glare of which is painful to the sight. Here
and there throughout the oasis are large open spaces, usually for
the purpose of drying the dates in, and now and again for local
markets, or _sôks_. The walled villages, too, often have a clear
space surrounding them of 20 yards or so of open ground, to allow
the sight of the attacking force in their continual intertribal wars.
Nothing more bewildering can be imagined than the roads, or tracks,
that thread the oasis. Owing to the great value of land they are
as narrow as is practicable, and turn and twist in every direction
amongst the gardens. In going from El Meharza in Sifa to Dar el
baida on the east side of the oasis on the borders of the desert,
although the general direction is south-east, one is often travelling
due north or due south, owing to the extraordinary turns the path
takes amongst the walled gardens of the district of Wad Ifli.
The _ksor_ of Tafilet all follow much the same design of building,
and though I entered several and saw many, they were so alike
one to the other that a general description will be sufficient,
and answer equally well for all.
These villages are usually square or oblong, surrounded by high
_tabia_ walls of great thickness, protected at intervals by towers,
sometimes the same height as the walls, and often considerably
taller. One gate alone gives entrance to the _ksar_, and this is
always closed from sunset to dawn. These gates are often double,
there being a turn half-way through, so that from without one is not
able to obtain a view of what lies within. At times, surrounding the
whole _ksar_, is a deep ditch, often formed by the digging out of
the soil for material for the walls, but nevertheless of great use
in time of war. A common practice in warfare, as already mentioned,
is to bring, by means of a canal, water to the foundations of the
walls of the _ksar_. The action of the stream upon the soft _tabia_
is quick and sure, and in an hour or two a breach is formed. These
ditches, therefore, prevent the immediate application of this plan,
and are generally drained into the surrounding fields, so that before
the dangerous element reaches the wall it is carried off elsewhere.
A guard is placed at the gate, and a stranger entering is questioned
as to his business and scrutinised. I myself went through this
process on entering Meharza at Sifa, when in disguise; but my men
were quick in answering the questions, and we hurried on, so that
I was not suspected for a moment. Few or no windows look out from
the outside walls of the _ksar_, but loopholes are common in case
of attack from without.
Within the walls a certain amount of regularity and good building is
to be found. One generally, after passing through the gate, enters
a large court, or square, from which the streets lead into the more
thickly inhabited portion of the _ksar_. These squares are usually
surrounded on three sides by houses, the fourth side consisting of
the outer wall, in which the gate is situated. The houses are solid
and very large, often several storeys in height. Windows open out
into the streets, which is seldom found in the private houses of
the large towns of Morocco. As a rule, the windows and doors are
small, wood being a valuable commodity, as it has to be carried
from a long distance, generally from the Atlas slopes of Beni Mgild
and Aït Yussi to the north of the basin of the Wad Ziz. Palm-tree
trunks are used as rafters and ceilings, though I was informed that
in some of the houses of the wealthier Shereefs handsome ceilings
in decorated plaster and painted wood are found, the artists and
workmen having been brought from Fez for the purpose of decorating
them. The use of lime is uncommon, and only the better-class
houses are whitewashed within, and very few indeed on the outside,
the ordinary population being content with a plastering of light
mud, which, when well applied, has by no means a bad effect, much
resembling our plaster walls in colour and surface. The streets of
the _ksor_ are usually narrow, and in many cases the houses are built
above them, forming dark tunnels, in piercing which, if one does not
wish to fall into some hole or bang one’s head against a low beam,
one has to light a match or candle. _Fondaks_, or caravanserais,
are common, usually consisting of large open squares, surrounded
by a colonnade supported on rough _tabia_ pillars.
The local markets are not held within the _ksor_, but in the
open. There are several large weekly _sôks_ in Tafilet, but that
which is by far the most important is the Arbaa, or Wednesday market
of Mulai Ali Shereef. It lies close to the tomb of that saint, and
within a short distance of Abuaam and Rissani. Although, as a rule,
the natives
[Illustration: _A Corner of a Sôk—Early Morning._]
bring their small tents—_gaitons_—in which to expose their goods,
there are, as well, a number of small domed huts built of clay and
mud bricks, much resembling beehives in appearance, the dome being
rather more elongated. In this the native can sit protected from
the fierce rays of the sun and vend his wares. Little rain falls at
Tafilet, and these mud hovels are therefore of a permanent nature:
so often are the goods displayed for sale perishable from heat, that
they are of great benefit to both buyer and seller. Such articles
as vegetables, fruit, sugar, candles, matches, &c., would be useless
after an hour or so of exposure to the sun in Tafilet in summer.
Some mention must here be made of Sijilmassa, or, as it is now
called, Medinat el Aamra, which for so many centuries formed the
capital of Tafilet. Mulai el Hassen during his visit to Tafilet,
and only the day before my arrival in that place, made an expedition
to the ruins of the old city and camped for the night there, praying
in the half-ruined mosque. Little can now be traced of the place:
immense blocks of _tabia_ lie scattered in every direction for some
five miles along the east bank of the Wad Ziz, but rank vegetation
covers a considerable portion, while in other places the land is
cultivated in such spots as render cultivation practicable. Several
_ksor_ of more or less modern construction exist amongst the ruins. A
great amount of reverence is still paid to the spot; and the yearly
prayers on the Eid el Kebir and Eid Soreir are held in the _msala_
adjoining the mosque, the minaret of which still remains.
I found the natives loath to talk of Sijilmassa, for after my arrival
in the Sultan’s camp I made no pretence of being a Moslem. At the
same time they were greatly surprised that I had ever heard of, or
knew anything about, the place, and not a little proud that such
was the case. Their reticence I put down to the fact that there
is a tradition of untold gold buried in the city—a tradition
that exists about every ancient site in Morocco. The inventive
genius of newspaper correspondents caused to be circulated in the
English newspapers a report that Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan,
had recovered this treasure and built an immense fortress to conceal
it in; but I fear, as I was present during nearly the entire visit
of the Sultan to Tafilet, and saw his Shereefian Majesty every day,
that the story must be discredited. So far from obtaining treasure,
I estimate the expense to his Majesty of his stay at Tafilet of
twenty days at a sum of nearly a million of dollars.
Of the foundation of Sijilmassa the natives seem to know but
little. They, as is nearly always the case, connect its origin
with the _Rumin_, or Romans, a term the Moslems use for any nation
not professing Islam, and which is far more likely in this case to
mean the Amazighs or original Berbers than any one else; for, as
already mentioned, it is quite clear that the Romans never reached
as far as this, though I am inclined to believe the Carthaginians,
if never actually in Tafilet, approached it very closely.
No discoveries of any great importance in the way of buildings
are likely to be made in Sijilmassa, though bronze implements are
reported to be found there, for apparently all the buildings were
constructed of _tabia_ or a poor form of brick. A bridge of arches
crosses the Wad Ziz at one portion of the ruins; but unfortunately
I was not able to see of what it was constructed, as I only caught
a distant view of it, and it appears to be coated with yellow
plaster. Probably it is built of brick and covered with cement,
or possibly stone was brought from Jibel Saghru for the purpose.
The inhabitants of Tafilet consist of both Arabs and Berbers,
with a considerable number of Jews.
The Arab population, which is considerably the largest, is divided
into four tribes or divisions—
1. The Shereefian families;
2. Ahl Subah Arabs;
3. Beni Mohammed;
4. Tafilet Arabs;
while the Berbers consist almost entirely of members of the large
and powerful tribe of Aït Atta; and there are as well the Haratin,
or free blacks, who may be classed as Berbers, their language being
Amazigh in character, though their blood is largely tainted with
negro strain. They come from the Wad Draa, and are employed as
labourers in the fields. I have spoken in the earlier portion of
my book of these Haratin, and little remains to be said here. In
colour they are very dark, but the features usually incline more
to Berber than to negro. Considered as a lower class, the Arabs and
Berbers never intermarry with them, though they themselves are proud
of the fact of their freedom, which their name of Haratin implies.
The Shereefian families, inhabiting large _ksor_ of their own, are
principally the descendants of Mulai Ali Shereef, who came from Yembo
in Arabia. They live and marry principally among their own class,
the first wife of a Shereef nearly always being a Shereefa, though
after that they will marry from the better native or Fez people. The
children, no matter who the mother may be, are Shereefs, though the
child of a Shereefa whose husband is not a Shereef has no claim to
the title. Even the sons of Shereefs by purchased slave-girls are
Shereefs. It is from these families that the reigning Sultans choose
a governor or arbitrator to be their representative at Tafilet. At
the time of my visit to the oasis this post was held by Mulai Reshid,
a brother of Mulai el Hassen, whom I saw upon several occasions. He
was slightly younger than the Sultan in appearance, of vivacious
and pleasant manner, and seemed justly very popular.
The Ahl Subah are a powerful Arab tribe of desert propensities,
always fighting with their neighbours or amongst themselves, great
horsemen, and apparently, like their steeds, indefatigable. Their
warfare with the Berbers is unceasing, and at the time of my stay
in the Sultan’s camp a skirmish took place between the two in the
very presence of Mulai el Hassen, several on both sides being killed,
altogether some fifteen it is said. The Sultan promptly imprisoned
the ringleaders of each party; but such force was brought to bear
upon him by the prisoners’ fellow-tribesmen that he was obliged
to release them in the course of a few days.
The Beni Mohammed are an Arab tribe much resembling the Ahl Subah
in character and appearance. They live in _ksor_ of their own. The
Tafilet Arabs consist probably of a mixture of tribes, and have
unmistakable signs of Berber blood. Gentle, of kindly nature,
but fierce when roused, they are an excellent people, and have a
certain charm of manner which is indescribable, due not a little
to their melodious voices and the beautiful Arabic they talk. Their
colour is usually dark and their faces rather expressionless, though
lacking the coarseness often found in those of the other Arab tribes.
Of the Aït Atta I have already spoken in the earlier portion of
this book. They are a fierce tribe of Berbers, intent upon the
annexation of everybody else’s country and property, and have
extended their conquests in every direction, from the Draa to
the Ziz basin. The oases of Medaghra and Ertib, often included in
Tafilet, are in their hands, the only Arabs being a sprinkling of
Shereefs. The Aït Atta are said to have captured these lands at
the beginning of this century.
The Jews exist in Tafilet under much the same conditions as in Dads,
of which a full description has already been given—that is to
say, each Jew family lives under the protection of some Moslem,
be he Arab or Berber.
The costumes worn by the Berbers and Arabs of Tafilet are almost
identical: in the former case the long linen _chamira_ is never
belted at the waist, the Berbers, for some reason which I was
unable to discover, objecting to this. The _jelab_, or hooded
garment sewn up the front, is unknown, the _haik_ and _haidus_
forming the costume of both peoples. The _khenif_, or black cloak
with its strange red mark on the back, is seldom seen, except in
cases of Shloh from the mountains who come with caravans; while
the embroidered short brown _jelab_ of the Riffi who accompanied
me was considered as a marvellous curiosity by the natives.
The women wear either indigo-blue dyed cotton or jute, called
_khent_, or else coarse woollen _haiks_ of native manufacture. Leo
Africanus mentions in his notes upon this district that large
quantities of indigo were grown there, but nowadays all the blue
_khent_ is imported from London or Bombay. Amber beads, silver and
coral necklaces, silver anklets and bracelets, are worn, according to
the wealth of the families. The women are usually short and coarse
in appearance, dirty and loud voiced. No doubt the harems contain
better specimens, but those we saw in the open could be safely,
one would think, permitted to go abroad with uncovered faces. The
children are sometimes pretty; but soap is an expensive luxury in
Tafilet, and washing seems to be an annual affair, if practised
as often. However, I saw men bathing in the Wad Ziz as I forded
that river on one occasion. The women are a great deal tattooed,
the nose, forehead, and chin being often highly decorated by this
process. They perform all the housework, fetch water, mind the
cattle, collect firewood, and take vegetables, &c., to market—in
fact every duty except that of fighting seems to fall to their lot.
The men are armed with guns and swords. Every youth, as soon as he
reaches a certain age, is obliged to purchase a gun, all his earnings
being saved for this purpose. Although the most common weapon is
the flintlock of the country, a quantity of cheap double-barrelled
guns, all muzzle-loading, are to be found. The native of Tafilet
has a hankering after bullets that fit a No. 12 bore, and a charge
of loose buckshot and nails he looks upon as a most estimable way
of attacking his enemy. Little quarter is given: in the case of
fighting between Arabs and Berbers, all males taken prisoner who
are able to carry arms are mercilessly killed, usually stabbed with
knives,—powder and shot, as already mentioned, being expensive.
The saddlery is of native design, but the bridles are usually brought
from Algeria, being of the style used by the Franco-Arab cavalry
of that country. This the Filelis find stronger than their own.
The food of the common people consists principally of gruel and
_kuskusu_, the latter at times garnished with vegetables, and on rare
occasions with meat or fowl; but it may be safely said that so great
is the poverty in Tafilet that the poorer classes, although never
wanting for absolute food, do not taste meat two or three times in
the year, mutton on the Eid el Kebir being often the sole occasion.
The coinage to-day in use in Tafilet consists almost entirely of
the Moorish money struck in Paris, and although in Morocco City
all kinds of damaged Spanish silver is in use, at Tafilet it is
not accepted. The rates in use at Tafilet are quite different to
elsewhere. All sums of money are calculated in _mitkals_ and _okeas_,
neither of which exist in coin, being only verbal terms. In Morocco
12½ _mitkals_ go to the Spanish dollar, and 10 _okeas_ to the
_mitkal_, which gives 125 _okeas_ to the dollar; but at Tafilet,
although 10 _okeas_ compose a _mitkal_, 5 _mitkals_ complete the
dollar, so that 50 _okeas_ is the value of a Spanish dollar there,
instead of 125 _okeas_. However, as the same coins are in use all
over the country, and the _okea_ and _mitkal_ are only expressions,
the result is the same, though at first confusing. This change in
calculation begins at Dads, and is found in the districts east of
that country.
With regard to the products of Tafilet, the most important
without doubt are the dates, and it is from this culture that the
inhabitants are enabled to exist at all. Not only are they sent
by caravan all over Morocco, but there are merchants of Fez who
ship large quantities to London, and we often eat here in the
centre of civilisation dates that are grown in this far-away
and little-known oasis, and which have been carried on mule or
donkey back over the hot arid desert and the snowy passes of the
Atlas Mountains. To realise the enormous quantity of dates grown at
Tafilet one must see the oasis. The palms, planted so thickly and so
closely together as to obstruct one’s vision in every direction,
form a gigantic forest, to pass through which, by the narrow lanes,
is bewildering. I have explained elsewhere by what means the system
of irrigation is carried on, and the scanty crops of vegetables
and lucerne grown amongst them. The groves of the finest date-palms
are in the vicinity of Abuaam in the district of Wad Ifli, and here
they are nearly all enclosed in high walls. It is these dates, the
_Bu Skri_ and _Bu Kfus_, that are most prized, and luscious they
are indeed, though they spoil by travelling. The commoner varieties
are eaten in the country, or given as fodder to the cattle, goats,
and horses. In the outer portions of the oasis the palm-groves are
not walled, and the expense of building walls would not be repaid
by the price realised for the commoner varieties of dates. Between
the Wad Gheris and the Wad Ziz, in the province of Es Sifa, but few
walls are found in repair, and the want of proper irrigation has
caused the date-palms to deteriorate; but near Abuaam and Rissani
the gardens are nearly all in the possession of the Shereefs, and
are kept in a state of excellent repair. The dates were ripe at
the time of my visit (November), and I was able to see not only the
plucking but also the drying process. The labourers, principally the
Haratin, are very skilful in climbing the palms. When the summit
is reached either the entire bunch is cut off or else shaken, in
either case the dates falling to the ground. Here they are collected
into panniers, which are placed upon the backs of donkeys and taken
to the drying-grounds. They are always plucked slightly unripe, as
otherwise they fall to the ground themselves, and are rotted by the
irrigation. At the drying-grounds—large open spaces, sometimes
surrounded with walls—the dates are laid in the sun, a guard,
often of women, being placed over them; for although they never
object to one’s picking up a handful for one’s own consumption,
the fruit would probably be stolen in far larger quantities were they
left absolutely without watchers. These guards usually live in brown
_ghiem_, as the hair tents of the Arabs are called, but sometimes
build themselves huts of palm-leaves. The dates are poured in great
heaps upon the ground, being turned over by the women every now and
again to allow of the sun reaching them. The sight of acres of great
heaps of dates is a most curious one. There are various processes of
treating the dates. Some kinds are merely sun-dried and left single;
[Illustration: _Young Women of Tafilet drying Dates._]
others are crushed into solid masses, which are sewn up in
basket-work for transport; while others again, used by the poor
natives when travelling, are crushed into the shape and size of
turkeys’ eggs, and are easier to carry in this manner. On one
occasion, travelling in Morocco, I was given one of those solidified
date-balls by a native of Tafilet, who was journeying to Tangier on
his way to take ship to Mecca. Its appearance and feel was that of a
stone, its weight that of lead! I kept it for some time in my house,
and visitors used to take it for a fossil. What became of it I do not
know, but I never found any native of North Morocco brave enough to
attempt to eat it. Yet by the donor it was considered a great luxury.
Besides the dates, crops of wheat and barley are grown at Tafilet,
especially in the land to the west of the Gheris, called Beled el
Unja. Millet and maize, however, are more common, and form the
principal food of the people. In the gardens cabbages, onions,
peas, beans, grapes, pomegranates, apples, pears, gourds, and
melons flourish, but are only cultivated by the richer classes,
turnips being the favourite vegetable of the poor. Large quantities
of lucerne are grown in the shade of the palm-trees, and stored
away for winter fodder for the horses and cattle.
The only export of manufactured goods from Tafilet are the prepared
skins, famous all over Morocco as _jeld el Fileli_, and fine _haiks_,
the fleece of the native sheep being very fine.
Gunsmiths and silversmiths, the latter principally Jews, are to
be found in numbers, but the weapons are of coarse manufacture;
while such trades as the making of sandals, universally worn by
the poorer Arabs and Berbers, flourish. All good shoes are brought
from Fez, those made in Tafilet, in spite of the fine leather,
being very inferior. Bags for _kiff_, the chopped hemp which the
natives smoke, are made in considerable quantities and sent to
Morocco. These bags are generally some 6 inches in length by 3 in
width. An outside cover or shell, open at one of the narrow ends,
allows the bag with its several pockets to be drawn out. The whole
is worn round the neck on a string, which, passing through the two
upper corners of the outside bag, is made fast to that inside, so
that to get at the _kiff_ the outer cover is slid up the two strings.
Antimony and lead are both found in the vicinity of Tafilet, and
the former, known as _kohl el Fileli_, was once famous, but it can
be imported into Morocco nowadays from Europe at a cheaper rate
than it can be worked and sent from Tafilet. The lead worked is
only used for bullets, and is obtained merely in small quantities.
The aromatic gums which reach Fez from Tafilet are not products of
the oasis, but are brought thither to the Fez merchants in small
quantities from the different tribes, a good deal from the Sudan.
The imports into Tafilet exceed very considerably in value the
exports. Most caravans travel from Fez, the road being better and
safer than that from Morocco City. Cotton goods, shoes, _khent_,
silk belts and handkerchiefs, iron bars, candles, sugar, and green
tea, form the principal imports, a good deal of the whole being
sold at Abuaam to other merchants and tribes, who send it farther
afield into the Sahara and Sudan. The return caravans take away
dates and Sudan produce.
The slave-trade flourishes at Tafilet, the slaves being brought
direct to that spot from the Sudan. At the time of my visit they were
being freely hawked about the Sultan’s camp. The girls of the Hausa
country fetched the best prices, being considered more cheerful and
neater than those from farther west. The prices averaged from 30 to
40 dollars for boys, and up to 100 and 120 dollars for young girls.
The great veneration bestowed by the Moors and Arabs upon deceased
saints is as noticeable at Tafilet as elsewhere. Although the founder
of the present ruling dynasty of Morocco and his son lie buried in
the oasis, their tombs are reverenced more by strangers than by the
inhabitants, though the name of Mulai Ali Shereef is continually
upon their lips. But Mulai Ali Shereef never founded a brotherhood,
and this has to some extent detracted from the esteem that would
have accrued to his memory, these societies of devotees doing more
to keep up the reputation of their founders than any number of
stray pilgrims could do. The love of belonging to some particular
brotherhood is extremely noticeable amongst the superstitious people
of the Sahara, who are far more religious than their brethren in
Morocco proper. Some follow the sect of the _Taiebiya_, or followers
of Mulai Taieb of Wazan; some are _Aissoua_ and practise the rites
of Sidi ben Aissa of Meknas; some again _Hamacha_, devotees of Sidi
Ali ben Hamduch; some of Mulai Abdul Kader el Jilani of Baghdad. But
the most favoured of all in this portion of the Sahara is the sect
of the _Derkauiya_, or followers of Mulai Ali and Mulai el Arbi el
Derkaui, whose patrons lie buried, one in the Sahara, the other in
the tribe-lands of the Beni Zerual to the north-east of Fez. The
_Derkauis_ are distinguished by carrying a long stick, and by
wearing round their necks a string of large wooden beads, often of
preposterous size. Often, too, a green turban decorates the head,
a sign in the East of the accomplishment of the pilgrimage to Mecca
or of holy descent from the Prophet, but here meaning neither, being
merely a sign of exceeding devotion to the sect. Mulai Suleiman,
who reigned as Sultan of Morocco from 1795 to 1822, was a devotee of
this sect, which no doubt then became fashionable. The brotherhood
possesses _zauias_, or holy houses, all over the country, where
offerings are taken and meetings of the sect held. These _zauias_ are
in the hands of chosen _Mokadmin_, elected for the purpose. One of
the little party who accompanied me as far as Dads was a _Derkaui_,
and I took the opportunity of questioning him about the sect. The
original idea was “revivalistic”—that is to say, it was the
desire of the founder to cause the world to return to the pristine
purity of Islam, and to do away with any worship except of the
One God. However, so impressionable are the minds of Arabs that,
instead of turning them from the reverence of earthly saints, he
only added his own name to the long list. So firmly convinced was
Sid el Arbi el Derkaui of the unity of God, and that to Him alone
must be paid reverence, that he ordered his followers in repeating
the _Shedda_—There is no god but God; Mohammed is the Prophet of
God—to only mentally mention the second half of the sentence,
so that Mohammed, holy though he was, should not be spoken of in
the same breath with the Almighty. A constant repetition of prayers
and attendance at the mosque was also enjoined.
With regard to the animal life to be found at Tafilet a few words
must be said.
With the exception of domestic animals, little or no wild
varieties are to be found in the oasis. These domestic animals
consist of camels, cattle, horses, mules, donkeys, goats, sheep,
and dogs. Poultry and pigeons are also found in the villages. The
camel is the ordinary large heavy variety found throughout Morocco,
though the oasis is from time to time visited by desert tribesmen
riding the lighter and swifter camel of the south. Cows and oxen
are found in considerable quantities, but are all stall-fed, being
only turned out to graze in the spring, when scanty grass is to
be found on the outskirts of the oasis. Their fodder consists of
dried lucerne and the commoner varieties of dates. The fertile and
irrigated land is of too great a value to allow of its being used
for grazing purposes. However, there are large flocks and herds
of goats and sheep which find sufficient to eat amongst the more
deserted portions of Tafilet, and I noticed great numbers feeding
amongst the ruins of Sijilmassa and on the outskirts of the oasis
on the east side near Dar el baida. At times of drought they are
given lucerne and dates. The sheep are of a curious desert variety,
called by the natives _dimaan_. They are hornless and with large
loose ears. The wool on their backs is curled, but their sides,
stomachs, legs, necks, and heads are smooth. Usually they are of
two colours, either black and white or brown and white. The wool,
as much as there is of it, grows close to the skin, and is very
lightly curled and fine in texture. The goats, too, are peculiar
to the district. Goat and sheep milk is largely used for butter.
Of the larger varieties of wild animals the oasis is said to be
void. Jackal are likely to be found, and a few hyena in the more
deserted parts, though probably the latter are visitors from the
mountains, and come in search of food. Large quantities of rats
exist, but I saw no voles. Gazelle are found in numbers in the
desert, but appear not to approach the oasis; while the _muflon_
seldom, if ever, leave the vicinity of the mountains. In Jibel
Saghru they are very plentiful. Ostriches are hunted only a day or
two’s journey to the south, and are said to haunt the vicinity
of the Dayet ed Daura, into which the surplus waters of the oasis
of Tafilet eventually run.
The horses of Tafilet are a small wiry breed, often very handsome,
and capable of standing a great amount of fatigue. Many of the
tribes ride entirely mares, on account of the fact that an ambush
can be formed with these, whereas entire horses would neigh on the
approach of a mounted enemy. They are also more docile, and can be
left standing with their bridles on their necks, without fear of
their running away or joining other horses. Their heads are small
and legs fine, while their tails are better set on than those of the
usual barb. Very large prices, comparatively to those in Morocco,
are paid for them; but it must be taken into account that their
rearing is much more expensive, as there is no grazing-ground, and
they are fed entirely on lucerne and dates. Owls seemed to be the
most plentiful of all the birds, but I saw large flocks of doves,
several varieties of birds of prey, and a number of herons.
There remain now only a few words more to be said to complete these
notes upon Tafilet—namely, regarding the trade-routes which lead
to and from the oasis.
I have in the earlier part of my book given a detailed account
of the road from Morocco City to the oasis—the route by which
I travelled, which may be ranked as the second most important,
a far larger trade being carried on with Fez.
As I have not myself, nor has as far as is known any European,
travelled over this trade-road, I will only give briefly its
principal features, preferring to be on the safe side rather than
put too much trust or belief in native authorities who, though
their general description may be true enough, have no idea of time
or distance beyond that certain spots can be reached in one day.
The actual distance and time employed in the journey from Fez to
Tafilet is about a day shorter than from Morocco City—that is
to say, ten or eleven days, the _r’halat_, or stoppages, being,
when possible, made at stated points where security for man, beast,
and goods is be found.
The first stoppage after leaving Fez is Sufru, some six hours’
caravan-travelling from the capital, a short march necessitated by
the difficulties and delays in leaving the city and the security to
be found within the little walled town, one of the most picturesque
in all Morocco. Here the Berber tribes are entered, and the following
day’s march is the ascent of the northern slopes of this portion
of the Atlas, a halt being made for the night at Tagharzut in
the tribe-land of Beni Mgild. Here there is a large _ksar_ built
_tabia_. From Tagharzut to Njil forms the third day’s journey,
where there is a _Kaid_, or tribal governor. Njil lies on the borders
of the Beni Mgild and Aït Yussi tribes. The latter are said to be
one of the wildest Berber tribes, but are more trustworthy and a
simpler people than usual. From Njil to El Kasabi, the fourth day’s
journey, the road ascends the valley of the stream which eventually,
after receiving the drainage of the surrounding valleys, forms
the Muluya, which flows into the Mediterranean between Melilla and
Nemours. El Kasabi itself is on this upper reach of the Muluya. At
the pass over the Atlas, Tizin Telremt, on the east of Jibel Ayashi
or Ayashin, another watershed is crossed, and the basin of the Wad
Ziz and Wad Guir reached. A halt is made for the night at a _ksar_,
or _nzala_, as villages or buildings erected for the purpose of
resting-places for caravans are called. From this _nzala_ to the
district of Gers, where the river of that name joins the Wad Ziz,
constitutes the sixth day’s journey, from which, by following
the valley of the Ziz, Tafilet is reached in four days, the halts
being made in any villages which can be trusted as friendly toward
the caravan-men.
A few words must be said as to the trade-routes from Tafilet to
Algeria, though no very great quantity of produce is brought that
way, owing to the desert that has to be crossed and the wild tribes
inhabiting it.
From Tafilet a number of tracks run almost parallel across the
Hamada el Kebir to Es Saheli, El Megren or El Barka on the Wad Guir
(95 miles), thence _viâ_ Ain Shair to the north, or Kanadsa to the
south, to Figig (130-150 miles). At Ain Sefra, 58 miles from Figig,
is the termination of the French railway from Oran. The distance,
therefore, as the crow flies, from Abuaam in Tafilet to Ain Sefra
is about 260 miles.
Of the roads to the south of Tafilet but little need be said, as
proportionately only a very small amount of the Sudan trade comes
into Morocco by this route, the greater portion being taken _viâ_
Tenduf and the Sus to Mogador. From Tafilet, however, a road across
a corner of Jibel Saghru and _viâ_ Tamgrut leads to the Wad Draa,
and thence, _viâ_ El Feija, Tatta, and Akka, communication exists
with Timbuctu; but little water is found between Tafilet and
Tamgrut, and this portion of the Anti-Atlas is only inhabited by
a few shepherds of the Aït Atta. The distance to Tamgrut is some
95 miles—three days’ good travelling for caravans.
Two other roads are sometimes followed to Timbuctu—namely, (1)
_viâ_ Wad Igidi or Igidin to the south-east of Tafilet, and (2)
_viâ_ El Harib to the south-west; but in both cases large sums of
money have to be paid to the tribes to secure a safe journey, and,
especially on the latter, water is very scarce.
A road leads to Tuat _viâ_ the Hamada, El Kebir, Ghrlnema, and
Fum es Shink—fifteen days’ travelling.
I have not dwelt at any length upon these trade-routes, as no very
reliable information can be obtained from the natives.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RETURN JOURNEY.
At dawn on Saturday, November 23, Kaid Maclean and I had left the
Sultan’s camp some way behind, and were hurrying as fast as our
sturdy mules allowed in the direction of home. A long march lay
before us, over some 300 miles of desert and mountain, and winter had
now set in. I had purchased a pony and native saddle at Tafilet; but
riding was by no means a pleasure, for I was yet weak and ill. The
cold was intense, and we longed for sunrise, even though we knew
that in a few hours we should probably be complaining of the heat.
We did not follow the same road as I had pursued in coming, but
struck more directly to the north from the Sultan’s camp at Dar
el baida, passing through the low range of barren hills near that
spot. Then a few miles of desert, and the main stream of the Wad
Ziz, here known as the Wad Tizimi, from the oasis it has just left
at this spot. The sun rose, and in the bright morning our spirits
increased. The scene was pretty enough; for although we were in
sandy stony desert, only a mile or so away to our right lay the
palm-groves of Tizimi, and here and there the yellow walls of a
_ksar_ were visible.
Our party was a large one; for quite a number of soldiers accompanied
Kaid Maclean, some of whom were mounted, while others rode the
pack-mules on the top of the baggage, and it was evident from their
chatter and laughter that one and all were overjoyed at escaping
from the dust and dreariness of the _mahalla_, to say nothing of the
fact of the scarcity of food there. Kaid Maclean was the bearer of
special letters to the various Governors and Sheikhs on the road,
and we looked forward, if not to luxury, at least to being able to
obtain food enough.
From Tizimi we skirted the southern end of the small oasis of Mulai
Brahim, and caught a glimpse of the white-domed tomb of the saint
amongst the palm-trees. Then desert again until we struck my old
road near Fezna, having crossed the Wad Gheris shortly before. The
river here presents a very different appearance to what it does near
Tafilet, for there are none of the steep cliffs of clay or wide
channels at this portion of its course, as it hurries along over
stones and boulders in a shallow bed through the desert valley. A few
reeds and scraggy oleanders line its banks. The stream was strong,
and we had to get the mules across with care, lest they should be
carried off their legs by the current and soak our luggage.
Then on again, until, leaving Tiluin behind, the weary plain of
Maghrah opened out before us. We pushed on fast, for the afternoon
was well on, and at dark arrived at Ul Turug, weary with our twelve
hours’ ride.
We pitched the tent outside the _ksar_, and sent a soldier with the
Sultan’s firman to interview the young Kaid, who had recently
been appointed. He met with no happy reception, and came back
hurriedly and in considerable fear with the message that they had
no provisions to give us, and that a “Christian’s” portion
was powder and shot, and not food. However, later on the young
Kaid came in person, and was tolerably polite, though the aspect
of his retinue was by no means friendly, and we were glad of the
protection afforded us by an old hag of a Shereefa, very dirty and
in rags, who declared that a divine mission had been ordained her
to guard our persons. She seemed much venerated in the place, and
was altogether a good old soul, though quite mad; and so friendly
were her attentions that she raised a sheep from somewhere and
brought it to the Kaid—much to the joy of our hungry men.
As soon as the natives had retired she announced that we were by no
means safe, and also that it was her intention to sleep in our camp,
as her presence would protect us from danger. This she did, under the
flap of the tent; and very glad we were of the old lady’s presence,
for the reports the men brought us were by no means reassuring. Our
guard, sufficient to protect us on the road and well armed, would
have been of no use in a general attack of the natives, and we were
grateful indeed to the old lady whose insanity had taken so useful
a direction.
In our conversation with the young Governor, when we hinted to him
the results that would ensue if he refused to take notice of the
Sultan’s commands that Kaid Maclean should rest in peace and
security, we discovered the reason of his altogether neglecting
the terms of the firman, or _daira_ as it is called in Morocco. He,
it appears, had paid a visit to the _mahalla_, and been presented
by the Sultan with a suit of clothes, the customary gift of the
country—and the _kaftan_, or coloured garment of cloth, had been
missing. For this oversight in his Majesty’s gift he had almost
turned rebel, and although Mulai el Hassen himself only a few nights
later was to camp at this very spot, he absolutely disregarded his
written orders. The fact of the _kaftan_ is worth narrating, as it
gives an insight into the turbulent character of these wild Berber
people. Yet in carriage and manner, though by no means friendly,
they were gentlemen all over. We struck camp about 3 A.M., and the
sun rose upon us after we had crossed the bleak hills, and were
proceeding west towards Ferkla. Once more I admired the palm-groves
of Milaab and the picturesque situation of the village of Igli,
dominating the mouth of the valley where the Wad Todghrá enters
Jibel Saghru from the plain.
On issuing from the hills our road varied to that I had already
taken, and we passed to the south of the conical hills I mentioned in
describing my journey, near the settlement of Islef, a picturesque
little place of a few _ksor_, with some gardens and running water
in the vicinity. The natives all turned out to see and talk with
us, and the presence of the soldiers, and the fact that we were
ready to purchase a few of their red, black, and white _kanderas_,
or shawls—part of the costume of the women of Aït Atta—kept
them in a state of tolerable politeness, though their curiosity
was unlimited, Kaid Maclean’s mackintosh cloak receiving enormous
attentions, being stroked and pinched and examined and ejaculated
on by the whole crowd.
At Ferkla we were well received, the Governor, who expected the
Sultan in a few days, knowing better than to disregard his lord and
master’s orders, for the oasis was already in bad odour at Court on
account of the murder of a couple of soldiers who had been sent there
as Imperial messengers only some few months before. More than this,
it was at Ferkla that the tent and property of the Sultan’s uncle,
Mulai Othman, had been found. This old Shereef, who had been sent
to settle some intertribal warfare, and collect taxes due, a year
or two before, from some of the Berber tribes nearer Fez, had been
treacherously murdered, and his guard annihilated by the tribe of
Aït Shokhman, whose chief, Ali ben Yahia, a sort of king amongst
the Berbers, had been equally treacherously captured by the Sultan
a month earlier and sent a prisoner to Marakesh. The very day that
I had left that city he had arrived in chains. It was no doubt for
these reasons that the Governor of Ferkla received us with a show
of welcome, and supplied us with ample provisions from the store
awaiting the arrival of the Sultan and his army. We camped on a level
piece of ground near one of the canals that, running from the Wad
Todghrá, supplied a portion of the large oasis with water. This
canal near here more resembled a swamp, and when, before dawn,
we were obliged to ford it, was covered so thickly with ice that
my donkeys took several steps before the coating broke under their
weight. Yet it was running water, and well sheltered by palm-trees.
From Ferkla we crossed the weary plain of Seddat; but on reaching
the Wad Todghrá near the south of the oasis of that name, forded it
there, about a couple of miles north of Imin Erkilim, and continued
up its right (west) bank, camping for the night near the large
village of Taurirt. The latter part of the ride along the river’s
banks was a charming one, and presented as picturesque scenes as
could be imagined anywhere. Amongst the groves of palms ran the
river, and its fall being steep, it had in many spots been banked
up by the natives, in order to raise its waters to the level of
their irrigating canals. In these places it formed large deep pools,
out of which it tumbled in no mean waterfalls to the level of the
stream below; and the entire route was enlivened with its splashing
and the groaning of the millwheels it turned as it passed on its way.
We reached our destination before sunset, having passed almost
immediately before a market-place, with the same beehive-like domed
stalls as I had seen at the great market of Mulai Ali Shereef at
Tafilet. We found the Kaid of Demnat, under whose jurisdiction
this portion of the Sahara nominally is, encamped quite close to
us, and we had no difficulty in obtaining provisions. Although
there are nominal Kaids and Governors over all this portion of
trans-Atlas Morocco, it must by no means be thought that they hold
any jurisdiction, nor would the above-mentioned Kaid have even been
able to visit Todghrá had not the Sultan been approaching. Even
in his little town of Demnat, on the other side of the Atlas, his
position was never secure, and on the death of the late Sultan last
June (1894) his house was razed and he himself murdered.
The cold of a night was intense, and our men suffered much. Even in
the excellent tent of Kaid Maclean, with every possible invention to
keep out sun and frost, we had the greatest difficulty in keeping
warm. The early mornings, too, were miserable, when, while the
camp was being struck and the mules laden, I would crouch over the
remnants of a small fire and try to warm myself. It was always
too cold to ride, and we used to give our horses to the men to
lead while we stepped out as fast as our legs would carry us over
the level plain. At sunrise matters mended, though even at noon
the heat was not severe, and on one if not two occasions we saw
ice in exposed positions unmelted at mid-day, though no doubt the
temperature then was above freezing. Yet the rays of the sun were
sufficient to warm our chilled bones, and the process of thawing
as he rose higher into the sky was indeed pleasant.
This was the longest march we made, for after going
continually—with but half an hour’s rest for lunch—for thirteen
and a half hours, we drew rein near the _zauia_ of Aït bu Haddu
at Dads. I at once sent Mohammed to the _zauia_ to announce my
return to the old Shereef, and collect the baggage and mules we
had left behind.
Here it was colder than ever. The fig-trees, which had all been
in leaf on my previous passing through, were now bare, and even
before we could get the tents up they were coated with white frost,
while every canal, no matter how fast it flowed, became ice.
I saw nothing of the old Shereef, for no doubt it would not have
suited his purpose to be seen visiting Europeans, especially when I
was one of them. Happily so dark was it when we arrived, and so cold,
that our camp attracted no attention, and as we left before dawn
my presence was never discovered, so that probably to-day at Dads
I am remembered as a pious Moslem. There were no signs of Mohammed
and my mules when we left the next morning, but we could not delay,
so leaving them to follow, we set off.
Soon after noon we camped at Imasin, making only a short stage,
as our animals and men required rest, and to allow of my mules
overtaking us, which they did before the camp was fully pitched. Very
glad I was to see my scanty baggage again, and my two good mules,
that we had passed off on the roads as the property of the old
Shereef; for my strength was still sufficiently shaky to render
riding, especially on a Moorish saddle, no pleasure, and I could now
look forward to a comfortable seat on a good strong mule. My poor
pony, too, was none of the best. I had found but scant choice at
Tafilet, and the poor thin little fellow was all I could procure. In
spite of every care and attention, he died a few weeks after my
arrival in Marakesh; as did one of our poor little donkeys, on the
very day we arrived at Saffi, whence he had started some four months
before. The end of the latter was most pathetic. He was ill, and I
hired a special man to lead him quietly to Saffi; but within a few
miles of the town, just at the spot where he could obtain his first
view of his native city, he was taken with violent hæmorrhage and
dropped dead. A good little beast he was, and we mourned his loss,
and had him buried with every decency. My other donkey I left in
good hands, for the missionaries in Marakesh took him from me,
and I knew no better home could be found for him than in their
care. It was with many regrets that I parted from him, though at
our last interview, so young and full of corn was he, he did his
best to put an end to my existence with his heels. I forgive him,
for he had accompanied us, sharing with us the lack of food and
the heat and the cold, for nearly 700 miles of weary mountain and
desert. The poor one who died at Saffi, having started from that
point, had almost completed 1000 miles when death overtook him.
We found Imasin a poor enough place, and had no little difficulty
in purchasing our provisions, though here we found a luxury in
quantities of walnuts, which our men as well as ourselves enjoyed. So
poor were the people that when Kaid Maclean gave them some of the
very walnuts they had sold us to eat, they were most grateful;
and the fact that we did not bargain over the price, but gave them
what they asked—it was small enough—gained us their friendship,
and good fellows these wild Berbers seemed to be. They came and
guarded our camp at night, and sat there in the cold, though even
they, who seemed scarcely to feel either that or heat, shivered.
It was here I said farewell to the Dadsi who had been my _zitat_
from Dads to Tafilet. No words that I could write would do him
justice. Honest, faithful, adventurous, and sympathetic, he had
been the cheerer of our spirits when we were weary with marching,
the diplomat who had guarded me from discovery as we passed along,
and had helped to nurse me when I was sick. Good, trusty soul,
may you meet with all the blessings you deserve!
From Imasin to Askura was again a shorter march than usual, but there
was no choice of where we were to stay, for beyond Askura lie some
fifteen miles of weary desert—the Sebaa Shaabat—before reaching
the next inhabited district, Ghresat. We camped near some large
tamarisk-trees, a few hundred yards from the palatial residence of
a Sheikh, who sent men to guard the camp at night.
Passing Ghresat at mid-day the following day, we reached Agurzga
before dark, and pitched below one of the great _ksor_ that crown
the eminences of rock high above the river. Here, too, much poverty
exists; but the people were good, kindly souls, with apparently
no thoughts of murder or robbery, and intent only on selling us
almonds and walnuts, and examining our weapons, a few shots from
a revolver fired in quick succession causing almost a panic.
Great was their amusement in recognising in me the poor ragged
Shereef who had passed through a month or so before, and heartily we
laughed together over the deception. I was of course still in Arab
dress, and they had not failed to remember my face. They showed no
signs of annoyance or anger, nothing in fact but intense amusement,
and a certain amount of admiration for my venturesomeness. Only
one or two spoke Arabic, the rest nothing but Shelha. One old man,
the wit of the party, could not get over the fact of my returning
in a new character, and remarked, “I have always heard Tafilet
was a terrible place. How bad it must be when it changes Shereefs
into Christians!” and then added, fearful that his joke might
offend, “After all, the Christians are the best; they buy
our walnuts and our almonds and pay for them, and Shereefs want
everything for nothing.” There is no doubt we created a good
impression in Agurzga, the few cups of tea the men drank with us
being a luxury some of them had never tasted before; and when I
absolutely sought out the poor people who, when they had believed
me to be a Shereef, had brought me supper, and paid them for it,
their surprise and joy knew no bounds. Their last words were, when
we left the next morning—spoken in broken Arabic—“_Arja;
Allah ijibna er Rumin._” (“Come back some other time—God
bring us Romans”—_i.e._, Europeans.)
From Agurzga we followed the old road, obtaining the glorious
view of the Atlas peaks, which I have already described, as we
crossed the mountains above Tiurassín. But we did not stop there,
pushing on over the ford of the Wad Marghen, to the great _kasba_
of the Kaid of Glawa at Teluet. It had long
[Illustration: _The Kaid of Glawa’s Residence._]
been my desire to see this celebrated stronghold of the Atlas, which
evokes such expressions of astonishment from the natives who pass
it; but even my ideas—formed on local descriptions—underrated
what I saw, for not only is the building of enormous extent, but
is constructed of large blocks of well-squared stone, which give
the place at once an appearance of great strength, and render it
unlike any other _kasba_ or palace I have seen in Morocco. The
castle consists of a group of centre buildings of great height,
and not unlike the Tower of London in form, while around it cluster
a number of castles and dwellings of every shape and size, but
all big, the whole being surrounded by high walls, guarded with
towers. Unfortunately I obtained no measurements of the building or
its great courtyard within, for though we camped outside I ventured
to enter its precincts, for its courts are common to all who care
to do so.
Evening was fast approaching, and already the sun was hidden
behind the mountains that shut in the valley on the west, and a
bitter cold wind blew over the little plain of Teluet. Nothing
more dreary or majestic could be conceived than the great castle,
frowning with its towers and buttresses, seen against a background
of torn mountain-peaks and snow.
What an awful spot to live in! for the Kaid’s house and the
surrounding villages are snowed up in winter, and in summer the
heat in the little valley, encircled as it is on all sides by high
mountains, is said to be intense.
The Kaid himself was absent, but we were entertained by his
_khalifa_, or deputy, who came to the tents with a little retinue
of men and drank tea with us. Hardy fellows they seemed, these
Berber mountaineers, with their tall thin figures and handsome
weather-beaten features, and good-natured enough too, one and all
ready to laugh when we abused their climate and their mountains. They
seemed to feel the cold but little, if at all, and scarcely wore
an atom more of clothing than in summer-time, and even then it is
scanty enough.
The _kasba_ is said to contain some marvellously good Moorish work,
one chamber of the Kaid’s, we were told, being particularly
beautifully decorated, but owing to his absence we saw none of this.
The night was a stormy one, the wind howled and roared down the
valley, and though we were a little sheltered by the _kasba_ walls,
it found its way in bitter gusts into the tent. At sunset it was
freezing hard, and this low temperature, with almost a hurricane as
well, at an altitude of only a few feet under 7000 above the level
of the sea, was no joke. But we kept our spirits up. Only a slight
descent to make, and a stiff climb of 2000 feet, and we would reach
the summit of the pass, to descend to civilisation and warmth.
By daylight we were well on our way, and the sun had not risen very
high in the sky when Kaid Maclean and I had clambered to the top
of the mountains. Contrary to all expectation, it was quite warm,
for the wind had died away, and the bright sun and our exercise had
thawed our bones. Far below us we could see our caravan toiling up,
the men shouting to the mules to urge them on the difficult path.
I lay down near the same rock as I had rested under on my journey two
months before; and as I looked upon the desolate scene of range after
range of barren mountain, that had stretched out before me unknown
and unexplored, and over and through which I had now threaded my way,
and returned safely, I confess I felt some elation at my success,
but no regret at leaving these inhospitable regions. Yet I feasted
my eyes on the grand surroundings, for it was my last look of the
wild country that lies south of the Atlas.
Our mules caught us up, and in a minute—merely half-a-dozen
steps—we began to descend, and the view was hid. Far more cheering,
however, was that before us; for, although rugged and barren and
snow-scattered in our more immediate neighbourhood, beyond lay the
richly wooded valley of Zarkten, and far away in the distance—a
peep between the mountains—the open plains beyond.
We hurried on, stopping nowhere, and reached Zarkten at sunset,
after a long and weary march. So intense was the cold that in one
sheltered spot a waterfall had frozen, and hung from the edge of the
cliff above in a wonderful fantastic collection of immense icicles.
At Zarkten we found the temperature higher, though it froze during
the night, and it was bitter enough when we rose by candle-light
and set off upon our way. There was much less water in the Wad
Ghadat than when we had ascended the valley, and we were able
to make our way for some considerable distance along its course,
thereby saving frequent tedious ascents and descents. We lunched at
the ruined bridge of Tugana, and instead of turning to the left,
continued to follow the course of the river. Signs of a warmer
climate were everywhere visible. Vines, pomegranates, and olives
peeped up from over hedges of aloes and prickly-pear and canes,
while the laurustinus, arbutus, lentiscus, and several kinds of firs
were welcome indeed after the bare peaks of rock. The river flowed
quickly on its course, here in rippling eddies, there in deep green
pools, and nothing could be imagined more charming than our road. The
warmth revived us; our men sang and laughed as they strode along,
and every one was in the best of spirits. Nearing Sid Rehal, our
destination, we turned to the right from the valley, and pursued
a shorter road. With what pleasure it was that from the hill-tops
we looked down upon the little white Moorish town, with its mosque
and tomb, its gardens, and the white house of the Governor of the
district, can be imagined, for it meant so much—safety, warmth,
and food, all three of which had been absent over the entire road. We
finished up with a gallop, for I had mounted my pony to make a more
respectable entrance, and a few minutes later we were drinking tea
in our camp, which had preceded us while we lunched. How warm it
was, and how plentiful were chickens and eggs, and green tea and
sugar, and everything the heart of man could desire in Morocco,
to say nothing of the fat sheep the Kaid sent us!
[Illustration: RUINED BRIDGE ON THE ROAD TO TAFILET.]
But one recollection that is not one of pleasure do I have—that
it was my last camp in the company of Kaid Maclean, for his way
lay north across the plains of Shauia, while mine diverged to the
west to Marakesh, and it was a sad moment when the next morning
I said good-bye—happily not for very long—to the man who had
so befriended me. With the cold we experienced I could never have
tramped the long road home from Tafilet alone and without shelter,
ill as I was; but fortune had favoured me, and in my hour of need I
had found unexpectedly the kindest and best of friends. I doubt if
he, any more than myself, will ever forget our meeting at Tafilet,
and our long journey back together.
Some nine hours’ travelling the following day brought me to
Marakesh, and that night I spent feasting and listening to music in
the house of my old friend Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui; for he made my
safe return the excuse for a dinner-party, on such dimensions that
I was almost as likely to come to grief from excess of food as I
had been of dying of starvation. Seated in the pleasant warmth, on
great piles of cushions, with steaming dishes of every luxury that
the city can furnish or skilled cooks prepare, it was little wonder
that I enjoyed myself, or that we laughed heartily as I narrated
to my kind host and his genial guests my adventures on the road.
I remained some three weeks in Marakesh, for I was still weak from
my illness, and much needed the rest. A pleasant time it was, spent
in idleness, strolling in the bazaars, or picnicking in gardens.
Meanwhile the Sultan was approaching, leading his great army by the
same route as we had followed, and in cold still more intense. No pen
could describe what must have been the suffering of man and beast,
nor can any reliable account of the loss of life be obtained, except
that it was very large. Snow fell as they reached the Glawi Pass,
and men and mules and camels died in numbers, frozen to death,
while the Berbers stripped the bodies of clothes and rifles.
[Illustration: _Shops at Bab Khemis, Marakesh._]
I saw the Sultan’s entry into Marakesh—his last entry into
any Moorish city—and for days after half-starved men and beasts
crawled into the town, lame and sick, the remnants of the great
camp I had seen at Tafilet. I questioned many of those who came in,
and their tale of suffering and hunger brought tears to one’s own
eyes as well as theirs. Yet in justice be it said, the Sultan and
the Moorish Government did all in their power to alleviate their
sufferings by doling out supplies of food; but with a disorganised
commissariat, of which probably a third of the baggage-animals had
been frozen to death, fallen over precipices, or broken their legs
on the bad mountain roads, it was but little.
From Marakesh I returned to Saffi, where again I was most hospitably
entertained by Mr George Hunot, H.B.M. Vice-Consul, and a few days
later found a small steamer going direct to Gibraltar.
Three days later I was back in Tangier again, after an absence
of four months, to be laid up there for weeks in bed, my health
temporarily completely giving way after the strain I had put upon
it. But kind care and skilful nursing brought me round, and I no
sooner recovered than the spirit of travel came upon me again, and
I spent March and April in a most pleasant journey to my old haunts
of Wazan, Fez, and Meknas. A couple of months later the news arrived
at Tangier of the Sultan’s death, and I left hurriedly for Fez,
travelling day and night, and in that city, with the exception of
a week or two at Meknas, I stayed until August. Of the events that
took place during that period a short description must be given;
for although the account of my journey to Tafilet is now completed,
the death of Mulai el Hassen and the succeeding crisis owe their
origin to the Sultan’s expedition to that spot, for it was the
effects of his long and weary journey that caused his end.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ACCESSION OF THE NEW SULTAN OF MOROCCO.
A book dealing as this does, not only with my own travels, but
also with the presence of the Sultan of Morocco at Tafilet, would
not be complete, as already stated, were it not carried on for the
space of the few months which succeeded that journey. For although
the narration of my adventures in the regions south of the Atlas
Mountains is already terminated, I was present during not a little
of what I am now going to describe, the affairs that took place in
June or July, when Mulai el Hassen was no more, and Mulai Abdul Aziz
had succeeded to the throne. In order to render clear what follows,
a few words in recapitulation must be said as to the Sultan’s
journey to the desert.
We have seen that in 1893 Mulai el Hassen led his summer expedition
from Fez to Tafilet, and thence returned to Marakesh, crossing
the Atlas Mountains in the middle of winter. The journey in every
particular was a dangerous and trying one. Such wild tribes as
the Beni Mgild and Aït Yussi had to be passed through, and when
safely traversed the Sultan found himself in the desert surrounded
by the most ferocious of the Berber tribes, who had to be appeased
with presents of money and clothes. Although, as a matter of fact,
no opposition was put to his progress, he must necessarily have been
during the whole expedition in a state of great anxiety, for had the
Berbers amalgamated to destroy him and his vast army, they could
have done so with the greatest ease. Food was only procurable in
small quantities; barley in the camp reached a price that rendered
it unprocurable except by the richer classes; while added to this
the summer heat in the Sahara caused havoc among the soldiers.
Tafilet was reached in October, and a halt of three weeks made
there. It is needless here to enter into any details, for I
have already described the camp; suffice it to say that Mulai el
Hassen’s camp was pitched on the desert sand near a spot called
Dar el baida, to the east of the oasis of Tafilet, and that he
was surrounded by an army and camp-followers numbering probably
40,000 men. I saw the Sultan several times during his residence in
the camp, and was struck with the remarkable change that had taken
place in his appearance. His bearing was as dignified as ever, but
his black beard was streaked with grey, his complexion was sallow,
and the lines of age showed themselves under his eyes. For over two
years previously I had not seen him, and when last I had watched
him he was still a young-looking man: now old age had set its
indelible mark upon his countenance. The fire of his eye was gone;
his head drooped slightly upon his chest; he looked like a man tired
and weary. No doubt he was. Anxiety was always present. News had
reached him that fighting, and most serious fighting, was occurring
between the Spaniards and the Riff tribes at Melilla; there was
a constant fear of assassination, and a still more constant dread
of his whole camp being eaten up by the Berbers. Added to this his
health was ailing, and winter fast coming on. Affairs delayed him
at Tafilet, and before he left that spot at the end of November,
although during the day the sun still beat down with almost tropical
heat, rendering life in a tent insufferable, by night the cold was
extreme, and frosts of almost nightly occurrence. Before the army
lay a three weeks’ march to Marakesh, over desert and mountain,
through wild tribes where dangers were many and food scarce. What
wonder that Mulai el Hassen suffered! Yet the worst trials were
before him after he left Tafilet: as he approached the Glawi Pass
over the Atlas—the lowest there is, and that at an altitude of
over 8000 feet above the sea-level—the cold increased, soldiers,
mules, horses, and camels died of exposure. Snow fell and covered
the camp, and only by forced marches were the remnants of the great
horde dragged out from the deathly grip of the rocks and snows of
the Atlas Mountains to the plains below.
I saw Mulai el Hassen and his army enter Marakesh, for I had
returned thither a few days before them. What was noticeable at
Tafilet was doubly apparent now. The Sultan had become an old
man. Travel-stained and weary, he rode his great white horse with
its mockery of green-and-gold trappings, while over a head that
was the picture of suffering waved the imperial umbrella of crimson
velvet. Following him straggled into the city a horde of half-starved
men and animals, trying to be happy that at last their terrible
journey was at an end, but too ill and too hungry to succeed.
Mulai el Hassen found no peace at Marakesh. Affairs at Melilla had
become strained, and no sooner had his Majesty reached the capital
than a Spanish Embassy under General Martinez Campos proceeded
thither. How it ended is well known. It added to the enormous
expenses of the Sultan’s summer expedition—which must have cost
him nearly a million sterling—a debt to the Spanish Government of
twenty million pesetas, at the same time necessitating the Sultan to
abandon his idea of remaining in his southern capital, and forcing
upon him a long march to Rabat and Fez, and an intended expedition
to the Riff to punish the tribes who had caused the disturbance
there. Fez was never reached, the expedition never took place,
and Mulai el Hassen’s entry into Rabat was in a coffin at the
dead of night.
Having thus briefly recapitulated the events preceding the Sultan’s
death, reference must now be made to those who played important
parts, for better or for worse, in the days that followed.
With regard to the succession to the throne of Morocco, no regular
custom or law exists. While the new Sultan must be a relation of
the late one, he need not necessarily be a son, but is appointed by
his predecessor, and if approved of, acknowledged by those in whose
power the making of Sultans lies,—that is to say, by the Viziers
and powerful Shereefs. Should the Sultan name no successor, it is
these who choose the man they may think suitable to fill the post.
Of the great Shereefian families of Morocco that of Mulai el
Hassen is not the most important, for the founder of his dynasty,
rising in Tafilet, seized the power from the more holy and reverend
family of the direct descendants of Mulai Idris, the founder of
the Moorish empire, who was the son of Abdullah el Kamil, himself
a grandson of Hassan, who with Huseyn was the son of Fatima,
Mohammed’s daughter. While the Fileli dynasty to-day holds the
throne, the reverence paid to the Fileli Shereefs is not to be
compared with that bestowed upon Mulai Idris I. and II., one of
whom lies buried in the town bearing his name in Zarahun near Fez,
while the second is patron saint of the northern capital itself,
where he lies interred in a gorgeous tomb.
Again, the family of the Shereefs of Wazan obtains far greater
respect than that of the Sultan, and the tombs of Mulai Abdullah
Shereef and Sid el Haj el Arbi are places of daily pilgrimages. In
order, therefore, to obtain the succession to the throne of a new
Sultan, the aid and influence of both the Shereefs of Mulai Idris
and Wazan have to be brought to bear upon the question, as should
either party refuse to acknowledge the candidate, so powerful are
their followings that it is quite possible, more than probable,
that a civil war would be the result. That a Shereef of Wazan
could come to the throne is practically impossible. The two heads
of the family, sons of the late Grand Shereef, are French protected
subjects; while what affects still more the native population is the
existence of an ancient proverb which states that no Wazan Shereef
can rule as Sultan, but that no Sultan can rule without the support
of the Wazan Shereef. It is, in fact, a defensive alliance between
the two great families.
Not so, however, with the Shereefs of Mulai Idris, who reside almost
entirely in Fez, and whose influence there is very great. That a
Drisite Shereef would have been ready to ascend the throne were
it offered to him is only too probable, but fortunately it was not
offered. In spite of their immense sanctity, the old adage that a
prophet hath no honour in his own country holds good in Fez, where
amongst the city-people they are considered as little above ordinary
mortals. All their influence, and it is very extensive, lies amongst
strangers and in the country districts, where being seldom seen or
heard, all kinds of romance as to their marvellous powers are rife.
Therefore it will be seen that, powerful as are the families of
Wazan and Mulai Idris, it was practically out of the question,
unless civil war broke out, that a member of either should be put
up as candidate for the throne. And had such an event happened,
want of funds would have no doubt crushed the rebellion before any
very serious results would have occurred. There remained, then,
only the members of the late Sultan’s family who could succeed. Of
these, four had always been considered as likely candidates. First,
Mulai Ismain, a brother of Mulai el Hassen, who for a long time
was Viceroy in Fez. He is a man past middle age, of a quiet gentle
manner, fanatical, and given to literary pursuits, and, while
possessing very considerable influence, and still more popularity,
is by no means a man to push himself forward—in fact, it was
always said, on the best authority, that he had no desire whatever
of succeeding to the throne. Certainly Mulai Ismain seemed the most
probable successor to his brother, though every year lessened the
likelihood of this by adding years to the age of the Sultan’s
favourite son, Mulai Abdul Aziz, the present Sultan. Although it
was known that this boy was being trained by Mulai el Hassen, so
that in the event of his own death he might come to the throne, his
extreme youth for a time rendered it exceedingly improbable that he
could succeed; and had Mulai el Hassen’s death taken place only a
year or two earlier, Mulai Abdul Aziz, instead of becoming Sultan,
would have been merely an obstacle to whoever had succeeded—an
obstacle that most likely would have been removed by assassination
or secret murder. Fortunately, Mulai el Hassen lived sufficiently
long to see his favourite son reach the age of sixteen—for all
reports as to his being then only twelve are false. So great was his
father’s desire that he should succeed, that during his lifetime
he endowed his son with very considerable wealth and property, and
towards the end of his life, since his return from Tafilet, made
it clearly apparent what was his desire in the event of his death,
by bestowing on him nearly all the prerogatives of the Sultanate.
Mulai Abdul Aziz is the son of a Circassian wife of Mulai el Hassen,
a lady of great intelligence and remarkable ability, who, though no
longer in her first youth, was able to maintain to the day of his
death a most singular and no doubt beneficial influence over Mulai
el Hassen. Her European extraction and her education abroad, her
general knowledge of the world, and her opportunities for watching
the Court intrigues, rendered her of more service to the late Sultan
than any of his Viziers. She accompanied him always upon his long and
tedious marches, and there can be no doubt that even in his dealings
with the European Powers her advice was always asked and generally
taken by the Sultan. The affection Mulai el Hassen bestowed upon her
was also shared by her son, Mulai Abdul Aziz, who, with the tender
anxiety of both an affectionate father and mother, was brought up
in a far more satisfactory manner than is general with the sons of
Moorish potentates. While his elder brothers, of whom more anon,
were left to run wild and to lead lives of cruelty and vice, Abdul
Aziz was the constant companion of his parents, who, both intent
that he should one day be Sultan of Morocco, lost no opportunity
of educating him, to the best of their abilities, to fill the post.
The other candidates who may be said to have had a chance of
succeeding to the throne were Mulai Mohammed, the late Sultan’s
eldest son, by a slave wife, who has held the post of Viceroy
in Morocco City for a considerable time, and whose vicious life
has estranged him from the affections of the people. This is
the “one-eyed decapitator” of whom the papers were so fond
of speaking during the recent crisis. Really the Englishman who
invented the name deserves popularity to the same extent as he gave
publicity to his brilliant imagination, for the complimentary title
is of purely English invention. Unfortunately Mulai Mohammed never
possessed the power of decapitating any one, and had he ventured
to have done so, would have long ago been securely confined in
prison. Vicious and immoral he was to an extent that surpasses
description, but beyond this his sins were no greater than those
of the ordinary Moorish official. At times he was most lavish and
generous—often with other people’s money; and although his
open immorality estranged him from any affection on the part of the
people, he still possessed a certain amount of popularity from his
exceedingly unprincely condescension. On the whole, Mulai Mohammed
is a very undesirable young man; but even his lax morality scarcely
merits the outpourings of hatred and contempt that have been heaped
upon him by the English press.
The remaining possible candidate to the throne was Mulai el Amin,
another brother of the late Sultan, a pleasant, middle-aged man,
who would scarcely have been capable of the amount of dignity
necessitated by the position, as he possessed a temperament too
affable and condescending.
It will be seen, therefore, that not only was Mulai Abdul Aziz his
father’s candidate, but that by his training and bringing up, in
spite of his youth, he was by far the most likely to perform with
any degree of success the arduous duties of the position. Again,
his father and mother’s care had kept him free from the immoral
life usually led by boys of his age, and he came to the throne
untainted by the vices of the country.
But one point more remains to be touched upon before referring to
the events that have absolutely been taking place since the late
Sultan’s death early in June 1894—namely, a few words as to the
Viziers and officials by which his Shereefian Majesty was surrounded.
The only members of the Moorish Government who enjoyed access to
the person of their Sultan were some half-a-dozen Viziers, through
whom the entire business of the country was carried on. These were
respectively the Grand Vizier, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the
Lord Chamberlain, another Vizier answering to our Home Secretary,
the Master of the Ceremonies, and the Minister of War. With these
exceptions, no one was able to gain the confidential ear of the
Sultan; and should by any chance his Majesty listen to others, woe
betide them, whoever they might be, did they attempt in any way to
injure the position of these courtiers, who would be able, without
the information ever reaching the Sultan, to revenge themselves
as they might desire upon the man who informed his Majesty of
their evil doings. Mention need be made only of those who have
played important parts in the history of the last year. These are
respectively Sid el Haj Amaati, the Grand Vizier, Sid Mohammed
Soreir, the Minister of War, and Sid Ahmed ben Musa, the _Hajib_
or Chamberlain. Between the two former—who are brothers, and
members of the powerful Jamai family, which had already given
another Grand Vizier before Haj Amaati was appointed, namely,
Sid Mukhtar Jamai—and Sid Ahmed ben Musa, the _Hajib_, there
had always existed a rivalry and hatred only to be found amongst
oriental peoples. Sid Ahmed himself is the son of a Grand Vizier,
the late Sid Musa, who for many years was the able and trusted
adviser of the Sultans Sidi Mohammed and Mulai el Hassen.
While the Jamai brothers prided themselves on their great and
powerful family, they scoffed at Sid Musa and his family as upstarts,
for his father was a slave. But to such an extent did Mulai el Hassen
bestow his confidence on both the Grand Vizier and the _Hajib_, that
they were scarcely able to do one another harm in his Majesty’s
eyes. Haj Amaati had risen suddenly to his post, and his success
with the Sultan no doubt caused much envy and hatred in the heart
of Sid Ahmed. Two years ago Haj Amaati, on the resignation of the
F’ki Sinhaji, became Grand Vizier, though at that time probably
not more than thirty years of age. His elder brother had for a
long time held the powerful and lucrative post of Minister of War,
and with his support to back him, Haj Amaati commenced a career of
amassing wealth by every possible means.
The power and influence possessed by a Grand Vizier in Morocco is
almost incredible. Every official in the whole country is under him;
no one can communicate with the Sultan except through him. In his
hands lie the disposal of the various governorships—one should
say the sale of the various governorships—and the dismissal of
all officials. In the hands of an unscrupulous man there is every
opportunity of “black-mail,” and of this Haj Amaati took an
advantage unparalleled in Moorish history. He robbed the Sultan and
bought and sold appointments, and in the two years that he was Grand
Vizier he amassed, in addition to his already considerable fortune,
a sum of nearly £150,000! That is to say, he managed to ensure for
himself, and entirely by illicit means, an income of no less than
about £70,000 a-year, and this in an open and unblushing manner. So
certain was he of his position and influence that, soon after the
Sultan’s arrival at Morocco City on his return from Tafilet, he
attempted to oust from favour Sid Ahmed, the Chamberlain, who, of all
the Court, was on the most intimate terms with, and the most trusted
servant of, the Sultan. For a time he was successful: Sid Ahmed lost
favour, and it seemed that his dismissal was certain. Shortly before
Mulai el Hassen left Morocco City he was, however, reinstated in
his Majesty’s regard; and by the manner in which Mulai el Hassen
appeared to leave nearly everything in his hands, there is little
doubt that he repented of having distrusted him at all. This incident
increased the hatred between Haj Amaati and Sid Ahmed, and even had
the late Sultan lived, one or other would have been obliged to go, as
affairs at Court became too strained to continue in that condition.
[Illustration: STREET LEADING TO THE SULTAN’S PALACE, MOROCCO CITY:
A SECRETARY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE GOING TO COURT.]
The late Sultan left Marakesh in May, accompanied by his whole Court,
his army, and the governors of southern Morocco and their troops,
in order to punish certain revolutionary tribes in the district of
Tedla, to the north-east of Marakesh: thence it was his Majesty’s
intention to proceed to Rabat, where the northern army was to
join him, and the entire forces were to pass on to Meknas and Fez,
punishing _en route_ the tribes of Zimour and Beni Hassen, whose
depredations and fighting had caused his Majesty very considerable
anxiety ever since his departure from Fez, a year previous.
Mulai el Hassen was ill when he left the southern capital. The
anxiety, the heat of the desert, and the intense cold on his journey
to and from Tafilet, had weakened a constitution already impaired
by an affection of the liver and kidneys. Those who accompanied him
on his departure from Morocco City tell how the life and vigour
had seemed to have left him. His parting with Mulai Abdul Aziz,
who had left the capital previous to his father, proceeding to
Rabat, was said to have been a most touching one, and his favourite
son rode out of the capital with all the pomp and paraphernalia
of a Sultan. No doubt it was purposely done by Mulai el Hassen,
who seems to have felt his end approaching, and considered this
the most subtle means of exhibiting to his people his desire that
Abdul Aziz should succeed him.
By slow marches, necessitated by the immense number of men and
animals accompanying him, the Sultan reached the district of Tedla,
and there fell ill.
At daybreak it was the custom of Mulai el Hassen, as already
mentioned, to leave the enclosure of canvas in which his tents
were pitched and proceed on foot to his office-tent, where he would
transact business until generally about nine or ten o’clock, when
he would retire within, not appearing again until the cool of the
afternoon. For several days after the arrival of the camp in the
region of Tedla, at a spot called Dar bu Zeedu, a halt was called;
and although the Sultan from time to time visited his office-tent,
it was generally known that he was unwell. After the 2d of June
the Sultan did not leave his enclosure; and although the report
was general that he was seriously indisposed, reassuring messages
were given by the _Hajib_, Sid Ahmed, who had the _entrée_ to the
Sultan’s tent, and his Majesty was pronounced to be getting on
toward recovery. During the afternoon of Wednesday, June 6, Mulai el
Hassen died, Sid Ahmed alone being present, the man who throughout
his life had been his most confidential and trusted follower. Before
his death he had spoken freely to Sid Ahmed, and had made him swear
a solemn oath to support the succession of Mulai Abdul Aziz, and
never to desert him as long as either of them lived. His Shereefian
Majesty also left papers stating his desire that his favourite son
should succeed him, and private letters to Abdul Aziz himself.
But besides the question of the succession, there were others as
momentous, if not more so, to be considered. The camp was placed
within the district of the Tedla regions, against whom the Sultan
had intended to wage war; and the fact that he was dead, and that
the camp would be left without any leader, would bring down an attack
of the tribes and the sacking of the entire camp, if not the murder
also of the Viziers and officials. Nor was the army to be trusted:
Mulai Abdul Aziz was at Rabat, still some eight days’ fast marching
distant, and in those eight days who knew what course events might
take? A hurried meeting of the Viziers was called; an oath of secrecy
taken; the drums were beaten for a start to be made; and, to every
one’s astonishment and surprise, orders were given for a move,
the reason affirmed being that the Sultan had sufficiently recovered
to travel. The palanquin which always accompanied his Majesty was
taken into the enclosure; the Sultan’s body was placed within,
the doors closed, and, amidst the obeisances and acclamations of
the camp, all that remained of Mulai el Hassen set out for Rabat.
Not a soul knew of the Sultan’s death except the Viziers and
a few of the slaves and tent-pitchers, whose mouths were sealed,
knowing that death would ensue if they told.
The river Um er-Ribia was crossed, and a halt called on its
right bank, near a spot known as the Brouj Beni Miskin. Meanwhile
messengers had been secretly sent to Rabat to announce the Sultan’s
death and the accession of Mulai Abdul Aziz, to support whom the
Viziers had all sworn.
The following day an early start was made, the dead Sultan still
being carried in the usual position, with the flags and insignia of
the Sultanate preceding him. As they passed along, the tribes-people
are said to have kissed the palanquin, and one or two people of
importance to have been allowed to see the Sultan within, whose
ill-health was given as an excuse for his not speaking.
At the middle of the day a halt was called for his Majesty to take
breakfast, a tent pitched, the palanquin carried within, and food
and green tea cooked, taken into the tent, and brought out again
as if it had been tasted by the Sultan.
As yet no one knew besides the Viziers and the handful of slaves
that Mulai el Hassen was dead. The military band played outside his
tent, and all the usual customs which were carried out when he lived
were continued. But in a hot climate like that of Morocco in June
a secret of this sort cannot be long kept, and on their arrival
in camp, after a ten hours’ march, on Thursday, June 7, it was
announced that the Sultan was dead, and that messengers had left
the day before for the capitals, announcing the accession of Mulai
Abdul Aziz. The proclamation called upon the people and soldiers
to follow the desire of their deceased master, and to support the
Viziers in their intention of seeing Mulai Abdul Aziz succeed.
The news fell like a thunderbolt upon the camp. It was true that by
the concealment of the Sultan’s death they had escaped from Tedla;
but there still remained dangers almost equally as great. Would not
the tribes of Shauia, through which they had yet to pass _en route_
to Rabat, pillage the camp, for there was plenty to loot there? And
even if they refrained from doing so, could the horde of ill-fed,
ill-clothed, and ill-paid soldiers be trusted?
The camp split up into a hundred parties, each distrustful of
the other, though all intent upon one object, a retreat to the
coast. Each tribe represented in the camp collected its forces, and
marched in a band together and camped together, not fearing so much
any general outbreak as an attack on the part of members of some
other tribe, between whom there may have been some long-standing
feud, only prevented by fear of the Sultan from bursting into
warfare.
By forced marches the camp and the army proceeded to Rabat,
constantly hampered by the surrounding tribes, who, too timid to
attack so large a force, contented themselves and satisfied their
love of plunder by cutting off and robbing every straggler who
happened to lag behind. The poor soldiers they killed for their
rifles, and, if they possessed none, out of pure devilry. Many of
the troops took advantage of the lack of order and government to
run away and return to their homes—whence they had been taken
by a systemless conscription to starve in the Sultan’s service,
or gain a precarious livelihood by theft.
Meanwhile Abdul Aziz had been proclaimed in Rabat, and letters were
sent in all directions announcing his accession to the throne. In
no period of modern Moorish history had there been a week of such
suspense as then ensued. The Sultan was a boy, separated from his
Ministers and Viziers by a long distance, in traversing which they
ran a great danger of being plundered and murdered. Had such an
event occurred, and Mulai Abdul Aziz’s supporters been killed,
his reign must have terminated at once, for the treasury would have
fallen into other hands, and another Sultan been proclaimed.
With all possible speed the army marched towards the coast, bearing
their now loathsome burden of the Sultan’s body with them. There
was a terrible mockery in the whole thing,—the decomposing corpse
borne in royal state with the Shereefian banners waving before it,
with the spear-bearers on either side, and the troop of mounted
bodyguard and _askars_ on foot.
On Thursday, June 14, Rabat was reached, and a halt called some
little distance outside the city. The state of the Sultan’s
body was such as to render a public funeral impossible, so in
the darkness of the night a little procession of foot-soldiers,
with only a single Shereef attending, one and all bearing lanterns,
set out. A hole was bored in the town walls,—for seldom, if ever,
is a corpse carried into the gate of a Moorish city; and surrounded
by this little band, Mulai el Hassen, Sultan of Morocco, was laid
to his last rest in the mosque covering the tomb of his ancestor,
Sidi Mohammed ben Abdullah.
At dawn, as the people bestirred themselves to witness the funeral,
it became known that all was over; and amidst the acclamations of
the populace and the sounds of the Sultan’s band, Mulai Abdul Aziz
was led forth, the great crimson-and-gold umbrella waving over him,
surrounded by his father’s Viziers, and mounted on his father’s
white horse, and proclaimed Sultan.
Those who saw the spectacle described it to me. The boy’s eyes
were filled with tears, for his love for his father was intense,
and report says that it was only by force that he was persuaded to
mount the horse and be proclaimed. A touching story was recounted
to the writer by one who witnessed the episode. On his return to
the palace the mosque where his father had been buried the previous
night was passed. Leaving the procession, Mulai Abdul Aziz proceeded
alone to the door, and, weeping copiously, dismounted and entered
to do his last homage to his father and his Sultan.
The news of the Sultan’s death had reached Casablanca on the coast
on Saturday by a mounted express, and thence two mounted men galloped
to Rabat, a distance of fifty-nine miles, in six and a half hours,
over an abominable road. A steamer was on the point of leaving that
port for Tangier, and her Britannic Majesty’s Minister received the
news shortly after 11 A.M. on Sunday morning,—a worthy record of
fast travelling. He was the first to obtain the information, and he
immediately told his colleagues of what had taken place. A special
meeting of the European Ministers was called on Monday morning,
after which the British Minister, Mr Satow, reported the information
to Sid el Haj Mohammed Torres, the Sultan’s Vizier resident at
Tangier. By mid-day on Monday the news was general in Tangier, and
anxiety was depicted on every face as to what would be the results
of so serious an occurrence. Not a few predicted a general massacre
of the Europeans, which of everything that might occur was the least
probable. It is true that the tribes around Tangier disliked their
governor, and might make some sort of attempt to assassinate him; but
their common-sense gained the better of them, and, on consideration,
they realised that any such course would in the end but mean misery
and imprisonment and even death to themselves, while by adopting an
exemplary bearing they might so gain the favour of the new Sultan
that their grievances would be heard and attended to. At the same
time they virtually threw off the jurisdiction of the Basha, each
village electing a local sheikh, who would be responsible for the
conduct of those under him. So successful was this action that, so
far from the country becoming in any way disturbed, things improved
in every manner, cattle robberies ceased, and an unusual period of
calm ensued, that spoke not a little for the credit of those to whom
it was due. The Moors have a proverb, and it is a very true one, that
safety and security can only be found in the districts where there is
no government—that is to say, where the government is a tribal one.
In talking over the crisis on that eventful Monday on which we
received the news of the Sultan’s death, one could not help
feeling at what an exceedingly opportune moment it had occurred,
as far as the general peace of the country was concerned. For two
or three years the harvests had been very bad; but this summer
had proved sufficient to repay the tribes and country-people for a
period almost of starvation, and throughout the whole country the
wheat and barley crops were magnificent. Harvesting had already
commenced, and every one was engaged in getting in the crops. To
the Moor wheat is life. The country-people eat little or nothing
else, every one grinding in his own house, or tent, as the case
may be, his own flour. To lose the crops would mean famine, and
the Moor knows what famine means. At all costs, at all hazards, the
outstanding crops must be got in—Sultan or no Sultan. So instead
of taking up their arms to pay off old scores and to commence new
ones, the peasant went forth on his errand of peace and gathered
in his harvest. “The Sultan was dead,” they said, “and his
son had been proclaimed: everything was ordained by God—but the
harvest must be got in.” Had Mulai el Hassen’s decease occurred
at any other period than that at which it did, months of bloodshed
and plundering would have been the result.
In spite of the opinion of most people, I was firmly convinced that,
for the present at least, no serious incidents would occur. So strong
was my conviction, that on Tuesday morning I left Tangier for Fez,
accompanied by a Moorish youth, myself in Moorish clothes. We
were both mounted on good horses, and hampered ourselves with
absolutely no baggage of any sort. Alcazar was reached the following
morning. The town was in a state of considerable alarm; most of
the Jews had already fled to Laraiche, and the officials were half
expecting an attack on the part of the mountaineers. The following
morning, that of the _Eid el Kebir_, the great feast of the Moorish
year, I reached Wazan, where, at all events, I should learn from
an authoritative source as to what was likely to occur. I found
there that the news of the Sultan’s death was already known,
while I was able to confirm that of Mulai Abdul Aziz’s accession.
It must be remembered how important a part Wazan and its Shereefs
play in Moorish politics. That the Great Shereef of Wazan should
fail to acknowledge the accession of a Sultan would mean that 100,000
of their followers would do the same, and that all the mountaineers
to the north-east of Morocco would rise in a body.
I was received as an old friend by the Shereef, in whose house I
once lived for eight months, and was present at the afternoon court,
at which, being the _Eid el Kebir_, or great feast, all the Shereefs
were present, together with the principal men of the town. The scene
was a most picturesque one: the gaily decorated room, leading by an
arcade of Moorish arches into a garden, one mass of flowering-shrubs,
amongst which a fountain played with soft gurgling sound—the
large group of Shereefs in holiday attire of soft white wool and
silk, the great silver trays and incense-burners, and long-necked
scent-bottles,—all formed an ideal picture of oriental life. The
one topic of conversation was what had taken place, the Sultan’s
death, and the accession of Mulai Abdul Aziz. It was, in fact,
a sort of council of war or peace—happily the latter; and as we
drank green tea, flavoured with mint and verbena, out of delicate
little cups, the Shereef made his public declaration of adherence
to Mulai Abdul Aziz,—a few words uttered in the expressionless
way that Moors of high degree affect, words simple in themselves,
but meaning perhaps his life and his throne to Mulai Abdul Aziz.
Throughout the whole crisis the action of the Shereefs of Wazan is
highly to be commended. Their every endeavour was to ensure peace
and tranquillity, and in this the Moorish Government owes a debt
that it will be difficult ever to pay to Mulai el Arbi and his
brother Mulai Mohammed.
This is not the place to talk of the charms of Wazan, but as I left
the little city, nestled in groves of olives and oranges, early the
next morning, it was with a feeling of regret that I could not stay
longer; but I wanted to be in Fez. If anything occurred, it would
be there. So I pushed on with my journey, and after a thirteen
hours’ ride under a hot sun, put up for the night at a village
overlooking the river Sebu. Here bad news met us: the neighbouring
tribes of Mjat, who are Berbers, Hejawa, and Sherarda, were up in
arms, with the intention of taking advantage of the opportunity
to wipe out old scores. Already a small skirmish had taken place,
and the morrow threatened to dawn with further fighting, which would
entirely block the road to Fez, and also the road I had passed over
the day before from Wazan.
At daybreak armed bands of horsemen could be seen scouring the
country, and it was not until the afternoon that we learned that
the three tribes in question had met and decided to postpone any
hostilities until after the harvest had been gathered in. I set out
at once, and the following day before noon reached Fez in safety. So
insecure were the roads reported to be, that we met not a single
caravan _en route_, with the exception of one, whose camel-drivers
appeared to be very much more afraid of us three horsemen than we
were of them. At eleven we entered Fez—myself, a Shereef who had
accompanied me, and my native servant.
Meanwhile the new Sultan still remained at Rabat, and a time
of immense activity was passing at the Court, couriers without
number leaving daily with letters for every part of the kingdom,
announcing the accession of Abdul Aziz to the throne; and though
it was exceedingly important that his Shereefian Majesty should
proceed as quickly as possible to Fez, it was found impossible for
him to make an immediate start, so great was the press of business.
By this time Europe was being flooded with so-called information
as to what was taking place. The “one-eyed decapitator” was
reported by three daily papers of the same date to have raised a
rebellion in Morocco, to have organised an army of 20,000 men in
Fez, and to have been imprisoned at Rabat; while a most pathetic
and graphic account appeared in nearly all the London papers of
the funeral of Mulai el Hassen, at which every pomp was observed,
and at which all the members of the consular body at Rabat were
officially present! It was witnessed, the informant said, by the
entire population; whereas the funeral was secretly carried out
in the dead of night, only a few soldiers accompanying the body to
its grave.
The news of the late Sultan’s death had been received in Fez on the
evening of Tuesday, June 12, in a letter addressed to Mulai Omar, his
son, by the Viziers. The Viceroy at once imparted the news secretly
to the governor, and criers were sent throughout the town calling
the people together to hear a Shereefian letter read in the mosque
of Bu Jelud. Suspecting nothing of great importance—for this is the
ordinary custom of making known a decree—the people sauntered in.
Meanwhile Mulai Omar had caused to be drawn up the paper
acknowledging the new Sultan, and headed the list with his
own signature, the second to sign being Mulai Ismain, who had
been considered by many to be the most likely candidate to the
throne. As soon as the mosque was full, the doors were closed, and
the announcement of the Sultan’s death made known, together with
the proclamation of the accession of his son. As the letter was
concluded, the Basha of the town rose and said, “If any one has
anything to say, let him speak.” Not a word was uttered, and in
perfect silence the lawyers drew up a document to be forwarded to
Mulai Abdul Aziz announcing the readiness of Fez to accept him as
their sovereign. Intense indignation reigned amongst the audience
in the mosque. They felt that they had been tricked into giving
their consent without the opportunity of discussing the affair;
but escape was impossible, and a murmur of discontent would have
meant their going straight to prison, for the doors were closed
and a strong guard in readiness.
What was the real state of feeling in Fez it is very difficult to
say, but it is doubtful whether they would have at once accepted
Mulai Abdul Aziz had not the authorities obtained their signatures
in the manner they did. In all probability they would have bargained
with him, offering to receive him should they be free from certain
taxes—the _octroi_, for instance—for a certain length of time,
if not for ever. Of all the inhabitants of Morocco there are none
more grasping, more cowardly, and more given to intrigue, than the
people of Fez. Their meanness is proverbial, and while they give
themselves airs over everyone else’s head, they are despised and
hated by the remainder of the population. Given up to every vice,
they go about the streets covering their hands for fear of sunburn
and muttering their prayers, talking of their importance and bravery,
yet frightened by a spider or a mouse. The women of any of the other
cities of Morocco could defeat the men of Fez. However, whatever may
have been the ideas of the inhabitants of Fez as to the advisability
of the succession of Mulai Abdul Aziz, their allegiance had been
given, and there was now no drawing back.
By this time the news had spread throughout the entire country,
and Hiyaina, a neighbouring Arab tribe to Fez, came in considerable
force, some 400 horses, and commenced petty robberies just outside
the town walls. The scare amongst the effeminate Fezzis was amusing
to witness. Trade became at a standstill, and they secured themselves
within their houses under lock and key, leaving the authorities and
the strangers in the city to settle with the wild tribesmen. However,
the affair came to nought in the end; for the very Arabs who had come
with a possible idea of looting Fez were bribed into the Government
service to keep the roads open for caravans—a most important
point, as scarcely any wheat or barley existed in the capital,
and any lengthened delay in the arrival of the grain-bearing camels
from the country would mean famine and revolution.
On Wednesday, June 20, a deputation left Fez for Rabat to bear
an address of welcome to the Sultan, a document magnificently
illuminated. On the 24th, the first letter written in the new
Sultan’s name, with all his titles and dignities, was received. It
announced his accession to the throne, and called upon the people
to be obedient. Its receipt was honoured by an almost endless salute
from the artillery in the palace square.
On Monday, June 25, the Sultan left Rabat for Meknas and Fez,
travelling through the tribe of Beni Hassen, which, together with
their neighbours the Berbers of Zimour, had already sworn allegiance.
At Tangier things were proceeding quietly. The French Government
sent a man-of-war and an armed despatch-boat, while the English
were contented with the presence of the Bramble, a small gunboat
from Gibraltar. The Portuguese and Spaniards both sent vessels of
kinds. An act of gross stupidity on the part of the commander of
one of the latter nearly caused an unpleasant disturbance in the
country. The Isla de Luzon was sent by the Spanish Government to the
coast. Now the first town down the Atlantic coast of Morocco is the
almost deserted and entirely ruinous Arzeila, a place of absolutely
no importance, and where there is no harbour of any sort. For
some reason known only to the adventurous Spanish commander, he
was pleased to come to anchor and to fire a salute of twenty-one
guns in the roadstead, which Arzeila had no means of returning,
for neither cannon nor powder are to be found; and as never in the
memory of man had any vessel of any sort ever approached the place,
the few inhabitants were filled with consternation and terror, which
was only increased when a boat was noticed coming ashore. There
was no doubt about the question in the minds of the natives—a
European invasion was taking place! A few stayed to see what was
going to happen; the greater part fled, spreading here, there,
and everywhere the news of the invasion of Moorish territory by the
Christians. Meanwhile the water-kegs which had been sent on shore in
the boats were filled, and the officer in charge, having taken coffee
in the house of a certain Jew who calls himself Spanish Consular
Agent, returned to his ship, and the man-of-war departed, steaming
away just as volunteers began pouring in from every direction to
prevent the infidels landing their troops. Before night some 2000
mountaineers and tribesmen had assembled in the neighbourhood. For
a time the wild reports that were circulated in Tangier caused a
little anxiety; but soon it became known that the whole scare was
due to either the ignorance or wilful stupidity of the commander of
the Isla de Luzon in saluting and sending a boat ashore at Arzeila,
which is a closed port, not to say a picturesque ruin.
On July 1, Mulai Abdul Aziz reached Meknas from Rabat, having _en
route_ prayed at the tomb of Mulai Idris I., in Zarahun, who lies
interred on the steep slope of the mountain above the Roman ruins of
Volubilis. Although his Majesty entered Meknas at an extremely early
hour, long before he was expected, he was accorded an enthusiastic
reception.
At Court affairs were fast proceeding to a stage which must end
tragically. Mulai Abdul Aziz, it is true, was firmly on the throne,
but the boy Sultan was only an item in the palace. The hatred and
jealousy of the Viziers amongst themselves was a public secret,
and all watched anxiously for the termination of the crisis which,
in spite of every outward and visible show of accord, it was well
known must soon arrive.
The fact that Sid Ahmed ben Musa had been chosen by Mulai Abdul Aziz
as almost his sole adviser had stirred the hearts of the rival Jamai
Viziers, the brothers Haj Amaati and Sid Mohammed Soreir, to their
very depths. Those who do not know the Moors are ill acquainted
with the strength of their passions; and there is no saying to
what extent their hatred and jealousy might not carry them. No
one could have been better aware of this than Sid Ahmed himself,
the most faithful and devoted follower the Sultan could possess,
whose mixed blood of Arab and negro strain gave him all the force
and cunning of the former and all the fidelity of a slave.
On Tuesday, July 10, at the sitting of the morning Court, Haj Amaati
and Sid Mohammed Soreir, the Grand Vizier and Minister of War, were
dismissed, the return of their seals being demanded. Both must have
realised that their end was practically come; and as they mounted
their mules and rode away from the palace, they were ruined men.
The dismissal of Ministers in Morocco is a very different affair
to what it is in Europe. It means disgrace, and more than that,
the almost certain confiscation of all their property—if not
imprisonment. The immense pride inherent in a Moorish official
of high degree renders all the more degrading his fall; while the
intense jealousy and hatred felt for the unscrupulous officials, to
whom all injustice and taxation is, often very rightly, accredited,
prevent any sympathy on the part of the public. The man to whom
every one had to bow and cringe had fallen; no longer was his wrath
to be feared; and the feelings of the populace, pent up for so
long, burst forth. No name was too bad for the late Grand Vizier,
no crime too fearful not to have been committed by him.
A sort of stupor fell over the Court. No one knew what would happen
next. This dismissal of two of the most powerful men, if not the
two most powerful, in the _entourage_ of the Sultan, was so sudden
and so far removed from the usual course adopted by a new Sultan,
that all held their breath, awaiting a future the details of which
they were not even able to guess at. Terror reigned amongst the
officials; wild reports were heard on every side as to who was to
be the next to fall; and expectation on the part of those who had
nothing to fear, and terror on that of those whose position rendered
them liable to a similar fate, was rife.
It was no secret whence the blow had been struck, for no sooner
were the posts of Grand Vizier and Minister of War vacated than
they were filled, the former by Sid Ahmed himself, the second by
his brother Sid Saïd; while to the Chamberlainship, which Sid
Ahmed had left to fill the still higher position, another brother
was nominated. Sid Ahmed thus obtained an overwhelming majority
in the surroundings of the Sultan, for the three most confidential
positions were annexed by himself and his two brothers.
The following Friday, July 13,—unlucky combination of day and
number,—Haj Amaati and Sid Mohammed Soreir were seized in their
houses and thrown into prison. Although it had been thought possible
that such a course might be pursued, the actual event caused an
unparalleled excitement. The work of arrest was quickly but roughly
done, but such are the ways of the Moors. The Basha of Meknas, with a
small band of troops, proceeded to the Grand Vizier’s house first,
and, gaining admittance, announced his errand. The horror of the
situation must have been fully appreciated by the Vizier, for,
giving way to one of those violent fits of rage to which he was
prone, he attempted to resist, and a soldier in his employ drew
his sword upon the Basha. In a minute both were seized, but not
before, in the struggle, Haj Amaati’s rich clothes had been torn to
shreds. Four ropes were fastened to his neck, each held by a soldier;
and, dressed only in his shirt, he was dragged through the streets,
amidst the derisive laughter and the curses of the people, to the
prison. The very crowd that now rejoiced in his degradation had
bowed low to him only a day or two before, as he passed through the
streets to and from the palace. One incident is worthy of mention,
as showing the feelings of the Moors. As he was paraded along, a
common _askari_, one of the riff-raff of Morocco, passed. “God!”
he cried, “why, the infidel has a better fez than mine!” and
with these words he lifted the turban and cap off the Vizier’s
head roughly, placing his own filthy head-gear in its place.
And the crowd laughed and jeered!
As soon as Haj Amaati was confined in jail, Sid Mohammed Soreir
was arrested; but, with far more pluck and courage, he followed
his captor without resistance, and entered prison like a gentleman.
Wild rumours spread all over the town as to the reasons of the
imprisonment of the Viziers, and it was generally stated that
a plot had been discovered by which the Sultan and Sid Ahmed,
the new Vizier, were to have been assassinated that very day, _en
route_ to mid-day prayers. But whatever may have been the truth
of this assertion, the fact remains that no attempt was made, and
Mulai Abdul Aziz was driven in his green-and-gold brougham to the
mosque, surrounded by his Court. Both his Majesty and Sid Ahmed
looked extremely nervous, and every possible precaution was taken
to prevent assassination. During the afternoon a lesser Vizier,
who acted as _amin el askar_, or paymaster of the troops, Sid el
Arbi Zebdi, was seized and imprisoned. This but added to the terror
of the remaining officials, who had escaped, but dreaded a like fate.
I had the opportunity the same evening of discussing the course
events had taken with two men, who hold in different ways almost
the highest positions in Morocco. One was himself a Vizier, the
other far above all fear of arrest. They both told me the same tale;
but, in spite of the high authority on which I heard it, I do not
think it is to be credited, and in my opinion it was the officially
agreed upon story, that was to give justice to the arrest of such
important members of the Sultan’s Court.
I was told that both the Viziers in question had addressed letters to
Mulai Ismain in Fez, and to Mulai Mohammed in Morocco City, the young
Sultan’s uncle and brother respectively, inviting them to seize
the opportunity of attempting the throne, and offering all their
large fortune and influence in the event of their doing so. These
letters, it was said, were intercepted and the plot discovered.
Although both the Viziers in question were quite capable of such
a plot, I cannot believe that either pursued the course stated
above. To a Moor a document of any sort is a far more important
thing than to us, and any one who is acquainted with the Moors
knows how extremely difficult it is to obtain any kind of matter
in writing. Had such an idea as that stated above entered the
minds of Haj Amaati and his brother, and had they formulated any
conspiracy to that effect, they would never have been so foolish
as to commit themselves to writing, and any communication with
the two Shereefs in question would have been made with the aid
of a trusted envoy. It was easy to see that one of my informants
at least discredited the story he was telling me, which he only
knew from official sources. My own opinion is this, that the whole
affair was the result of Sid Ahmed’s jealousy, and that he was
actuated no doubt also by a feeling that the course he pursued was
the safest in the Sultan’s interests—for by removing his own two
most dangerous enemies, he at the same time would find further scope
for his influence and policy. That the Viziers deserved their fate
none can deny. Haj Amaati had impoverished the whole country by his
enormous and insatiable greed and black-mail, and his brother had
deprived the soldiery of a very considerable portion of their pay.
Immediately the arrests were made the entire property of
both—together with that of Sid el Arbi Zebdi—was confiscated,
and their houses at Fez seized. Haj Amaati had just completed
the building in the capital of a palace second to none there in
size and decoration, a block of buildings rising high above the
level of the other houses, which will be an eternal landmark of
the Vizier’s rise and fall. It had been completed only during
his absence in the south with the Sultan, and so much pride did
the Vizier take in this new palace that he had ordered all the
decorations in stucco and mosaic, of which the Moors are perfect
masters, to be draped with linen, so that none should see the
general effect before himself. A rope attached to these curtains
would allow the entire drapery to fall, when the every beauty of
the decoration would be exposed. Within a week of realising this
dream of oriental fancy, he was cast into a dungeon, and his house
and all his wealth confiscated to the Sultan.
With the fall of the two Viziers it became more apparent than
ever that Sid Ahmed meant to be master of the whole situation;
but he was wise enough not to attempt alone what could be done
equally well, and very probably better, with the advice of
trusted counsellors. There were two people at the Court in whose
hands might lie the power of treating him as he had treated the
others. These two were respectively the Circassian mother of the
Sultan, and Sidi Mohammed el Marani, an influential Shereef, who
had married the sister of Mulai el Hassen, and into whose hands a
considerable part of the upbringing of Mulai Abdul Aziz had been
intrusted. Both must be conciliated, for over the Sultan both held
great influence—so great, in fact, that should Sid Ahmed’s
conduct in any way displease them, their united power might easily
persuade the Sultan to dismiss him. Not for this reason alone,
however, did Sid Ahmed, as it were, invite these two to join him
in a sort of council of regency, for he knew fully well the ability
of both and their devotion to his lord and master.
In the hands of these three persons the welfare of Morocco lies. But
before entering upon any conjectures as to the future, the history
of past events must be continued a little further.
On Thursday, July 19, a start was made from Meknas towards Fez,
the army and the governor of the tribes and their escorts having
camped the previous night a slight distance outside the town near
the Fez road.
Two events worthy of mention had meanwhile taken place at
Fez—first, the behaviour of Mulai Omar, the Sultan’s brother and
viceroy; and, secondly, the fact that the _enkas_, or local taxation
upon all goods sold, had been removed, together with the _octroi_
at the city gates.
With regard to the former a few words must be said. Mulai Omar,
who had been left as viceroy by Mulai el Hassen, whose son he was
by a slave wife, is a young man of extremely vicious and degenerate
habits, nearly black in colour, and with an expression as ugly as it
is revolting. While beyond his immorality no actual charge of crime
can be laid to his door, he may be said to be incapable of filling
the position he held, and to want discretion and common-sense.
It appears—and I knew of the event at the time—that on
his learning of the death of his father, he sent to the Jewish
silversmiths, by whom all Government work is done, and ordered
one of their number to make him a seal. Now in Morocco a seal is an
exceedingly important object, and no one uses a seal of office unless
it is actually presented to him by the Sultan. So far the story is
generally known, but here my version—the true version—differs,
for while the European press harped upon the fact that Mulai Omar
wished to make himself a seal with the inscription of Sultan upon it,
the fact was that the seal was to bear Mulai Abdul Aziz’s name,
and that the reason of Mulai Omar’s ordering it to be made was
not in order to stamp documents himself as Sultan, but probably
to have in his possession a means of forging letters supposed to
have come from Court. Whether his idea was by this to make the
best of the short period that remained to him as viceroy to amass
money, or whether in case of any outbreak or disturbance on the
part of the population to be able to forge conciliatory or other
letters that would keep them quiet until his brother’s arrival,
it is impossible to say. But whatever may have been the desire,
the result in the suspicious eyes of his brother was this—that
he had attempted by some means to usurp the throne.
However, the seal was never made. The Jew artificer, knowing the
penalty that would meet him at the hands of the Sultan were he even
the innocent instrument in this, fled and sought the protection of
an influential member of the Government, and the affair was knocked
on the head at once.
A second charge was also laid at Mulai Omar’s door—that of
having ordered the music of the drums and pipes to cease on the
occasion of the announcement of Mulai Abdul Aziz’s succession
to the throne. On the players refusing, his Highness sent a slave,
who enforced silence by splitting up the drums with a dagger. For
this act of treason he was afterwards punished by having the flesh
of his hand sliced, the wound filled with salt, and the whole hand
sewn up in leather. It is a common belief that this punishment
causes mortification to set in, and that the hand decomposes; but
such is not the case, for by the time the leather wears off the
wound is healed, the result being that the hand is rendered useless,
and remains closed for ever. It is a punishment not often in use,
but is sometimes done in cases of murder or constant theft, as,
without in any way injuring the health of the man, it prevents his
committing the crime a second time, or for the hundredth time, as
the case may be. It is a punishment that cannot be applied except
by the Sultan’s orders.
It was no doubt on account of these offences that letters were
received by Mulai Omar from the Sultan, forbidding him to leave
his house, and placing him under surveillance—a course that
was supplemented on his brother’s arrival by chains upon his
legs. Meanwhile his Majesty had been pleased to treat his brother,
Mulai Mohammed, in Morocco City, in the same manner.
As to the remitting of the local taxes and _octroi_ in Fez, but
little need be said. Certain unfriendly remarks had been overheard
regarding the new Sultan, and the general tone of the Fez people
was not satisfactory. Fearing that an outbreak might occur, and
knowing that the avaricious inhabitants were open to no persuasion
except money, the Amin Haj Abdesalam Makri, the Chancellor of
the Exchequer of Fez, on his own authority, remitted this most
unpopular tax, which is contrary to Moorish law. It turned the tide,
and the Fez citizen, finding himself a few dollars, or a few pence,
the richer, changed front, and was loud in his acclamations of the
new Sultan. The charm of the situation was, however, that as soon
as the Sultan had safely entered Fez, and was thus securely upon
the throne, he instituted once again the tax, and the population
rose on the morning of Tuesday, July 24, to find the tax-gatherers
returned to their accustomed haunts.
On Saturday, July 21, Mulai Abdul Aziz made his State entry into Fez.
From an early hour all was stir and bustle in the capital, and before
the sun had risen the streets were full of long strings of men,
women, and children, mounted and on foot, pouring toward the upper
part of the city, New Fez, where the entry was to take place. The
crowd was large but orderly, and, like all Moorish crowds, silent,
though now and again a shout burst forth when some native, gay in
colour, galloped along on his richly trapped horse and fired his gun.
Without the city the crowd ranged itself on each side of the road,
which was guarded by long lines of troops, the cavalry near the city,
and beyond in the plain the infantry.
The Sultan had spent the night at a distance of some six miles away,
where the great camp had been pitched, and early as it was when I
arrived upon the scene outside the gate of the city, stragglers and
troops from the _mahalla_ were already arriving,—wild tribesmen,
mounted or on foot, Kaids of districts with their troops of irregular
cavalry, mules and camels laden with baggage, black slaves and
women. I was soon free of the crowd, and riding slowly along behind
the line of soldiers toward the camp.
A murmur passed through the people, and turning to the west, I could
see a great cloud of dust appearing above one of the low elevations
in the plain.
The morning was lovely; the sun, although scarcely risen, was hot,
while a not unpicturesque, though by no means pleasant, addition to
the scene was the fine cloud of dust that hung over everything. Soon
one was able to distinguish the tops of the gold and coloured banners
that preceded the Sultan’s procession, and still nearer the white
draped figures of the women, mounted upon mules. Some eighty of these
there were, and as their mules were hurried along by the soldier
guard, every one, soldier and sightseer, turned away their heads,
as etiquette demands. Two women, covered, except for the eyes, in
soft white draperies, preceded the rest, and it was easy to guess
who they were,—the Circassian mother of the young Sultan and his
newly married wife.
Then came the artillery on the back of mules, followed by a troop
of bodyguards, handsomely dressed and mounted. After them the band,
mounted and discoursing music as they rode. Then again a forest
of banners, of every hue and colour, of cloth, velvet, and silk,
of gold embroidery and gold brocade,—the sacred flags of the
great saints and Shereefs of Morocco.
Behind these rode the Sultan Mulai Abdul Aziz, mounted upon a
dark roan horse with cream mane and tail, seated upon a saddle of
apple-green and gold embroidery, while over his head, borne by a
mounted soldier, waved the umbrella of crimson and gold. He was
dressed in white, a fine long _bernus_ hanging lightly over his
_haik_ of soft silk and wool. A cord of white silk bound round his
head held these two garments in place over his turban.
Mulai Abdul Aziz appeared nervous but dignified. Immovable as a
statue, one could not help noticing that his eyes wandered here
and there amongst the crowd, as though fearing some attempt upon
his life; but even to a greater extent than this was his anxiety
apparent in his mouth, for his lips wore a pout, with him a sure sign
of excitement. Close at the young Sultan’s elbow rode Bu Ahmed,
the Grand Vizier, while following him came a crowd of officials
and soldiers.
All rode quickly, stopping every now and again to receive some
deputation, or when the crowd caused a block, and the spear-bearers
and foot-guard that surrounded the royal horse had often to run. At
the gate of the city a long delay occurred, and the crowd pressed
on every side, for the entrance is small, and the artillery-mules,
in their hurry to push through, had completely blocked the road. I
was mounted on an Arab horse and saddle, and dressed in native
costume, so that my appearance attracted no attention on the part
of the natives, and in the crowd I found myself within a very short
distance of the Sultan, whence I was able to obtain an excellent
view not only of his face, but of his every feature. Dust-strewn
and sunburnt with his summer journey, he looked darker than he
really is, for his colour is little more than that of a southern
European. The eyes, surrounded with heavy black lashes, are dark. No
signs of beard or moustache are traceable on his lip or chin, and
altogether he possesses the face of a nice-looking boy, wanting
only in vivacity and expression.
Once in the city, the procession broke up, and accompanied only
by a trusty band of guards, his Majesty rode to the tomb of his
ancestor, Mulai Idris II., the patron saint of Fez, where he took
the oath of the Sultanate; and a few minutes later the great gates
of the white palace closed upon Mulai Abdul Aziz, Sultan of Morocco.
[Illustration: map
B.V. Darbishire
_From the Map published by the Royal Geographical Society_
Vincent Brooks, Day & Son Imp.]
INDEX.
* * * * *
Abda, 11.
Abdul Aziz, 40, 42, 43, 265.
„ Aziz, Sultan, 330-379.
„ Kader, Mulai, 298.
Abdullah ben Hoseyn, 145, 186.
„ ben Sessi, 55.
„ el Kamil, 335.
„ Shereef, Mulai, 335.
Abu Aam, 229, 274, 292, 305.
„ Bekr, 17, 18, 31, 52, 326.
Adrar n’Deren, 119.
„ n’Iri, 105, 119.
Africa, 93.
‘Africa,’ Marmol’s, 261.
Afuden Nugelid, 81.
Agdal, 34, 37.
Agorgoreh, 145.
Agurgar, 79.
Agurzga, 123, 124, 126, 127, 132, 142, 318.
Ahl Ferkla, 196.
„ Subah, 269, 270, 285, 287.
Ahmed ben Musa, 341, 364-367, 371.
Ain Sefra, 305.
„ Shair, 305.
Aissaua, 66, 298.
“Aït,” 260.
Aït Ahmed, 148.
„ Akherait, 79.
„ Atta, 92, 167, 168, 203, 208, 211, 212, 214, 266, 268, 285, 287,
305, 311.
Aït bu Gemmés, 167.
„ bu Haddu, 152, 153, 169, 175, 179, 180, 182, 315.
„ bu Hadidu, 266.
„ bu Kanifen, 189.
„ Hammu, 172.
„ Imiger, 68.
„ Isdeg, 196.
„ Ishak, 266.
„ Iunir, 169, 179, 181, 182.
„ Jazzer, 203.
„ Merghad, 196, 199, 216, 220.
„ Minzeru, 123.
„ Mulai Brahim, 189.
„ Robaa, 80.
„ Sakri, 148.
„ Shokhman, 312.
„ Tamuted, 172.
„ u Allel, 172.
„ Yafalman, 196, 219.
„ Yahia, 130, 142, 147, 149, 150-152, 166.
„ Yahia u Ali, 116.
„ Yussi, 84, 95, 100, 146, 303, 331.
„ Zaineb, 114, 115.
Akhliz, 54.
Alcazar, 354.
Algarves, the, 9.
Algeria, 20, 43, 63, 84, 258, 290, 304.
Algerians, 264.
Algiers, 20.
Ali ben Hamdush, 20, 298.
„ ben Yahia, 312.
„ el Derkaui, 24, 110, 298.
„ Shereef, Mulai, 6, 126, 224, 229, 255, 272, 274, 282, 286, 298,
313.
Amaati, Haj, 253, 341, 343, 363, 366, 367, 369.
Amana, 263.
Amazigh, 94, 99, 261, 263, 273, 285.
Anbed, 183.
Anti-Atlas. See Saghru.
Arabia, 102, 286.
Arabs, the, 11, 12, 44, 56, 58, 62-65, 96, 101, 102, 114, 117, 133,
138, 140, 141, 143, 145, 146, 157, 160, 161, 169, 196, 197, 203,
207, 208, 210, 218, 254, 256, 260, 261, 263, 268, 272, 285, 287,
289, 292, 296, 303, 360.
Arbaa miya, 172.
Arbaa sid Aissa, 68.
Arzeila, 361, 362.
Asif Adrar n’Iri, 75, 79.
Askura, 115, 117, 134-137, 140, 142, 149, 169, 219, 318.
Asrir, 194, 198.
Assaka, 115.
Atlantic, the, 7, 9, 55, 84, 87, 89, 93, 94, 361.
Atlas Mountains, 1, 2, 11, 13, 14, 27, 28, 49, 50-129, 136, 145,
148, 149, 166, 172, 208, 209, 220, 258, 266, 291, 304, 320, 323,
330, 333.
Ayashi, Jibel, 88, 209, 266, 304.
Ayur Nûgûrûmûn, 101.
Bab Dukala, 31.
„ el Khamis, 44, 45.
Baghdad, 298.
Bani, Jibel, 87, 88, 122.
Barbari, 93.
Barbary partridge, 89, 133.
„ wild sheep, 89, 133, 183, 214.
Barth, Dr, 93.
Bashas, 56.
Bauia, 220.
Bel Abbas, Sid, 40, 42, 145.
Beled Ahmar, 11.
Beled el Unja, 222, 295.
Beled Ersdigi, 56.
Belgrul, 7, 122.
Ben Aissa, Sid, 66.
„ Bu Shaib, 255.
„ Nasr, Sid, 145.
„ Nasr, Ulad, 122.
Beni Hassen, 361.
„ Merin, 70, 264.
„ Mgil, 84, 263.
„ Mgild, 84, 89, 100, 281, 303, 331.
„ Miskin, 347.
„ Mohammed, 285, 287.
„ Zerual, 298.
Ber, 93.
Berbers, 4, 6, 27, 54, 56, 60, 62, 64-66, 72, 83-104, 113, 116, 117,
122, 132, 138, 140, 142, 143, 146, 147, 153, 159, 160, 162, 166,
197, 203, 205, 207-209, 212, 215, 218, 222, 223, 256, 260, 261,
263, 269, 272, 285-287, 296, 303, 311, 322, 331, 332, 356.
Bombay, 289.
Brahim, Mulai, 145, 186, 308.
Bu Jhila, Wad, 136.
“Bu Kfus,” 292.
Bu Regreg, 7, 90.
Bu Sba, Ulad, 66.
“Bu Skri,” 292.
Bu Yahia, Sid, 179, 180.
Caillié, Rene, 261, 275.
Carthaginians, 285.
Casablanca, 7.
Chipiez, Perrot and, 103.
Circassian wife, 338, 376.
Dads, 22, 25, 26, 87, 92, 100, 104, 107, 109, 115, 116, 125, 129,
130, 131, 142, 147, 148, 150, 153-178, 183, 185, 187, 192, 198,
200, 207, 210, 213, 219, 291, 315, 317.
Dar bu Zeedu, 345.
„ el Baida, 87, 219, 279, 307, 331.
Dayet ed Daura, 129, 222, 267, 268.
“Debeha,” 98, 173.
Delbel, M., 259.
Demnat, 84, 167, 313, 314.
Derkaua, 110, 177, 198, 298.
Dhu Mansur, 263.
“Dimaan,” 301.
Dlim, Ulad, 12.
Draa, Wad, 87, 90, 99, 100, 111, 115, 119, 122, 125, 129, 130, 142,
145, 164, 197, 209, 227, 287, 305.
Drauia, 100, 165.
Dukala, 253.
Egypt, 93.
Egyptians, 264.
Eid el Kebir, 283, 290, 354, 355.
Eid Soreir, 284.
El Amin, Mulai, 340.
El Araish, 102.
El Arbi el Derkaui, 298, 299.
El Arbi Zebdi, 369.
El Barka, 304.
El Feija, 305.
El Gharbiya, 68.
El Ghorfa, 268, 272.
El Haj Abdesalam Makri, 374.
El Haj ben Said, Mulai, 146, 187.
El Haj el Arbi, 335.
El Haj Mohammed Torres, 3, 352.
El Harib, 305.
El Hassen, Mulai. See Sultan.
El Kasabi, 304.
El Kebir, Jibel, 201, 206.
El Khanek, 266.
El Madani, 107, 113, 138.
El Mansur, 39, 43.
El Megren, 304.
El Meharza, 223, 228, 271, 279, 280.
El Melha, Wad, 54, 55, 111, 112, 114, 222, 268, 271.
El Muiz, 43.
El Ostia, Kabyla, 138.
El Wad, Ras, 119.
Embarka, 22.
Er Ribía, Um, 90, 347.
Ertib, 265-268, 271.
Es Saheli, 304.
Es Sefalat, 268, 270, 272.
Es Sifa, 222, 223, 228, 268, 270, 271, 279, 280, 292.
Esh Shereef, Mulai, 264, 274.
Fabir, 39.
Fadhul Gharnit, Sid, 230, 231, 237.
Fatima, 335.
Fezna, 218, 308.
Ferkla, 194, 196, 200, 201, 211, 216, 311, 312.
Fez, 3, 4, 5, 6, 27, 29, 31, 35, 36, 43, 70, 84, 100, 146, 166, 225,
229, 233, 264, 274, 291, 296-298, 302, 303, 312, 328, 330,
334-337, 344, 354, 357, 360, 361, 374, 375.
Figig, 305.
Filal, 186, 260.
Filelis, the, 70, 264, 289, 335.
F’ki Sinhaji, 342.
Foucauld, M. de, 115, 199.
Fum esh Shink, 306.
Gadaruz, 68.
Gers, 304.
Ghadat, Wad, 68, 70, 71, 75, 77-79, 82, 86, 106, 324.
Gheris, 87, 88, 90, 129, 163, 185, 199, 209, 215, 219, 220, 228,
265-268, 270, 271, 276, 292, 295, 308.
Ghiata, 100, 146.
Ghiralda, 39.
Ghorfa, 273.
Ghresat, W., 127-129, 132, 142, 191.
Ghrlnema, 306.
Gibraltar, 18, 328.
Glawa, 88, 106, 111, 113, 138, 167, 320.
Glawi, 40, 75, 79, 86, 105, 115, 119, 120, 327, 333.
Glissa, Jibel, 41.
Guers, Wad, 266.
Guir, Wad, 304.
Gurlan, 275.
Hamacha, 20, 286, 293, 298.
Hamada, 304, 305.
Hamdush, 21.
Hamitic origin, 94, 147.
Hammu, 110, 178.
Hamza, Sid, 266.
Hannibal, 221.
Haratin, 99, 100, 164, 197, 209, 227.
Harrar, 90.
Hassan, 39, 335.
Hausa, 297.
Hejawa, 356.
Hercules, 189.
Hiyaina, 360.
Hooker, Sir Joseph, 87, 88, 90.
Hoseyn, 335.
Hunot, Mr, 9, 328.
Ibn Khaldun, 263.
„ Yusef, 43.
Idermi, Wad, 100, 115, 125, 130, 167.
Idris, Mulai, 43, 143, 335, 363, 379.
Idu Tizi, 148.
Ifli, Wad, 264, 268, 272, 273.
Ighir, 185, 186.
Igidi, 305.
Igli, 201, 202.
Igurian, Wad, 123.
Imasin, 142, 147, 317, 318.
Imerghan, 113, 115, 132.
Imguna, Wad, 147, 148, 151.
Imin Erkilim, 189, 216, 313.
„ Tanut, 175.
„ Zat, 54, 58, 59.
Imiteghr, 184-186, 190.
Isla de Luzon, 361.
Islef, 311.
Ismail, Mulai, 265.
Ismain, 337, 368.
Iutagin, 172.
Jerf, 219, 220, 222.
Jews, 45, 46, 75, 77, 97-99, 173, 196, 287, 296, 362, 372.
Jibeelet, 12, 56, 87, 121, 122.
Jumma el Fanar, 44.
„ el Makhzen, 33.
Kabyla el Ostia, 138.
„ Mzuru, 138.
Kaid Maclean, 231-236, 249, 257, 307-308, 311, 314, 317, 323. 325.
Kaiseríeh, 30, 123.
Kalá, 87.
Kanadsa, 305.
Kasabi, 304.
Kasba, 30, 33, 45, 106, 107, 111.
Kasba ben Ali, 270.
„ el Hati, 220, 222.
Kasbat el Barania, 270.
Kheneg et Taurea, 115.
Korah, Jibel, 176.
Koreish, 208.
Ksar bel Hassan, 270.
Kus, Wad, 102.
Kutubía, 30, 38, 40.
Laraiche. See El Araish.
Leo Africanus, 263, 289.
Linares, Dr, 5, 238, 258.
Lixus, 102.
Maghrah, 213, 215, 216, 309.
Magil, Ulad, 138.
Majdata, 122.
Marakesh, 4, 10, 11, 15, 19, 25-49, 50, 52, 55, 75, 83, 86-88, 91,
100, 115, 138, 146, 167, 174, 178, 185, 186, 207, 253, 258, 259,
291, 302, 316, 326-328, 330, 332, 342-344, 374.
Marghen, Wad, 106, 111, 114, 320.
Marmol, 261.
Marohsha, 201.
Martinez Campos, General, 333.
Masin, Wad, 67.
Mazagan, 7.
Mdri, Wad, 133-135, 142.
Mecca, 25, 177, 264, 295, 299.
Medaghra, 265-268, 270.
Medina, 31, 33, 42.
Medinat el Aamra. See Sijilmassa.
Mediterranean, 84, 90.
Meknas, 4, 20, 27, 298, 371.
Melilla, 304, 332.
“Mellah,” 45, 46, 77, 173, 174.
Mesgita, 99, 100, 130, 131, 142.
Milaab, 202, 203, 311.
Miltsin, Jibal, 119, 120.
Misfuia, 53, 56, 58, 62, 66, 68.
Mjat, 356.
Mogador, 55, 259, 305.
Mohammed ben Abdullah, 265, 351.
„ er-Rifi, 8, 177, 226, 231, 234, 238, 289, 315.
„ Mulai, 339, 368, 374.
„ Prophet, 20, 41, 142, 143, 145, 208, 299, 335.
„ Sid, 342.
„ Soreir, Sid, 363, 366, 367.
Monabat, 263.
Morocco City. See Marakesh.
Mtrus, 221.
Mtuga, 175.
Mukhtar Jamai, Sid, 342.
Muluya, Wad, 84, 90, 263, 304.
Musa ben Nasr, 263.
“Mzareg,” 97.
Mzuru, Kabyla, 138.
“Neiba,” 99.
Nemours, 304.
Njil, 303, 304.
Numidia, 262.
Omar, Mulai, 358, 371-374.
Oran, 100.
Othman, Mulai, 312.
Paris, 259.
Perrot and Chipiez, 102.
Phœnicians, 96, 102-104.
Portuguese, the, 7, 361.
Rabat, 7, 39, 89, 334, 344, 346, 347, 349, 358, 361, 363.
Rahamna, 56, 62, 79, 87, 121, 122.
Ras el Wad, 119.
Rehal, Sidi, 56, 325.
Reshid, Mulai, 264, 287.
Reteb. See Ertib.
Riff, the, 95, 332.
Riffía, 56, 100.
Riffis, 66, 100, 111.
Rissani, 274, 292.
Rohlfs, Gerard, 261.
Romans, 94, 96, 101, 102, 285.
Rumi, 101, 187, 215, 284, 319.
Saffi, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 15, 22, 50, 55, 56, 223, 316, 328.
Saghru, Jibel, or Anti-Atlas, 87, 102, 122, 126, 128, 130, 131, 134,
150, 151, 166, 172, 183, 186, 189, 190, 200, 209, 214, 215, 219,
285, 301, 305, 311.
Sahara, 1, 19, 96, 99, 102, 151, 261, 262, 297, 298, 313, 331.
Said, Sid, 365.
Satow, Mr E., 352.
Sebaashaabat, 133.
Sebkhat Aamar, 272.
Sebu, Wad, 90.
Seddat, 191, 313.
Seddrat, 147, 166.
Semgat, 222.
Seville, 39.
Shahr el Fukra, 101.
Shauia, 325, 348.
Sheikhs, 46, 72, 74, 75, 308.
Shelha, 56, 99, 100, 107, 142, 165, 261, 319.
Sherarda, 356.
Shereefs, 19, 21-23, 26, 40, 45, 89, 107, 109, 110, 116, 126, 142,
143-145, 148, 152, 153, 156, 176, 187, 188, 206, 242, 270, 274,
285, 286, 292, 312, 315, 318, 319, 334, 336, 354-356.
Shloh, 94, 100, 143, 147, 208, 263, 287.
Shragna, 252.
Sijilmassa, 228, 261, 262, 264-267, 273-275, 283, 300.
Sirua, Jibel, 119, 120.
Somaliland, 90.
Spaniards, the, 332, 361.
Sudan, 27, 297.
Sufru, 5, 233.
Suleiman, Mulai, 299.
Sultan, 1-7, 11, 35, 37, 46, 70, 143, 196, 205, 219, 223, 230-259,
262, 265, 283, 284, 287, 307, 310, 312, 314, 326-329, 330-379.
Sus, 87, 90, 95, 100, 119, 305.
Susía, 100.
Syria, 224.
Tabuassamt, 271.
Tafilet, 5, 6, 7, 22, 26, 40, 50, 60, 70, 83, 87, 107, 110, 112,
129, 138, 146, 149, 167, 174, 177, 179, 183, 186, 191, 197-199,
203, 209, 231-307, 313, 316, 317, 326, 330, 334, 344.
Tagharzut, 303.
Tagnit bu Hammu, 148.
Taieb, Mulai, 298.
“Tamarix senegalensis,” 135.
Tamgrut, 87, 122, 145.
Tamslot, 145, 146, 186.
Tangier, 2, 3, 7, 20, 25, 104, 141, 262, 352, 354, 361, 362.
Tanijiud, 219, 268, 270, 272, 273.
Taurirt, 119, 313.
Tedla, 344, 345.
Teherumt, 122.
Telettin Nugelid, 79.
Teluet, 106, 107, 111, 112, 117, 344.
Tenduf, 305.
Tensift, Wad, 12, 14, 28, 55, 83, 90.
Tetuan, 239.
Tetula, 75, 79, 80, 82, 106.
Thomson, Joseph, 88, 90.
Tialallil, 266.
Tidili, Jibel, 75, 79, 120.
Tifinut, 119.
Tiluin, 190, 199, 215, 218, 309.
Timatruin, 186.
Timbuctu, 27, 305.
Tisgi, 115.
Tizimi, 266, 268-270, 307, 308.
Tizi n’ Telremt, 266, 304.
Todghra, 176, 183, 185, 190, 198, 201, 202, 213, 215, 216, 311,
312, 314.
Trekeddit, Jibel, 148.
Tripoli, 63, 83, 94.
Tuat, 305.
Tugana, 66, 68, 324.
Tuirassin, 113, 115, 117, 142, 319.
Tunisians, 264.
Turks, 264.
Uidan, 55.
“Ulad,” 260.
Ulad ben Nasr, 122.
„ bu Sba, 66.
„ Hanabu, 220.
„ Magil, 138.
„ Yakub, 138.
Ul Turug, 206, 207, 211-213, 309.
Um er Ribía, 90, 347.
Unila, 111-115, 119, 123.
Urika, W., 54-56.
Vandals, 96.
Viziers, the, 3, 222, 234, 239, 242, 243, 250, 334, 341, 346, 348,
350, 358, 363, 364, 370.
Warzazat, 107, 109, 111, 117, 167.
Wazan, 89, 298, 328, 335, 336, 354, 355.
Wergha, Wad, 90.
Yakub, Mulai, 166.
„ Ulad, 138.
Yembo, 286.
Zarahun, 363.
Zarkten, 68, 71, 72, 74-77, 79, 324.
Zauias, 42-44, 55, 87, 152, 175, 176, 179, 266, 299.
Zimmour, 89, 361.
“Zitat,” 97.
Ziz, Wad, 88, 90, 129, 209, 215, 222, 228, 265-269, 270, 273, 275,
281, 283, 285, 287, 292, 304, 307.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
Transcriber's note:
pg 115 Changed: Thoughout to: throughout
pg 381 Changed: Aissana to: Aissaua
pg 381 Changed: Belgrue to: Belgrul
pg 383 Changed: Dayeled to: Dayet ed
pg 383 Changed: Fegna to: Fezna
Other spelling inconsistencies have been left unchanged.
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